Baron Zemo's Dungeon

He'd been brought to the Raft by the Dora Milaje of Wakanda themselves a fortnight ago and, ever since he greeted you with grateful eyes behind the bulletproof glass during his first dinner as a prisoner, you've been looking forward to seeing him again.

You weren't sure what to make of the man at first, the history and myths of him having reached your ears before he did. He has taken down the Earth's protectors through perseverance and planning alone. He had blue blood but still bled like the rest of the human race. Indeed, the baron was a fairy story you'd hear spoken of with fear, reverence, or both. While you had two more years to be stuck in here, you knew that the memories you were making with him would always stick with you. And, while he may be trapped behind bulletproof glass, you could never be able to escape Helmut Zemo's eyes.

Tonight was no different, or so you thought. As you rolled the trolley with a single tray still on it - his tray - towards its final destination. The food smelled good, but it always did. The baron did not only get his own separate, walled-off section to serve his sentence but his menu. He lived as luxuriously as a high-security prison would permit. Your mouth watered and your stomach fluttered at the thought of him letting you lick his fingers clean of the delicious treats. It was only a night ago that he had invited you to share his meal before and stuck his hand out through the narrow opening and fed you himself. You savored the treats, as the sounds he made as you suckled his skin.

"Good evening, Baron,” you greeted him trying not to sound too giddy. There were cameras and microphones everywhere safe for a few blind spots that you took advantage of to indulge in his touch and taste. Even so, you could never be too careful.

“Good evening, my dear,” he stood up, that signature smirk already spread across his face. “Always a sight for sore eyes,” he said to you once again, but you don’t believe you’d ever get tired of hearing it or seeing him devour you with his eyes before you even slide the dinner tray through the opening in the otherwise sealed door. “I see we have Turkish delight and cherry blossom tea for dessert tonight.” Then, taking the tray, he brushed his fingers against yours and winked.

Leaning against the glass on one side as he rested against the bars on the other, you listened to him talk about the latest show he caught on his retro radio. The tale of the French sailors lost at sea and forsaking their humanity was riveting. Yet again, he could’ve been describing the mind-numbing dishwashing you would be doing later for all you cared. You were sure that his deep, decadent voice would make it sound exciting.

While returning the tray with a handful of Turkish delights left for you to treat yourself with, he asked: “What time is it?” When you answered that it was nearly 7 PM, he wrapped both of his hands around your wrist and whispered: “Thank you for dinner, my dear.” Then, as his grip on you got tighter, you blinked and the blue of his uniform turned red.

There had been a security breach.

Monochrome emergency lights were turned on, the alarm blared and half your arm was pulled inside the cell when the opening closed down on it, bruising your flesh and causing you to scream like a siren.

“Look at me,” he started screaming himself. “Look at me, my dear.” And, when through welling eyes you did look up at him from where you keeled over in pain. “Open the door.”

“What? Why? How H-how did you do this?”

“If you don’t use your security card to open this door, none of us will be free of it,” the baron bellowed out, his hold on your hand not letting up and neither did the latch that landed on top of your arm.

With your free and trembling hand, you slapped the security card against the side of the door and felt him free you as it slid open. While you were on the floor nursing your injured arm by curling around it, he snatched the card from your fidgeting fingers before he helped you up. His strong, solid arms slipped under your knees and around your shoulders as he carried you down the corridor under tens of EXIT signs.

“I’m sorry for your arm, but it had to be done,” he panted as his pace got faster with each cell he passed. Through the blare of the alarms and the pulse of your pain, you heard the other inmates bang against their bulletproof glass. You couldn’t think straight, could barely make anything out except for the sound of his voice and the taste of your salty tears.

You asked him, sobbing: “W-why?”

He answered, wheezing: “Do you remember the countess that visited me the other day?”

“Val?”

“Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, yes. Wrap your good arm around my neck, please.” As you did so, he let go of you to use the card on a door and exit the corridor. “She said she had a ride waiting for me today at 7 PM and all I needed was to make it there on time.” Blinking your tears away and pushing down the hurt of betrayal and the pain he had caused, you looked up at him and saw the same hungry eyes under a dangerous red light. “They trained you to head to the emergency escape pods, but you’re as much of a prisoner here as I am, aren’t you?”

Picking up the pace again, Baron Zemo sounded more like the fairy tales you’ve heard of him as he talked about the plan he came up with to reach a pod and pilot it to the surface where the counties had an aircraft ready to pick him and the vessel up. He sounded more and more like the sinister man you’ve been warned not to warm up to. But, as he breathed heavily and brought you back on your feet, he asked you, his voice dark and deep: “When was the last time you’ve seen the surface world, my dear? You said you were coming up on your third year working here. Three whole years without the sun or the moon. Come with me and we’ll count all the stars you’ve missed out on.”

