Love is a Wicked Thing

You apply yourself to your lessons, not just because Donaka has paid a lot of money for this man to basically commute to Hong Kong four days of the week from Beijing, but because you know there's nothing more maddening than a student who doesn't pay attention when you're teaching something you're passionate about.

You like Tiger too. 

He is kind, and patient, and he shyly admits to you that one day he hopes to go to America to be in movies. So after your sessions over tea, you make a point to help him improve his English. You feel like it’s the only thing you can really offer him. 

Slowly, it all starts to click, and you find yourself carrying the forms even into your everyday movements, the way you move around the room, the way you reach for things on a shelf…

The philosophy is harder.

You’ve barely seen Donaka since you started your lessons with Tiger, and you have no idea where he’s been. He leaves early in the morning and doesn’t come home until late, if at all. You cannot shake the thought that maybe Donaka sought to manipulate you somehow with instilling this go with the flow mindset. 

Did he think it would make you more complacent? Did he think it would make you forget that you haven’t been allowed off the grounds since he took you out in the Bugatti? It’s begun to feel like a lifetime ago, and no matter how much you meditate in your new little space in the library with your books and your orchids…the captivity mixed with loneliness grinds in you. 

It occurs to you that perhaps you’re his dirty little secret and he doesn’t want to be seen in public with you. You’re not his wife by any means. Are you even his girlfriend? Eventually the horrifying thought occurs to you that maybe you’re not even the only woman in his life. 

On a rare occasion when he’s actually home in the evening you invite yourself into his viewing room, sitting beside him on the black leather couch. “Hi.” 

He sort of growls in answer, his eyes still glued to the screen, but he lifts an arm for you to snuggle into him. You take that as some sort of sign. 

But the silence between you stretches on, and in the end you’re the first to break. 

“Can we yum cha again soon? I’ve really missed you.” 

“Sweetheart, you realize I work during the week?” he says to you in what you think is the most patronizing tone he can muster. 

So much for delegation.

“What about this weekend then? Can we go somewhere?” You admit you’ve thought more than once about that motorcycle in the garage with all the supercars. “Oooo, what about the Big Buddha? Or the Dragon’s Back? Or Wong Tai Sin Temple? Or…” You find yourself excitedly rattling off things from your bucket list, only for it to shrivel upon your tongue from the withering look he pays you. 

“Do I look like a tour guide to you?”    

This is when you realize you gravely misjudged his mood this evening. 

Or maybe, this whole situation as a whole? You’d thought things were getting better, and you realize you’d begun to feel safe around him, thanks to his little presents and his gestures that seemed meant to cater to your happiness. But the truth, you stupid girl, is you’re still just a prisoner, and you may as well be like one of the antique vases or Elder statues he likes so much to collect–pretty to look at, but with much less value. 

Did you actually think you mean something to him? 

You hate how much this hurts, even if you should have been preparing yourself for it all along. You feel the sting of tears forming in your eyes and the aching roots of your teeth. 

Fine. You guess you’ve finally got your answer.   

You shift on the couch to get up, needing to be anywhere but in the same room as him to nurse your heartbreak. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He reaches for you, and you do something very stupid. In your defense, it was also just reflex, something very basic Tiger taught you, which is actually on Donaka, right? And you're sure it never would have worked, had he been even slightly expecting it. You deflect the force of his reaching hand with a turn of your wrist, moving just out of reach of his long arms with one smooth step. 

Yet you freeze when you realize what you’ve done, and to whom. 

The sharp flash of challenge in his eyes could cut you to ribbons, and you brace yourself. Your every instinct urges you to run, but this time you know this is serious, and if you do…there’s no telling what he might do. 

“Look who’s been paying attention to her lessons,” he snarls, standing to tower over you. “My money well spent.” 

He’s been watching you train with Tiger, of course, on his laptop at work when he needed to be doing other things. You’re a good student, and the two of you get along, and deep down Donaka knows he’s a little jealous for the easy way you smile for your teacher. 

And he certainly never fathomed you might dare use your new knowledge of tai chi on him. 

