Felicia Page 3

  She turned and went back into the bedroom. She went over to her bags, opened them, and began to unpack. She had more outfits than she would need for the weekend, but she liked having choices. The bedroom had two huge walk-in closets. One was stuffed almost to bursting with women’s clothes, and shoes, and handbags, and much else. Felicia had looked into it, but had been careful not to touch anything. Nothing in the closet would have fit her anyway. The other closet was Marcello’s, and it had much more room. She hung her dresses in there. She’d keep her underwear and shoes in her bags. Small items were too easy to misplace, and it would be very bad for her lover if his wife found another woman’s things anywhere in the bedroom.

  As she lounged soaking in the huge bathtub later, Felicia began thinking about her future. What she had with Marcello was certainly fun and lucrative, but she knew that it couldn’t go on indefinitely. It was all based on sex, and while that part was certainly fun too, sooner or later he would grow tired of her, or she would grow tired of him. Or maybe something would happen so that he just couldn’t maintain the double life he was living now, or he would simply see her less and less often, still paying the bills but leaving her alone, unhappy and bored. It could happen. From what she’d read in books and magazines, it would almost certainly happen. She really ought to do some thinking and planning about what she would do once that happened. Unfortunately, the books and magazines weren’t much help there. She supposed that she could go back home and pick up where she’d left off at college, but that seemed so terribly dull and grinding. She’d become accustomed to wearing the best fashions, going to the best places, dining at the fanciest restaurants, and she didn’t want to give all that up… at least, not yet. She was still young, still hot, and could probably attract another sugar daddy if she had to, but she’d have to learn more about how such things worked. That would mean getting Marcello to introduce her to other men in his circle, and she wasn’t at all sure how to get him to do that. He’d been going to some lengths to keep her all to himself, either because he was worried that she might be attracted to some of his friends or because he worried that word of his lovely American playmate might somehow get back to his wife. But he was perfectly willing to bring her here to the beachfront villa even with the two women servants here, so he must have some way of keeping secrets. She debated speaking to the servants about it and decided against it. Her high-school French just wouldn’t be up to that kind of effort, and even if the servants spoke English they would certainly tell Marcello, which could lead to unnecessary difficulties. This was something she would have to do some more thinking about. In the meantime, it was still quite enjoyable being the mistress of a virile older man.

  ***

  “My darling…” Marcello said as he closed the bedroom door behind them that evening. His voice was low and husky, the desire in his eyes unmistakable. Felicia simply smiled back at him, tilting her head to one side. She had worn her hair loose tonight, and one long, curling strand of honey-blonde hair fell across her eye. She wasn’t dressed particularly suggestively, but the dress she wore clung here and draped there in such a way as to accentuate the lush curves of her figure even as it covered them up.

  “Yes, my dear Marcello?” she responded coyly. “Is there something that you want?”

  “You know that there is,” he said as he slowly came closer to her. “I want you, you lovely temptress. I want you!” He took her in his arms and pulled her close for a kiss. Felicia dropped all pretense of being coy as she put her own arms around him and kissed back. She felt his hands groping for the zipper to her dress and moaned for him. He turned into a wild man, almost tearing the dress off of her in his lustful haste. Felicia moaned again, but inwardly she was laughing, delighted with herself at being so utterly desirable to such a desirable man. She moved in his arms, helping him to remove the dress, stepping out of it when it finally slid to the floor. Now she was in her bra, panties, stockings and high heels and Marcello’s fingers were deftly unhooking the bra. Whenever he was in a hurry to undress her himself she knew that he was aroused to a fever pitch and on the edge of losing control. She loved having such power.

  Her bra came loose. He yanked it off of her roughly and seized her breasts with both hands, kneading the soft flesh with his fingers, sucking each nipple in turn before crushing her in his arms and kissing her again, his tongue probing between her parted lips. Incredibly aroused herself now, Felicia deftly slid off her panties, then tore open Marcello’s shirt because unbuttoning it would have taken too long. They were like a pair of animals now, and she loved that too.

  They stumbled over to the bed and Marcello pushed her down onto it before letting go of her and stepping back. Felicia writhed on the bed, moaning, as she watched him hastily undress. She kept her legs apart, knowing how much it could inflame him. She still wore her stockings and heels. He kicked aside his briefs and leaped at her, landing short but quickly scrambling up to mount her as she raised her knees and spread them wide. She wrapped her legs around him as he easily penetrated her deeply. He began thrusting wildly, and she moaned again, just as lost in the moment as he was.

  Something banged loudly. She barely noticed, too intent on the feel of Marcello’s body against hers, too lost in the overwhelming feeling of his big, hard cock plowing into her wet and swollen pussy. Then, abruptly, he was gone. She heard him cry out in surprise and protest, then the sound of a blow and a groan.