Your knees were weak as he whispered in your ear, his arms still wound around you as your good one hung off of his shoulder. Your heart was weaker as you whined that you did wish to see the sky again and all the colors of the sunset. Waiting two more years when escape was so close seemed impossible, so you let him pick you up again and carry you into the craft.

Using the security card, he ushered you inside. Noting that there was only room for one passenger, the pilot, he sat you on his lap, your spine against his sternum before he locked the two of you inside and prepared for launch.

Again, as you watched him secure both of you in the seat and steer the pod as if he’s done it a dozen times before, you thought that you were witnessing the myth that is Baron Zemo. Then, as you felt his hot breath in your ear, you were reminded that he was only a man. A man who hasn’t experienced skin-on-skin contact for a fortnight. After setting the coordinates for the nearest coast, you used your healthy arms to reach for the drinkable water every escape pod came with. It was getting hot in that cramped craft and it wasn’t just the lack of each oxygen for two individuals.

“It is getting hot in here,” he confirmed your suspicions while blowing more hot air against the side of your neck. “Mind if I take the shirt off?”

Of course, you didn’t mind, you were thinking of doing the same thing. It was that hot and the promise of his perspired skin sticking against yours was sweet. However, when he reached for the hem of your work shirt, you realized he never mentioned which one he would be taking off. When the tips of his fingers traced your bare skin as he scrunched up your shirt, you sighed and arched your back against his spine. He was slow and careful with the sleeve of your injured arm and, after setting your shirt on the board of the ship, you felt his lips latched onto the back of your hand. “I truly am sorry for trapping you with me.”

“It’s like you said, baron. I was already trapped.”

The baron brought his lips to the back of your hand again for an even hotter kiss. “You’ve set us both free.” Letting his hand go, he reached for the shoulder and the bra strap there. “Now, I can finally see you and not just through a wall of glass.” Sliding it off, he let his lips linger there and both his hands slid the cups down and let your breasts spill out. He hurried to push them up with the palm of his hands and twist the tender tips between his fingers. “I can finally feel you.”

While the pinching of your nipples was almost painful, the sounds you made spoke of the pleasure that spread through you. You pushed against his palm and moaned as he manhandled you, squeezing down on the sensitive flesh and biting down at your tender throat. You couldn’t see the hunger in his eyes anymore, but you knew that he was famished.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he sighed against the shell of your ear, smoothing his hands down your stomach. “I’ve stayed awake just think about this, about how you’d taste.” One hand, he pushed into your pants while the other he pressed against your lips. “About how sweet your saliva tastes after you drooled all over my fingers.” Then, sinking his fingers between both sets of wet and hungry lips he said: “I’ve dreamt of nothing but how sweet your pussy would taste coming all over my fingers.”

You sucked him in, both sets of fingers in both holes. Your mouth was watering and your cunt was slippery as he slid inside. It was almost as if you'd also been dreaming about this. He took note of this, your trepidation, and snickered: “Have you been touching yourself to the thought of this, of me taking you like this?” As your cunt contracted and your mouth moaned around him, he groaned, and his entrapped erection grew under you. “You have, haven’t you? I’ll tell you a secret,” he bit down your lobe before licking it better. “I’ve been touching myself, too.”

Before he breathed another dirty secret into your ear, you fucking yourself against his fingers and slobbering all over his other fingers. “Touch me,” you pleaded when he pulled them out of your mouth.

“I’ll do more than touch you, my dear,” the baron brought both of his hands to your pants and pushed them down far enough for you to slide them off all the way using your feet. Then, as he spread your thigh wide and bent your knees against the board, his fingers fidgeted with his fly. “I’m going to fuck you like we’ve always dreamed.”

Wet and wanting, you widened the gap between your thighs to allow him to cram his thick and throbbing cock inside you. You stopped breathing when he lifted you off his lap and guided his girth inside, then letting you sit back down as he slid home. Your lungs hurt when you heaved, finally full of him. With his chest rumbling against your back and his mouth moving against your throat, he grunted: “My sweet girl.”

“Baron-”

“You’re just as tasty as I thought you'd be and even tighter,” he muffled his words against your sweaty skin as he lifted you again and let you slide back down again, lubricating his dick and stimulating your sensitive inner walls. “You’re so tight, you’re never letting me go are you?” He chuckled, his voice the deepest it's ever been. “I’m not letting you go either. Such a sweet little pussy. Once we reach the surface, once the countess finds us, I’m going to make her fly us into the horizon.”

“Oh, Baron.”

As you struggled to get him to look you straight in the eye, you also tried to guess how many glasses he emptied tonight. Taking into account all the ones he drank in your presence, you noted how none of them had gone to his head. However, you had lost count of the many more he had in Luciano's presence. Whatever the number, they must've been enough to loosen his tongue and muddle his mind.

