Unmasked (12 page)

‘Do you want it now?’ he asked. ‘Do you want me to fuck you hard?’

‘Fuck, yes!’ she screamed.

And the American paused and took hold of her, placing his hands under her, gripping her hip bones, and lifting her. He thrust deep into her and began a furious rhythm. The grip allowed him to ram himself against her arse. He thrust again and again. The clash of flesh slapped loudly. Harder and harder. Emma was no longer moaning but screaming. Ahhh! Quiet. Ahhh! Quiet. Ahhh! Quiet. She would be heard all through the building. Throughout the town. The American fucked her again and again. His cock was so big, so thick.
And then Emma went deathly quiet, something was coming at her and she felt herself lose her strength, she thought she might faint. And then it was there and an orgasm came up from within her that was short and brutal, exhilarating but over. In a flash of light she was done.

The American kept fucking her though. She had lost the use of her limbs but he held her and kept fucking her at a furious rate. Then the true orgasm hit. It was warm and deep and crashed over her like many had before. She was weeping when it ended. Crying. Convulsing. And the American withdrew fearing he had done something wrong. But Emma couldn’t explain yet. She couldn’t move. She wept into the bedcover, her whole body awash with pleasures a poor male could never even imagine.

Marco had seen this before and now picked up what was left of Emma and fucked her. She began to laugh. And he fucked her harder.

‘Never stop. Never stop,’ she said. ‘Do it to me all day, all night. Pass me between you both. Do me how and when you want. I don’t care. Just don’t stop.’

THIRTEEN

Marco and Emma arrived back at his house around three in the afternoon. They hadn’t slept and they had to be at work again in a few hours. They climbed off the bike and walked down to the water. Elena never rented out their private inlet and when they got down there they found the little beach empty. Marco stripped off his shirt and jeans and walked across the sand and pebbles into the crystal water. He had lost his boxers somewhere. His tanned arse was the last thing she saw before he dived under the water.

Emma wasn’t far behind him. She stared up at the sun and then out at the boats cruising by about half a kilometre off shore. There was no breeze. She undid her jeans. Every muscle in her body ached. She felt more tired than she could ever remember having felt, but she also felt something else. She had been fucked by two men for hours and hours. They had not given way. Each had surpassed themselves, coming again and again without respite. She was filthy from end to end. Not one part of her body was untouched. Her skin had been kissed and bitten, licked and caressed. Her hair was a knotted mess. Her lips were swollen. Her breasts felt bruised. Her pussy was throbbing. She pulled off her top and undid her bra then stepped out of her jeans and her g-string, and sank into the water. Neither cared much for what the world might think if they were sprung bathing nude. They had passed out of normal life a few hours ago.

This was the life Emma had been looking for. This was why she had walked out of Mosman. She never wanted to feel normal again. David might come for her but she would never return to that life. She wanted only to feel as alive to sensation as she felt now. The cool salt water
acted as a balm to her skin, her sin. She swam out to where Marco was floating on his back and pulled his face to hers and kissed him with great passion and feeling. He wrapped his arms around her and she her legs around him, and they clung to each other in the neck-deep water and kissed. Emma felt him rise beneath her and though it hurt she let him enter her. They did not move but kissed, deeply, long, lingeringly. Emma’s lips were swollen and sore but this didn’t seem to matter. She was having the time of her life.

‘You are a
puttana
,’ Marco declared with a smile from across the room where he lay on his bed, a few days later.

‘Are you calling me a whore?’ Emma asked. She had been getting dressed.

‘
Si
,’ he said. ‘A whore.’

‘That isn’t very nice.’

‘You are not very nice,’ he replied.

‘I am very nice.’

‘How many men you fuck?’

‘Not many. But they remember me.’

‘Not many?’

‘How many women you fuck?’

‘
Tanto
,’ he said with a grin.

‘You are a
puttana
,’ she said.

‘
Sì, io sono un prostituto per l’arte
.’

‘Ahhh, you only fucked all those women for art …’

‘
Si
, I paint.’

‘You don’t paint anymore.’

‘
Si
. I no paint.’

‘Why?’

‘
Perché
…’

‘Yes?’

‘
Non lo so
.’

‘You don’t know,’ said Emma, crawling across the bed. She took hold of his cock through the bed sheet under which he lay. ‘You are a painter. Your whole life has been devoted to art. That barn is filled with your work. You paint. It is who you are. If you don’t paint, who are you?’

He shook his head.

‘If I leave your bed will you paint?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘I think I’m the reason you don’t paint. I don’t want to be that woman. I shouldn’t let you come near me for a week to see if you take up your brush.’

‘No,’ he repeated.

‘
Si
,’ she said.

‘You fuck other men.’

Emma grinned. ‘Other men? Like that American? Ooh, yes. Good idea. Where is his number?’

Marco blanched.

‘I promise. I no fuck men. Not without you,’ she answered, feeling his cock grow in her hand. ‘We make test.’

He groaned as she tugged at him.

‘One week. No fuck. Paint,’ she proclaimed.

‘If test work?’

‘
Non lo so
,’ she answered, letting his cock go and returning to the dresser where she began to brush her hair.

Later that morning Emma was with Marco as he set up his stools and easel in the corner of the square in front of the cathedral. He might have been making good money in the last few weeks, charging what he liked. At times there were people lining up to have their portraits done. The old town was bulging with tourists. He could sit there from dawn to dusk without rest, if he chose.