  “Darling!” she called out, still half blind with her own arousal. “What…?” Then hard, rough hands seized her by her arms and yanked her out of the bed. Two men, clad all in black, including black ski masks hiding everything but their mouths and eyes, stood her up, holding her in place, their feet hooked around her ankles, spreading her legs and keeping them apart. She saw two more men, identically costumed, holding a sagging, gasping Marcello up between them. She didn’t know what was going on. Panic seized her and she opened her mouth to scream. Then a fifth man appeared in front of her and hit her hard in the pit of her stomach. The scream turned into a pained grunt. She would have fallen to the floor if the men hadn’t held her up. She heard one of them laugh, a harsh and merciless sound. Before she could draw breath to try to scream again, the fifth man sealed her lips with a wide strip of black tape. Panic turned into sheer, chilling terror. Felicia struggled feebly in the grip of her attackers and she heard that same nasty laugh again. What did they want? What were they going to do to her? What were they going to do to Marcello? Felicia tried to scream in spite of the tape gag, but all that came out was a nasal whine of despair.

  The door to the bedroom stood wide open. Felicia saw a woman, tall, spare and elegant-looking in spite of the rest of the scene enter through it. With a shock, she recognized Marcello’s wife. The woman looked grim and implacable as she swept up to stand directly in front of Felicia. She looked Felicia up and down contemptuously. The following slap came so quickly that Felicia never saw it coming. It was so hard that it snapped her head to one side. Once more, she would have fallen if her captors had let her. There was a terrible silence as Felicia’s wits slowly returned to her. She looked up at the older woman, fear in her eyes.

  “So,” the woman said in accented but clear English. “You are the little whore that my pig of a husband has been playing with, eh? I suppose that you are very exciting in bed.” She reached up, took Felicia’s nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and pinched hard. Felicia squalled in pain, the sound muffled by the gag. Then the woman twisted. Felicia shrieked. She struggled, but could not pull free.

  “I can smell your cunt, you little bitch,” the woman went on evilly. “You little bitches are all the same. No more morals than a cat in heat.” She twisted harder, but now the pain was so overpowering that all Felicia could do was whimper feebly. The woman abruptly released her nipples and slapped her again.

  “I can smell your cunt, you bitch!” the woman shrieked. “I ought to have all of these men take you, one after the other, while my pig of a husband watches! I think
you would moan like a whore while that was going on. I do not think my husband would find you so attractive after seeing that.”

  Felicia’s ears were still ringing from the slaps and her mind was still clouded and frozen by fear. All she could do was shake her head ‘no’ and try to say ‘please’ through the gag. Part of her realized that there was no plea she could make, no promise she could give, that would change what this angry woman was going to do, but desperation forced her to try anyway. All the woman did was turn away from her and towards Marcello, who looked as terrified as Felicia felt. The woman moved close to Marcello and said something to him, too quietly for Felicia to hear. Marcello turned ashen, his eyes went huge, and he shook his head, gibbering for mercy. He was speaking so quickly and so agitatedly that Felicia couldn’t make out a word of it. In the meantime, all she could do was stand there, helpless, still in her stockings and heels.

  The woman finished with Marcello and turned to the fifth man, who stood nearby. She said something quietly to him, and he nodded. She said something else, just as quietly, and he nodded again and looked at Felicia. She might not be able to see anything of his face besides his mouth and eyes, but what she saw was more than enough to turn her blood to ice water. She began struggling, trying to pull free, tears streaming down her face. Her present state was frightening enough, but the thought of what might happen to her in the next ten minutes was even worse. The men holding her merely tightened their grips and let her fight herself out. She finally gave up, head down, sobbing piteously. She heard the fifth man bark an order in an unfamiliar language and the men holding her immediately let her go. She crumpled to the floor, landing on her hands and knees. She tried to scream when they flipped her over onto her back and began pulling her shoes and stockings off. She didn’t try to fight them. What would be the point? And then they flipped her over again onto her belly. She felt them pull her arms behind her, felt them tying her wrists with what felt like one of her stockings. All she could do was cry and sob. She no longer cared what was going to happen to Marcello. She was far too worried about what was going to happen to her. Then she felt them tying her ankles tightly with her other stocking. Confused at first, she suddenly thought of a reason why they might do that before gang-raping her. That gave her one last burst of energy to fight them, but it proved just as futile as all of her previous attempts. Finally, they pulled a pillowcase over her head and somehow tied it around her neck. She heard the sounds of hard blows and heard Marcello’s pained cries. The beating seemed to go on forever. All she could do was lie on the floor with one of the men sitting on her, holding her down while he played with her ass, fondling, pinching and slapping.

  There was the sound of one last blow. She heard and felt a body hit the floor heavily. Now she worried that they would beat her just as mercilessly before raping her. She couldn’t stand that. She just couldn’t! If only she could somehow remove the sticky tape from her mouth she could promise to do anything that they wanted, anything at all, even in her high-school French, if only they would not beat her. But the tape stayed in place, and a terrifying silence fell on the room, broken only by the sound of someone whimpering. As scared as she was, it took Felicia a moment to realize that it was her.

  More orders were barked out in that strange language. Felicia felt the man holding her down get up. Then hands seized her, lifted her. She was thrown over someone’s shoulder. She felt herself being carried, out of the bedroom, down the wide staircase, out through the front door and into the night. She heard a car trunk being opened and then she was thrown down into a small space. Cheap, rough carpeting scratched at her skin and then the trunk lid was slammed down, leaving her in even more darkness than the pillowcase had. The car rocked as the men got into it and started it up.