You were grateful to León and his limousine tonight. The baron was in no state to drive and he could hardly stand on his own two legs.

"You're upset," he slurred the obvious, blinking in slow motion.

You shook your head, sniffing.

"You say you're not upset?" He tilted his own head and it almost rolled over his shoulder. "You're not telling the truth then."

"In vino veritas," you echo Luciano's words back to the baron. "In wine, there is truth, and you're drunk" you stated the obvious, swallowing a sob. "So you tell me, my Lord. Am I upset?"

He was not looking at you, but past you, beyond the flesh and bone as he squeezed between his palms while he cupped your cheeks and stroked your hair. "Oh, how I've missed that sharp tongue of yours," he slurred. "I had to drink it," he let his words linger, his fingers combing your ruined coiffure. "I had to tell the truth and win his trust."

"You let him drug you," your voice was a croak. "

When his head fell on your shoulder the hand in your hair reached your scalp and snatched the roots. "You're upset. I've upset you. Forgive me, my Lady." You were trapped, his hold on you tightening as his mouth moved towards your ear, one sloppy kiss to your throat at a time. Then, as he arrived, his lips latched onto the lobe, hot and wet and with bourbon on his breath.

"Forgive me, my baroness." It was intoxicating, the pain you felt as he forced your head to the side and the pleasure you derived from the slither of his tongue in the shell of your ear. You were half-drunk yourself, but was soon fully sober as you heard him heave:

"Forgive me, my Heike."

At the sound of that name - her name - your heart dropped and dissolved into your stomach, your spine straightened and your hands shoved back against his shoulders. Scrambling to get away from him, you fell to the carpeted floor of the car and dirtied your dress. Her dress. The purple that matched his suit was the same purple that she used to match the royal color. Heidi was right about your outfit tonight: from your hair to your toenails, he'd styled you in the specter of the late Baroness Heike Zemo.

Baron Helmut Zemo, still slurring and barely standing on his own, snatched you up. Going limp, you let him lay down across his lap, your mind and body lagging in bewilderment.

"Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Where are you hurt?"

Bursting into tears, you bowed your head, your cry-stained chin hitting your chest.

He nuzzled the shoulder he slobbered over earlier. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've drunk. I'm sorry I dropped you. I'm sorry I...I couldn't," his voice cracked as he caressed you closer, so close he almost crushed you.

"No." You nuzzled into his hair, wetting it with your tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not her. I'm sorry I can never be her."

Then, what he said next, what he sobbed into your chest, shattered the heart beating against his tear-stained face: "I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Heike. My Heike."

You didn't know what to expect when you barged into his bedroom, but it wasn't this. No, it most certainly wasn’t this.

“Lord Zemo, the castle is under siege. We have to get you to safe-”

The blush that lit up your face was bright enough to burn through the blood splattered all over your cheeks. You’ve walked over corpses like a red-stained carpet to get to him, but the Baron seemed suited up for bath rather than battle. And, no, the gun holsters secured around his naked torso didn’t count.

“Knocking is not a practice where you’re from, I presume,” he said, as suave and nonchalant as he would when completely covered, mask and all. “Though manners do take a backseat during times of crisis.” He moved slowly, each muscle under his marble skin shifting in the moonlight as he approached the entrance you were frozen in. “At ease.”

You obeyed him, the training he’s instilled in you taking over your body as you straighten your posture and slid your sword back in its seeth. It was only then that you noticed his face was also painted in blood, as well as his perfect pectorals. When your eyes wandered lower, you saw the slope of his sculpted stomach leading down to two smoking guns and two powerful thighs between them. And, between those two, the most dangerous weapon was being loaded.

“As you can see, the threat on my life has been eliminated," he spoke, unshaken by your staring, and placed his guns back into the holster. He then redirected your attention to his carpet of dead bodies which you wouldn’t have seen on your own. "What do you know of my colleagues?"

You quickly ran through your report, your voice strained by the fight and the thirst that threatened to take over your reason. Through the mercy of whatever god or the joke of whatever trickster was watching, you managed to tell him about the other members of the Thunderbolts and their efforts to snuff out the intruder. When the security system was shut down, you ran back to your station: Baron Zemo's living quarters. That is where you found not one, but multiple intruders which you mowed through on your way to his bedroom.

"Things have quieted down now," he noted, noticing nothing else creeping in the shadows. "The quiet before the storm," he smirked, an inside joke you were not familiar with turning to his lips. "Thunder shouldn't be far behind." Then, turning towards something shaped like a desk in the dark corner, he placed his palm atop it and said: "This is Baron Helmut Zemo. Can anyone give me a casualty count?"

