His Docile Mafia Princess
(Just a little more,) he whispers to himself, continuing.
When he finally finishes, I’m bound in a harness that hugs every curve, every soft inch of my body that has been claimed by him.
“Guardati,” (Look at you) he whispers, turning me gently toward the mirror he tactfully placed opposite the bed. I take myself in, the rope stinging when I move. “Sei arte, Principessa, la mia arte,” (You’re art, princess, my art.) he says, admiring his work in the mirror. “Dannatamente perfetta.” (So goddamn perfect.)
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