Even if you tremble, you close your eyes and stand your ground, waiting. You feel his long fingers close around your throat, not squeezing, but just resting there with all the promise of what those huge hands could do to you. 

Once upon a time you might have begged him to let you go. 

Now you realize it’s worse than that. You want him to pay attention to you any way you can get now, and if not on something resembling your own terms, you'll settle for the battlefield. When did you turn so suicidal?

His next question is deceptively soft, his thumb sliding over your fluttering pulse. “Have I been neglecting you, bunny?” 

A question loaded with fifteen in the clip and one in the chamber. But what the hell? If he tries to kill you at least it will be something to do. 

“Yes.” 

You do not expect his delighted laughter; as ever, this man keeps you off balance, and you don’t think any amount of lessons in tai chi or anything else will ever truly prepare you. 

“Alright. I’ll try to make it up to you.” There’s mockery in his tone, but you dare to open your eyes anyway. You’re surprised to see he’s watching you like you’ve done something interesting; something he didn’t expect either. Maybe it gives you just enough courage to open your mouth again. 

“Am I so demanding?” 

He snorts in answer to this, bending down to slant his mouth over yours. His fingers slide from your throat to the base of your hair, pulling just this side of too hard as he bends you over with his ardor, his teeth nipping at your lower lip. 

You have no idea, of course, but he’s been in a mood because he’s been auditioning fighters for his next big offshore expo, and no one has truly caught his interest. No one has felt right, and he’s afraid that something that once brought him such fierce joy has become boring to him. 

It alarmed him, looking back, how quickly he'd confessed his favorite thing to do as of late is you. You’re changing him, and he sees it now. He thought it would be best to return to his nobler pursuit: the search for the perfect warrior. It has yet to truly recapture his passion the way it once did.

He wants something new, something exciting. 

Maybe it was right in front of him all along. 

🐉🐉🐉       

A few days later, Donaka let you know in no uncertain terms what he expected that evening. When I come home I want you waiting naked on our bed. Understood?

He would choose that night to come home an hour late, and you are chilled to the bone by the time he walks through the door with an alarmingly smug smirk curling his lips, heartbreakingly handsome in one of his tailored dark suits. Charcoal sharkskin over jet black silk, and a silvery tie…it’s too flashy just for the office. Where did he go today?  

You’re not sure if you invent it, that you think his eyes seem to soften as he sweeps his gaze over you. 

“Aw. She can follow direction when it suits her.” 

“I’m freezing,” you grouse, still annoyed. A trill of excitement makes its way down your spine as you watch him loosen his tie as he approaches, standing at the foot of the bed before you. 

“Is this going on your eyes, or in your mouth, bunny?” 

You glare, but say no more. “That’s my good girl,” he purrs. “I’ve brought you a surprise.” 

You bite your lip, looking him up and down, thinking that maybe this tall dark dream of a man in this wicked mood is surprise enough. It’s been over a week since he last touched you, you’re pretty sure you’re ovulating, and you’re about ready to climb the walls. 

He chuckles darkly as he affixes his tie as a blindfold over your eyes, the silk sliding over your skin. His fingers are deceptively gentle as he affixes the knot behind your head, careful not to hurt you.  

“What? No smart remarks?” His fingertips trace the lines of your body possessively, the curve of your neck to the sweep of your collarbone, down to circle your taut nipple. You squirm and press your thighs, but keep your hands planted on the bedspread, the way you suspect he wants you to. 

Finally you answer with the truth: “I missed you.” His touch hitches upon you, even if only for a moment, before he strokes down your arm with the backs of his fingers. 

“I missed you too. Lie back.” 

You do as you’re told, and it’s interesting how you can sense his movement above you, even while deprived of sight. He rifles in his jacket pocket, and you hear something click clack clack. When something startlingly cool and smooth brushes over the skin of your belly you about levitate out of your skin. 

“What–” 

“Shhh.” 

The things pool and slide over your skin, heavy and cool, though quickly warming to your body. There are a lot of them, seemingly on a string. Multiple strings? Your back arches as they graze over your nipples, your loins clenching and pulsing with this exquisite torture. 

“Oh my god, Donaka…” you sigh. “Are those…pearls?” 