"Glad to hear that you're still kicking, Baron," a woman's voice came through. “This is Val and we're still rounding up the corpses down here. What I can tell you, for now, is that the other Thunderbolts are just as lively as yourself and the power should be back on in three, two-”

Your surroundings turned from silver to gold as the lights in the baron’s bedroom came back to life. His bare body started shining under the desk lamp, as a result.

“One. How’s that?”

“Much better,” he sighed in relief, not bothered in the slightest by the sight of the dead bodies and the blood splatter. “Though I have a few unexpected guests waiting to be escorted out of my room. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Way ahead of you, Baron,” the voice of the countess was heard again and this time you could see the transceiver it was coming from. “I sent a couple of strong boys to help you clean up.”

Turning towards you, he took in the sight of you in the low light. “Thank you, Contessa. The maid, may her soul be at peace, has prepared a bath for me.” The smirk had returned to his lips as he traveled towards you with the remote device in hand. “I’d rather not be disturbed as I enjoy it in her memory.”

“Gotcha! I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Baron!”

“Good night, Contessa.” The baron buttoned the device before tossing it on the nearest soft surface: a futon. “The water should still be warm,” his voice dipped dangerously low and your spine shivered. Another step closer and you would be able to smell the blood he spilled all over his beautiful bare body. With a tilt of his head, he took you in. You were trembling, so you were sure he would reprimand one of his royal guards for such conduct. Baron Zemo licked his thumb and swiped it over your bruised lip instead. “And I can see now that we could both use a bath.”

As your mouth parted to protest, he dipped the digit into your mouth, tracing your tongue with the tip. Tasting him through the traces of blood, you moaned as you closed your mouth around him. The sound, as well as the feeling of it that spread through his thumb, was pleasant enough to make him part his lips and drop his smile. Maybe a little too pleasant. So, before he could let out a moan of his own, he pulled away with a pop. Still, as he distanced himself from the doorway, he gave you an order: “Come.”

The commands did not stop at that, however.

Once you entered the bathroom, you had to lock the door behind you. Then, you had to take off your clothes. And, as you stripped before him, the hot steam was suffocating you almost as fast as the sight of him removing the holsters from around his torso and hips, the leather leaving red marks behind. You had to collect them from you and put them on top of the pile of clothes, so you did all the while being aware of his wandering eyes.

When he sunk into the water, you watched as a blush spread over his pale skin and his dark hair fell in his face. After sinking his hands under the surface only to splash his face and slick back his hair. Cleaning the blood off of his cheeks, he blinked up at you with water caught in his dark lashes and the glow of the golden lights in his eyes. His final order was for you to join him in the bathtub already before the water goes cold.

“Yes, my Lord,” you inclined your head, as humble as you were ashamed.

There was still plenty of space left after he leaned back, so you could’ve conceptually cleaned yourself without fear of friction between your bodies. But the taste of his thumb on your tongue told you he had other plans before he told you what those plans were.

He handed you the biggest yellow sponge you’ve ever seen, but you had to float closer to fetch it from his hands. “Come here,” he commanded. “You’re filthy.” The baron drawled out his words as he dipped the sponge in and squeezed it over his chest. “Let’s get you clean.”

Once you were in his orbit, he squeezed the sponge over your head. You sighed, the warm water soothing your scalp. While one hand was showering you, the other sunk below and snatched you by the middle. As a wave splashed over the edge of the tub, your chest crashed into his. “Fuck,” you cursed as the wind was knocked out of your sails. Baron Zemo slotted his thighs between your own from below while your arms wrapped around his wet shoulders.

“You’re mouth is even filthier,” he snickered. “Yet again, you were a filthy little thing when you arrived at the castle gates,” he recalled your first encounter as he soothed your spine with the sponge. You were wearing tattered clothes, fresh from a fight when you came to apply for the position the countess had advertised. You practically handed over your life to her, but that is what a good hench would do. However, she did not need for your life, but the baron did. He was the one that took you, trained you in the art of sparring, and even gave you one of his swords. Your life was Baron Zemo’s to do as he pleased, so why shouldn’t you surrender your body to him as well? “I washed that bloody face of yours before. I gave you new clothes, shining armor even. I made you my knight,” he reminded you and, as you finally relaxed under his scrubbing hands, he whispered something as wet and as hot as the bath: “And, tonight, I’ll make you mine.”

“Lord Zemo,” you squeezed down on his shoulders as his chuckle sent chills down your snake and into the hot water where his cock had been swelling between your thighs.