  She did not remember any details of her transportation. At some point the car stopped. She was taken out of the trunk, half suffocated and limp, thrown over someone’s shoulder again and carried, going up some sort of ramp, then down metal steps. She heard the creak of unoiled hinges and then she was dumped onto something narrow and thinly padded. The hinges creaked again and a metal door clanged shut. The fear and the horrible suspense were all finally too much for her. She passed out, finally finding the only sort of freedom available to her.

  Chapter Four

  Ismail bin Abou checked his appearance in the full-length mirror one last time. There was no real need to do so. He already knew that he was impeccably dressed in the most modern Western style, from his white silk shirt, bright red cravat and dark blue suit down to his fine Italian-made shoes, polished to a mirror like sheen. But there was still some little time before he and his underlings would assemble in the reception hall of his villa and one must do something rather than simply waste time. Satisfied with his appearance, he donned the last item of his ensemble, a plain white Bedouin headdress. Once he put it on it was clear to anyone with eyes to see that he was not simply a distinguished, prosperous-looking middle-aged man who could have come from anywhere in southern Europe, but an Arab. He liked wearing well-tailored suits, but the headdress marked him as a man who embraced both modernity and tradition.

  He would arrive there last, of course, so that all would be waiting for him. It suited him that they should wait and be reminded once again that he was the sheik, and his was the power. Even the eager anticipation he felt at what was to come could not make him hasten the least bit. Something in which he had been seeking for many years was finally near his grasp. He had seen pictures of her, of course, but they were never the same thing as the person, and pictures could be altered by clever men. He had been disappointed before. He did not think that he would be disappointed tonight. Assam, that utterly trustworthy spy who always reminded him somehow of a vile little rat, had seen the girl himself and had promised that she would be all that a sheik could desire. Well, he would see for himself, and judge for himself.

  It was a good thing to be a wealthy and powerful man. It was a better thing to be respected by his people and feared by his enemies. He was all of those things and all by dint of his own talents, hard work and utter ruthlessness when it was necessary. So it was also a good thing that he could at times indulge himself in some of the worldly pleasures that his wealth and power made possible. He was looking forward to doing so very, very soon.

  All rose when he entered the reception hall and remained standing even after he had seated himself on the great chair of intricately carved oak. It had been purchased from an old manor house in England. He rested his arms on the massive wooden armrests and nodded. Only now did they dare sit down again. He turned to his left. Selim, the enormous Turkish eunuch who oversaw the harem sat two seats away, looking as grim and implacable as ever.

  “You have seen the girl, Selim?” he asked.

  “I have, sayyid,” the eunuch nodded. His voice was higher than one would expect from a man of such bulk. “The men who brought her here are making their final preparations now. I think you will be pleased.”

  Next nearest to him on the left was Assam. The little man appeared to be quite uncomfortable, as he always did when he came here. Or perhaps he was like that always. It did not matter.

  “And she only speaks English, Assam?”

  “Pardon, sayyid, but it seems that she can speak a little French,” the spy replied. “A very little, I am told.”

  “It is unimportant,” Ismail waved a manicured hand. “We all know some English here, so we will speak it when it is necessary for her to understand us. Do you all understand?” he asked as he looked around at the six men seated to either side of him in a shallow semicircle. “You must do as I do. If I speak in English, you must only speak in English. If I speak in Arabic, you may do so also.”

  “Aywah, sayyid,” they all said and nodded in agreement.

  “Very well,” Ismail settled back in his chair. It would have been a most uncomfortable seat if not for the silken cushions that padded it. He sometimes wondered what might have been used instead of those cushions hundreds
of years ago. “Selim, you may go and tell Lafite that we are ready for him.”

  “At once, my lord,” the eunuch said. He rose and bowed once, in respect, to Ismail, then departed through a door at the far end of the room. The door shut behind him with a faint but audible click.

  “I am sure that you will find her most acceptable, lord,” Assam spoke nervously.

  “I am sure that you dearly hope so,” Ismail said as he smiled at the spy without mirth. “If she is as you have described her, you know you will be richly rewarded. If, on the other hand, she is not… well, I must find some way to recoup all of the money I have spent on this matter.”

  Assam smiled back crookedly and attempted a bow while still seated before looking away from Ismail. He said no more. Nor did the other men, but they knew full well that they were not there to speak unless spoken to. One of them was the captain of his security forces, an ex-Legionnaire named Felix, who rarely had much to say in any case. There was also his accountant and his driver. Those were men that he must trust with his life on occasion. Close by on his right sat his closest advisor, his crippled old uncle, Aden. Old wounds and arthritis had reduced the speed of his walk to a slow shuffle, but his mind was just as subtle and penetrating as always. Ismail kept him out of respect for his abilities, and the old man repaid him with unquestionable loyalty and utter dedication. He could speak five languages and always went armed. Ismail knew that he had at least one razor-sharp knife and a loaded automatic pistol hidden under his traditional desert robes.