He didn’t choose. He had been having too much fun with Emma. His early morning starts had become mid-morning starts and then afternoon starts. Emma was distracting him from making money in the peak season. And Elena was counting.

It hadn’t all been Emma’s fault, though. He had lost his Club Med job by himself. She had tried to get him to go to work. She would kick him out of bed by forcing him to go down to the kitchen and make her coffee. But he was so damned seductive and a touch would turn into a fuck. And fucking always seemed to take longer than they thought. Then afterwards, when they were recovering, he had this way of going down on her. It was nothing more than a breath at first, then the lightest of touches with the tip of his tongue. He would revive her and take her the longest, most pleasurable route to the top. An hour would pass in the blink of an eye. They’d be ready to walk out the door at nine and end up leaving just before one.

It wasn’t very responsible, she knew. She could close her legs. When his face was not between her legs, or his cock deep within her, when he wasn’t touching her, or smiling, or near, Emma did feel slightly guilty. She was disrupting his life. And it
wasn’t Marco who suffered. It was Elena who lost out. She kept the place together and needed all the income she could get. The brother and sister had had fierce words. Hadn’t she been the good sister? Hadn’t she been patient? Hadn’t she supported him? Right or wrong, Elena had been banking on Marco’s paintings. When the future seemed bleak, Elena would brighten it with the riches Marco’s inevitable success would bring.

They were in the cathedral square early because Emma refused to be seduced that morning. She had won round one. The day was heating up and the square was full of tourists. Marco was set up but no one had taken up the offer yet.

‘Do you want me to pretend to be a customer?’ asked Emma.

‘No, I in no hurry.’

‘I’m going for a walk, then.’

‘Where you go?’

‘Exploring. I might go for a swim.’ She thought she’d wander south along the coast before going to work in Sylvia’s shop. She’d been told there were caverns and caves in the cliffs where the water turned an unnatural blue, like the famous Blue Grotto of Capri. Underneath the summer dress Elena had lent her she wore her bikini. She would
explore the coastline by herself and swim in the strange blue water if opportunity presented itself.

She knew she should say a quick goodbye and be on her way, but she lingered.

Marco pulled her down onto his knee.

‘You serious. No fuck?’

‘Yes. You’re a painter. You need to paint.’

The no-sex test Emma had proposed wasn’t just for Marco, or for Elena. Emma had to break free of the spell he had over her. She knew in her heart that she had to move on. She thought of his house as an island. Once she was there she was free from having to make decisions. Life was good there. Easy. He provided for her. Her desires were sated. There was sun, sex, food, the sea, a bed, sex, food and the sea. She needed nothing and thought of nothing until it was time to go to work. And when she was away all she thought about was her return to her island.

He shook his head. ‘I no need paint. I need you.’

‘That is why we have to stop,’ she said. She couldn’t just leave. It was paradise and you don’t leave paradise. You must be cast out. The test was her way of making it impossible for her to stay. When she denied Marco sex, she denied herself as well.

‘I no stop,’ he said. ‘I never stop.’

‘You must,’ she said as the cathedral bells started to chime loudly. She looked up as the pigeons took flight from their roosts in the rooftops around the square. Marco took this opportunity to run his hand along her thigh and under her dress. She started to clench her thighs against him but then was distracted by the doors of the cathedral opening and men and women in formal attire pouring out into the square. They were throwing confetti and forming a guard of honour. Marco’s hand found its way past her bikini bottoms. There was no mistaking what he was doing but the whole square was distracted by the wedding party and had no interest in the lewd couple in the corner. When Emma parted her legs further for him, it really was a disgraceful spectacle.

But all eyes, including Emma’s, were trying to catch sight of the happy couple, who were making their way slowly through the crowd. A glimpse of billowing tulle was all they were granted. A band struck up a lively tune and then everyone came to a halt as the photographer shouted for them to huddle together for a group shot. He set up his tripod as a couple of older men ushered the crowd back towards the doors of the cathedral. Emma
shifted slightly on Marco’s lap in an attempt to hide what he was doing to her. The wedding party finally arranged itself in the middle and the friends and family squeezed in at the side. Marco’s fingers, which had been roaming where they liked, now stopped and concentrated their attention on one particular spot.

‘One week?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘
Si
,’ she moaned in return. The tourists were crossing between her and the wedding group.

‘No fuck?’

‘No fuck.’

‘You can do?’ he asked, biting down on her neck and massaging her with his teeth.

‘
Si
,’ she said.

The wedding group burst into laughter. The rhythm of Marco’s fingers quickened.

‘Liar,’ he whispered, and took her earlobe between his lips.

‘
Si
,’ she replied.

‘You want me to fuck you now?’ he breathed into her ear.

‘Yes,’ she replied. She was staring at the bride.

‘You want me to fuck you in front these people?’

‘Yes.’ The bride seemed to be gazing back at her through the passing tourists.

‘You want me to share you with these men?’

‘Yes,’ she gasped. She was close. It didn’t take much, she thought, a few well-chosen words … Her whole body jolted and then she glanced at the groom. ‘Oh, fuck!’ she whispered and threw her arms around Marco, hiding her face in his shoulder and moaning into him, coming hard. It was gorgeous and lingered. She shook against him.