“Turn around. Now,” he hissed against the gooseflesh at your neck. After doing what you were told and twisting your torso, he brought your back against his chest while lifting your legs and hanging them off of each side of the bathtub. “I need you to keep them spread out like this,” he spoke against the same side of your neck, his nose sliding up and down. “Just like this,” he sunk his hands into the water, over your sides and down to your stomach. When his hands burrowed between your thighs, they twitched, tremors overtaking your entire body. “You’ve always been a fast learner,” he suckled on the tender flesh of your throat. “And an eager student.” As he nipped you every nerve in your body was awakened and your hips pushed back against his palms. “Are you ready to learn?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped as he grabbed you by the throat. His other hand was still under the surface of the watcher, shifting you into position.

“Are you ready for me?”

You wound your hands around each of his wrists, not ready to surrender the sensation of his fingertips against your flesh. When he tightened his hold around your throat and traced your thigh up to your knee, spreading your out further as his erection breached your entrance, you stuttered out your answer. Yes, you were ready for him.

“I have to break you in first.” He sounded breathless, all the air leaving his lungs as the first inch of his slid inside. “You’re still so tense.” Once another inch entered you, he felt you flutter around him in welcome and he sucked in air through his nose only to let out a groan. “So tight.”

“So big,” you moaned when he moved under you and slipped a few more inches inside.

The baron bucked up then and you opened up to the intrusion as he impaled you. When a scream ripped at the throat he held onto, he shushed you with a hand over your mouth. “You want the Contessa’s cleaning crew to hear you?”

You did answer him, but it was muffled. It was a moan, an involuntary sound that he pulled out of you by pulling out of him and pushing back inside you. Your walls were waiting to squeeze down on his shaft every time. He was having a hard time staying quiet himself, his movement causing water to splash out of the tub and his chest rumbling against your spine.

Baron Zemo’s beach villa was a glass house with windows as high as the ceiling and as low as the floor. The sun shone right through them and illuminated every brightly painted wall and every darkened corner. And, while you missed it on its way up, the sun didn’t miss you. It had been keeping your side of the bed warm as you slept, as well as the side the baron had woken up in.

It was only when the heat became too suffocating, and the thirst too unbearable, that you stirred. Sitting up on your hunches was a Herculean task, and opening your eyes in the morning light was a bad decision. The hangover had made your mouth sand-dry and had your head spinning. All you could remember was being put to sleep like a child because, after a day of travel and a night of drinking, you were far too weak to do it yourself.

The baron anticipated the bad morning you would be having. On the nightstand, he’d left you a note reclining against a tall glass of water and atop a folded tissue.

My Lady,

I know how much you needed a good night’s sleep, so I didn’t dare wake you up so early. I had to go into town this morning, but I’ll be back in time for lunch.

Be sure to drink plenty of water while I’m gone and, if your headache is too much to bear, I’ve left you two tablets of ibuprofen. There is a tray of food that you can stomach waiting for you on the kitchen counter. Do not go hungry waiting for me.

~ Your Lord

You emptied that glass so fast, you only discovered the two tablets folded in the tissue after you were out of water. Thankfully, your Lord had thought of everything: there was a whole six-pack of water bottles on the coffee table across the room just waiting for you to walk over to it. Wrapping the sheet you’ve slept in around your naked body, you crossed the sun-heated carpet and helped yourself to a few more sips of water and ibuprofen.

However, you couldn’t wait around for the pills to heal you, so you began walking off the hangover.

First, you freshened up in the bathroom with a shower. And, since you hadn’t bothered going back into the bedroom to bring your supplies into the cabin before closing it, you proceeded to use his products. But it’s not like you minded bathing in the strong scent that only his musk could overpower. As you scrubbed off your skin, you also traced over the bruises he bit into the side of your neck and the ones he dug into you with his nails. Your thighs were still tender and the memory of his fingers was still fresh in your flesh. And, before you knew it, your nails were digging, dragging themselves between your thighs.

When you couldn’t bear it anymore, when the thought of his tongue entered your mind like it had entered you last night, you slipped a finger inside. The sound you made was louder than the water, but it wasn’t enough to summon him by your side. Or behind. Or inside. All you had was yourself and your fingers to fuck yourself with as you drowned out the desperate sounds in the shower stream. So you slipped another one in and took care of your clitoris with your thumb. When you finally came, it was while calling out your Lord’s name.

Secondly, you had to pick yourself off the shower floor before the cabin flooded and the worries started winding the gears in your brain. You couldn’t let all the terrors he’s inflicted on the rest of the world take over your thoughts, so you sniffed the humid air and your wet skin in search of his scent. Sure enough, the memories took over and you were engrossed in the thought of all the gifts he has bestowed onto you.