“Would you like that, y/n?” 

You whine in answer as he affixes a clasp behind your neck. 

“Hmm?” he teases, and you hear the smile in his words. 

“Maybe?” You try to sit up, but he prevents you with a finger on your breastbone. 

“Be still. This is a sight I want to remember.”

You’re too keyed up to catch the ominous undertones of that statement, practically vibrating in your state of arousal. If it’s real…you cannot fathom what that many strands must have cost. 

Who knew that your recent lessons in breath control would aid you in this situation? You lay there like a pearl-draped pin-up with your pulse thundering in your ears, and only once you’re certain he’s going to leave you there like that all night does he touch you, your skin quivering under his fingertips as he skims down the lengths of your thighs, then back up again, seemingly determined to drive you mad.

“Donaka…” you sigh. “Can I take this off?” 

Your hands lift towards your blindfold until you receive an unequivocal, “No.” 

Your growl of frustration wins you a villainous chuckle. “So impatient.” Suddenly his thumb dips between your legs, testing the readiness of your weeping hole. “And so wet.” You move your hips, desperate for friction on your needy clit, but he holds you at bay with his large hand over your mound. “Ah ah,” he scolds. 

“Donaka…” He’s reduced you to pitiful whining, and you’re sure he’s just eating it up. 

“So, my darling isn’t impressed with rare handbags, but she does like expensive jewels…” 

“That’s not fair.” 

“No?” He strums at your slit again with his thumb, and you tilt your hips desperately, needing his touch. “I’d say the proof is in the–” 

“If you say pussy I will scream.” 

This wins you hearty laughter that warms your soul, even if he sounds like a Bond villain. “C’mon, bunny. Let me have my fun.”

“I think you’re having all the fun,” you grouse, winning you a pinch on the inside of your thigh that makes you squeal.    

“So you don’t like them then?” he taunts you, referring to the bounty of the sea strung round your neck. 

You hate to say it but…you love them. They’re heavy and luxurious and you’ve never owned anything so fine. 

“Can I see?” you ask with a shyness that betrays your approval. 

“It’s not enough that I think you look beautiful?” he taunts you. 

“Are you…taking me somewhere I can wear them?” you dare ask. 

“There it is, my clever girl.” 

You're sure your relief is written plain as day for him to see, your body relaxing on top of the counterpane. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

“When?”

“You’ll see.” He nips at your thigh, and even though it hurts you giggle with delight, the promise of some modicum of freedom in the future.

“Oh, now someone's happy.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that was worth an hour of my time at Harry Winston today.”

You know what that means, if only because your step mother used to lament that your father couldn’t afford to shop there for her.

“Oh my god. Donaka…you didn't have to do that.”

“This again. Just admit that you like them.” 

“They’re not the point.” 

“Yes they are,” he insists hotly. “Or at least, part of it.”  Suddenly he is manhandling you off the bed. You yip with surprise, though he doesn’t let you fall, holding you steady with a strong arm about your bare waist. His long body is firm and unyielding behind yours, his obvious hard-on pressing into your back; the smooth fabric of the suit against your bare skin is an interesting contrast. 

His voice rumbles low in your ear with warning as he tells you, “No more pretending you don’t enjoy luxury. You and I both know you’re no saint.” He tears off the blindfold, catching some of your hair with it, making you wince. The pain is forgotten, however, when you see he’s positioned you in front of the full length mirror. 

You almost don't recognize yourself like this, draped in lustrous black Tahitian pearls like a  goddess of the sea, the ominous shadow of your dark consort towering behind you. You stare for a long time in silence, not just at yourself, but the whole picture. Enough time goes by that eventually he gives a sardonic chuckle; you feel the mockery of it in your bones. “I knew there was a streak of vanity in you,” he says low in your ear, kissing your cheek.

Is he right? Are you just as pathetic and crass as your gold-digging mother or your social-climbing step mother?

You don't think so, because you are as fascinated by him as the pearls or yourself or this opulent house you live in with him. It’s everything that bewitches you–but he is the grand epicenter of it all. 

“Say thank you, bunny,” he prompts you, nipping at your jawline. “I’m feeling unappreciated.” 