Thirdly, you needed to dry and dress before heading downstairs for a late breakfast. He had ordered you to stay hydrated and fed while he was gone, after all. While brushing your teeth and combing your hair, you saw something purple peering back at you in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. It was peeking out from under the lid of the wicker laundry basket and, once you lifted it completely, you saw it was the sleeve of the same shirt Baron Zemo wore last night. Pulling it out, you put it right up against your nose, inhaling the rest of his scent, the traces of him that couldn’t be contained in a conditioner bottle. When you returned to yours and the baron’s room, you were wearing a smile, his button-up shirt, and nothing underneath.

Finally, after plucking your phone out of your purse, you ventured downstairs into the kitchen. The tray of food he’d promised you was preset there: toasted bread, honey, avocado spread, and boiled eggs. Next to it was another tall glass, but, this time, it was filled with blended bananas. From the mixer drying next to the sink, you were delighted to deduce that he made you the smoothie himself. Putting the phone in the shirt pocket, you placed the glass on the tray and made your way to the couch in the center of the open living area.

Sitting down, you took a sip of the smoothie before sliding your fingers on your phone’s home screen. You knew, before you even unlocked your phone, you had a slew of messages waiting for you. The group chat from work had been chatting about you. Well, they were complaining about a couple of Spanish tourists you weren’t there to talk to in their tongue. You chose to focus on the more recent messages, the good mornings. You sent one of your own and the interrogation began. You answered their questions about the weather, the food and the nightlife. Even back in the old country, you heard stories about Ibiza’s nightlife. All of Europe heard the stories about the nightlife. ‘Send photos,’ they insisted. ‘Pics pls,’ they spammed you. You had no such photos to send, but Heidi had your back. She had spammed you the selfies from the VIP area while you slept. You told them about this lost Sokovian sister who lived here and who you met in Eden.

As you were struggling to come up with a good story about how you ended up in the most expensive nightclubs in the world on your salary, you were saved by a low battery. 'Sorry, my phone's dying,' you told the truth. 'I'm off to buy a new charger,' you lied. 'I forgot mine on the plane. TTYL.' And you didn't wait for them to respond before you switched to airplane mode and turned off the Wi-Fi. Then, you hurried upstairs and dug through your suitcase for the charger that you totally left on the plane.

After setting up your phone to charge on the nightstand, you went back downstairs. You were feeling famished and you had the baron's breakfast to finish. The toast was cold and the smoothie was warm, but anything coming from your Lord was going to be devoured no matter what. So you ate the toast, sipped your drink, and looked longingly at the deserted driveway. It was almost noon, so he could've come back any minute. A minute passes. Then three. Then ten. Then your mind starts winding with worry again.

Where is he? Is he safe? Is he okay? Why didn't he give you his phone number? Why didn't he ask for yours? Did he already have it? Did he go through your phone? How can he trust you not to use that phone to call the authorities? Why don't you call the authorities? Why are you here? Why are you here?

In an attempt to distract yourself, you wash the dishes and leave them to dry. When that doesn't work, you take yourself on a tour around the open living area. You bury your nose in a red rose, drag a digit across the kitchen counter top, pass through a forest of potted plants and watch seagulls bathe in the sun through the blinds. When you returned to the sofa, you slid your hand across its smooth surface as you walked barefoot behind it. As you approached the end of your journey, you let your hand fall back at your side. There was more fabric to feel up, but you wouldn't dare. That was his armchair and you could tell.

On each side of it rest a table. On the one that stood between the armchair and the sofa lay a spread of Spanish magazines and a couple of remote controls. And on the other lay a closed chessboard, a glass ashtray, and a stack of paperbacks. They looked to you like they were loved, with bent book covers, dog ears and all. And Il Principe was by far his favorite.

Just as your palm presses down on the first page, you jolt and drop the open book on its back. The sound of a purring engine pulling up pierced your ears and heart. He was back? He was back! How could you mistake the convertible's color as anybody else's but Baron Zemo's? You picked up the copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince and placed it back on top of the stack before praying nothing else was out of place. Well, anything besides whatever had slipped out of those pages and under the chair.

There was no time, so you forsake your search before it even started. Pulling down on the hem of your purple shirt - his shirt - you counted the turns of the key in the lock. One. Two. Three.

"Lord Zemo," you perked up, your feet patting the floor on your way to the door. "Welcome back."

You surrendered to the shivers on a sunny day as his eyes were revealed behind his shades. Since you settled yourself in his direct line of sight, you couldn't exactly complain about being scrutinized.

"It's good to be back," he licked his lips, leering at you as he leaned back against the door and shoved it shut. "And it's even better with a warm welcome." Dropping the big bag of groceries to the ground, he gathered both your hands into his. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Better,” you smiled and it must’ve been a silly sight because he snorted when you apprehensively added: “Now that you’re here.”

“Can’t go on a day without me, can you?” The baron brought both of your hands to his mouth and took turns kissing each one. “Can’t even dress yourself while I’m not here.” You reacted as if you just remembered you put on his purple button-up, stuttering to give a straight answer as he snickered. “There, there,” he tutted you, taking your face in the palms of his hands and pressing his lips against your frustrated frown. “There’s no need to pout, little girl. It suits you.”

He made you feel so meek, so small. You hated hearing yourself speak in his presence, seeing yourself quiver under his questioning eyes, yet you loved being at this powerful man’s mercy. Ever since you failed to evade him in the west wing hallway, you’ve been at his mercy. Ever since you surrendered yourself to him, you’ve been more than willing to obey him.

Even now, even as he asked you what you’d like to have for lunch, you didn’t dare demand anything. You let him decide while he swung that heavy bag atop the surface of the counter. Even when he asked what music you'd like to listen to, you echoed 'whatever you wish, my Lord,' like you're back to being his captive in Castle Zemo. And maybe you were.

However, as he hovered over his armchair and whatever secret slipped underneath it, unbuttoning his suit as he buttoned the remote, you begged him to go lay down and rest. Upstairs. On the second floor. Away from the chair and the contents below.

"The paella isn't going to prepare itself, my dear," he talked over timid trumpets. "Aren't you hungry?" He slid the suit jacket off of his shoulders and you scrambled to catch it. "Thank you."

"I've had a filling breakfast," you whispered, all the wind getting knocked out of your lungs as he turned to you with a half-clothed chest.

The fingers on his burgundy buttons froze when he saw your eyes savoring the sight. To the tune of the basset horns, the baron brought them over to the sleeves so that he could bunch them up to his elbows. "Not filling enough, it seems," he breathed, his fingers now at your buttons - his buttons. "Tell me," he craned his neck, hovering over the now uncovered half of your chest. "Have you tried filling yourself with two fingers or three?" When you gasped, he grabbed your naked neck and, while your windpipe was free to filter air, you had yet to breathe in any. "You can't even pleasure yourself without me, can you? You can barely take care of yourself."

"Please," you pleaded. It was a pathetic wheeze as it left your parted lips. Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you welcomed the tightening grip around your throat.

"Please what?"

"Please, my Lord," you closed your eyes as he cupped your breast under the open button-up. Your nipple was at attention before he reached it, his thumb running over it, flicking it, teasing it. Torturing you. "Touch me."

"I am touching you, my dear" he chuckled cruelly, the thumb at your throat pressing down on the bruise as he would a button and snapping open your scrunched up eyes. "Now, look at me," he insisted, his brown eyes growing black. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me," you pushed your breast into his palm and ran your own up and down the arm. You were stroking it, stoking the fire that's been ignited behind his now on fire eyes as they burned in the background of Mozart's Requiem in D Minor.

“Good girl.” Then, as if all the tension was sucked out of the air by his hiss, your lord left you stranded, surrendering his hold on you and letting you balance yourself on the balls of your feet.

When you found your bearings, the baron was seating in his armchair, the throne you had previously pleaded for him to forsake for the bed. As you blinked back the tears you weren’t aware had been welling in your eyes, you saw him spread his legs wider and lean back further. After patting down both of his pockets only to search through a single one, he presented to you a small silver packet.

“Wasn’t it you who wanted me to sit back and relax?” He smirked, satisfied in all the ways he can make your knees go weak. “You have to be the one doing all the work then. Pick the jacket off the ground and get to work, my dear.”

You’d been so distracted by his dashing good looks and his tempting touch that you had dropped his suit jacket at your feet. After dusting it off and hanging it by the door, you returned to him for your ravishing.

Getting on your knees between his own, you followed his instructions to undo his fly. Then, when your trembling hands allowed for his gorgeous, glistening erection to escape, he slapped them away. You wanted nothing more than to trace the vein that pulses up from the base of his penis to the head of it, with either your hands or your tongue, so you whined when you were denied. When he tutted you, tearing the package in two, you excused yourself even as you drowned in your own drool.

Your Lord was so beautiful in the afternoon sun, a king with a glowing crown of beaded sweat on his forehead. The last time you saw both his cock and his chest beard before you it was in the silver light of the moon and he appeared a white marble god to you then. However, as he slipped the rubber sleeve on his shaft, his chest heaving under the heat of your gaze, you remembered that he was a man first and foremost. And, when he commanded you to climb in his lap, his voice another in the chorus of the Requiem, you remembered that you were a woman first and foremost.

“That’s it,” he groaned as you straddled his hips, your nails fixing themselves in the sleeves of his shirt. “Right there, baby,” he held you up by your hip while your cunt hung over his cock being held by his other hands. “My poor baby, so helpless without me,” he licked his lips when you winced against the feeling of him between your folds. “You’ll have to learn to put in some work, little girl,” he pushed you down on him, both hands on your hips now.  "I’ll lead you there, like a lord ought to," he groaned when you gasped, his cock head breaching the entrance. “But you’ll have to do it yourself,” his voice was strained as he slid in with a single snap of his hips. "You'll have to fuck yourself on my cock."