After he left you alone for so long with no explanation, your annoyance flares in you like a flash in a pan. “Then maybe you should come home more often,” you fire back, winning a snarl of a smile. 

“As if you haven’t had plenty to keep you occupied, with your books and Mei and your new friend Tiger.” It’s so subtle that at first you think you imagined it; but no. That was jealousy in his tone. “And furthermore…” Your treacherous cunt throbs for the possessive hand upon your waist, trailing higher to caress a peaked nipple. “I think I want to hear you admit how much you enjoy living here in my beautiful house, my staff catering to your every whim.”

The truth is you still help the staff keep up with this massive house. You even cooked dinner with Mrs. Wong the other night. Or rather, she yelled at you, while teaching you how to make Donaka’s favourite wonton soup. You going to take care that man? You better learn. I not be around forever. 

He hadn’t even come home to eat it, the ingrate. 

“I enjoy it a lot more when you’re actually here.” 

“Oh? I thought you wanted to leave so badly?”

“With you!”

He only growls in answer to this, sucking sharply at your neck, both hands trailing up to cup your breasts. He pinches your nipples in punishment, making you squirm. He will not let you slip away though, his arm squeezing you like a band of iron. You can never best him like this, with force against force. You have to re-direct, and maybe your new lessons are useful after all. 

“Fine,” you surrender, reaching back to encircle his neck in your arms, leaning back against his solid form. 

“Fine?” 

“You want me to admit it? I am greedy. I do like the house and the cars and the things. But only when you're in the picture, Donaka. When you leave I hate it all.” He meets your eyes in the mirror then with the black eyes of a shark cruising the reef for a kill, and you don’t know where you get the courage to demand further, “Where were you?” 

“That’s my business.” 

“Do you have another mistress?” 

He snorts at you like you’ve said something incredibly stupid, and you practically sag with relief in his arms, believing his tell before he even says a word. 

“No.” 

“Then where did you go?”

He pays you a long, considering look in the mirror, weighing you with that unnerving stare that you know misses so little. “If you're good tomorrow night, and don't embarrass me, maybe I’ll show you.”

You practically quiver with excitement at hearing this, and you know you're damned. You think you would follow this man anywhere, just to unlock one more small part of his mystery. 

“Did I embarrass you at lunch?”

“No, but you look at everything with such wide-eyed fucking wonder. It’s adorable between us, but my crowd will eat you alive.” 

Really, all they’ll do is talk behind your back. 

You know this game from listening to your half-sisters gnash their teeth over their perceived victories and slights at school, who was the best dressed, who said what about whom, and you suppose it only amplifies later in life with the uber rich who have nothing better to do than spend money and gossip about each other. 

The elation you were feeling starts to evaporate as you mull over this, and he sees it written across your face. “Re-thinking leaving the house, bunny?” 

Maybe. 

Resting Bitch Face definitely isn’t your forte, and hobnobbing isn’t your idea of a good time either. 

“Are these people your friends?” 

Again, he huffs like you’ve said something cute, squeezing you in his arms. “They’re either clients, prospective clients, or rivals, sweetheart. That’s the truth of my world.”

“What about enemies?” 

“Mmm, those are the most fun.” He starts kissing your neck again, and as you go weak in the knees you wonder where the hell he’s taking you.  

“Donaka?” you sigh, melting under his mouth and his insistent hands. 

“What, bunny?” 

“Are we friends?” 

He seems amused by this, a new wicked sparkle entering his jet black eyes. “Depends, y/n. What is a friend?” 

Well, that is the million dollar question, isn’t it? So simple, yet complex. And you have to admit that thinking about it isn’t exactly coming easily, while his hand is on your breast and his other seeks your molten center. You can’t stop yourself from arching back against him, practically hanging from his neck while you pant, “Someone…you like to spend time with? Someone you like to talk to?” 

“Hmm…” He seems to think about this while orchestrating your undoing, circling your clit with his middle finger, and you’re heartened that he doesn’t immediately fob you off with the answer he thinks you want. “Then I suppose you’re my best friend, y/n. Who I very much like to fuck.” 