You fell forward, his face between your breasts and your hands holding it close by the back of his neck as he bottomed out inside you. You were finally full. "My Lord, I," you began babbling, trying to turn your brain on. You had to remember to get the slip of paper that sat just under this seat. You had to put everything back into its place. Oh, but his cock, crammed between the walls of your cunt, was right in its place. "I, I, I-"

"Come on, my lady," he breathed between your breasts, his mouth moving from one mound of flesh to the other. Now, as he flicked your nipples, he did it with the tip of his silver tongue. "Come on. Move."

With the baron's hands holding the back of your thighs in a tight grip, you moaned as you moved. With his encouragement, his ever contradicting endearments, his  'baby's and his 'lady's, as well as the long and wide reach of his erection, you began bouncing on his lap. When he suckled all the sweat off your breasts, he shoved your chest out of his face with a palm on your sternum. You had to steady yourself by sinking your nails into the chair's cushion armrests.

His hand slid up on the saliva he left behind on your skin and snatched you by the throat. "Did I tell you to stop?" he growled when you whined and winced, your cunt squeezing down on his cock in time with his hand around your neck. "That's it," he hissed when your hips hurried to comply and ride him again. "Right there, my Lady." His other hand, the one not tightening around your throat, undid the rest of the buttons on your shirt by sending them flying off of their stitches.

You moaned as the hand then moved down to where your bodies met, where your clitoris was growing as you ground against his groin hairs. "Please," you bit your bottom lip, looking at your baron with a vision deterred by suffocation and sexual overstimulation. "Oh, please."

"Please what? Let you come?" His hand was close and you could feel it smoothing down your stomach, then up again. Then down. Then up. "You think you deserve to come, baby? Because I don't think that you do. Only good girls get to come and you've been bad while I was gone."

Through the thick layer of tears and a tight throat, you begged again. And again. You bounced up and down on his lap. Fast. Faster. You squeezed his shaft so snug inside he rolled back his eyes and bucked up his hips. Tight. Tighter.

"Bad girl," he sneered, his eyes narrowing as they rolled back into his sockets. He lifted his hand off of your stomach only to bring it back with a slap to your side. "Didn't your mommy and daddy teach you not to take things that don't belong to you?"

"M-my Lord," your voice cracked, tears of shame and frustration streaming down your cheeks.

"No? Well, I'm both your mommy and your daddy now." He spanked you a second time, leaving searing skin behind. "Don't." Slap. "Touch." Slap. "What." Slap. "Isn't." Slap. "Yours."

Your cunt contracted around his cock after each slap. And, after each spoken word, you warbled out one of your own. It was the same one, over and over and over again. "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

He chuckled over the chorus of the Dies Irae, his hand now coming down to caress your flaming flesh. "Baby," his voice dipped lower as his hand snuck back down your stomach. "Baby, look at me."

"Forgive me," you whimpered, your hands winding around the wrist of the arm traveling down south.

“I forgive you.” The baron took pity on you and proceeded with his palm ever further south. “I forgive you, my lady,” his voice was vicious as he barked out his order. “Now come for me! Come!”

The thumb turning your slick and swollen clitoris like a knob had opened the door to your release from the torturous luxury he’d trapped you in. There was a myriad of moans that he squeezed out of your throat and a wide array of words that made more sense while his cock twitched inside you and his thumb circled your clitoris. Words like ‘cum’ and ‘pussy’ and even ‘daddy’ to list a few. Whatever combination you had come up with, it worked like a charm on him as his orgasm followed yours, his face back between your breasts as you fell forward.

“Hold tight, my dear,” he heaved, his breath brushing your skin and his cheek scratching against your sternum. He’d lifted your hips and let himself slip out of you. “There we go,” he sighed, satiated and satisfied.

As you sagged against him, the baron brushed all the hair from your face only to find a sorry face. “I...I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-”

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, sinking his chin into his chest to kiss you on the crown of your weary head. “Don’t let me catch you doing it again.”

“You won’t, milord.”

“You’ll learn how to do it without my knowledge?” Combing your hair with one hand, he stretched the other hand towards the side table where your post-coitus eyes could now see what your heated gaze couldn’t before: The Prince had an off-white piece of paper sticking out from between its pages. Your mind was still marinating in the endorphins and was slow to recreate the scenario in which he managed to move it from under the chair and back into your book, all of it under your nose.

“Then you must know this: there is no better distraction than one's own desires.”

“Did Machiavelli write that?”