He slants his mouth over yours then, allowing no more opportunity for talking as he devours you whole, but your silly little heart soars.  

You’re nearly at the apex of your pleasure when suddenly his fingers between your legs go still– the jarring disappointment tears a whine from your lips that only seems to delight him. You sense that he is looking at you in the mirror again, and it takes effort to force your eyes open to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide and black as polished onyx; your darling really does like to watch.

“Do you promise to be a good girl for me tomorrow?” he asks low in your ear.

Perhaps there is some petulance in your tone when you answer, “Believe it or not, I can behave in public.”

“Hmm. Remains to be seen, bunny. You know I have a certain image to uphold?”

“I don't think…I can pull off aloof and scary the way you do.”

He gives no correction to this, only a dark chuckle. “I don't need you to be scary, bunny. Just poised. Can you do that for me?”

You look upon the waterfall of jewels cascading from your neck, and you don't know why you were so slow to grasp what’s really going on, but it finally dawns on you. He wants you to be a silent mannequin, an object from which to display the coveted display of his wealth. You really are following in your step- mother’s footsteps. “You mean you want me to be pretty, and quiet.”

He hears the acute disappointment in your tone, your earlier elation deflating like a balloon. Why does that affect him like it never has with any other mistress? You are maddening, and he has half a mind to sink his teeth in your shoulder to punish you for it. His eyes bore into yours, twin black holes that threaten to swallow you whole.

“You don't have to be quiet. But if you embarrass me with one of your cheeky quips to the wrong person you can be damn sure you'll regret it later. Understood?”

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Mmm.” He strums at your clit again in reward, and once more your body is tensed in anticipation, your eyes sliding closed. “Ah ah, look at me, bunny. I want you to watch. I want you to look at yourself.”

 “I can't…” you protest, arching back against him as he finds that perfect spot once more, your knees trembling beneath you. 

 “Then you're not going to cum tonight.”

 You believe him too, and it feels like some Herculean feat to force open your pleasure-heavy lids. Trapped in a lustful daze, you are annoyed by his seemingly impossible demands. And yet the electricity in meeting his gaze while he pleasures you is something unexpectedly heady; the hunger in his eyes could swallow the world, and it’s all for you. There's something powerfully intoxicating in that; he reads the exact moment this shifts in you, a slow tear of a smile pulling at his lips.

 “That’s right, bunny. You're beautiful, and these expensive trappings become you. I’m enjoying it. You should too.” 

“You don’t have…to buy me expensive things…to please me…you know.”

 Even while he has you literally on the edge between paradise and sanity, you can’t help but argue with him. Maybe he does have cause to be alarmed to bring you into public.

 “This is my world. If you want to be a part of it with me, then get used to it. No more protests. You already admitted you like them. Are you afraid it makes you a bad person?” You hear the amusement in his voice, and you hate yourself a little more. Yet underneath it all, there's an edge of something else. Nothing is ever as it seems with this man. 

“Yes,” you pant, so strung out yet knowing that if you want your ends, you have to play his game. 

You can tell he’s enjoying himself, even as he’s exasperated with you. His eyes shine, dark and lustrous as the pearls around your neck. But no precious stone could ever hold such depth of knowledge and forbidden temptation therein. You never felt so much solidarity with Eve facing down the serpent as in that moment. 

“Maybe you're not a good person, y/n. Have you considered that?”

“Why does everything have to be such a mind fuck with you?” 

His grin is nothing less than a baring of teeth, and he walks you forward to bend you over the bed, making sure you can still see yourself in the mirror. 

“What's wrong, y/n, is this juicy little pussy jealous?” 

You have to admit, even if you won't say it aloud, that you're relieved when you hear the descent of his fly, and soon feel the soft kiss of his broad tip at your entrance. You betray your eagerness as you cant your hips towards him, craving the stretch of his cock filling you. You don't even care that he laughs at you, delighting in your need. Your moan as he buries himself inside you is beyond incriminating.

“Greedy girl.” He swats your backside with his big hand, you suspect just for the sound of it, the pearls clacking around your neck as they pool on the silk sheets beneath you.

You watch him in the mirror, unable to tear your eyes from his magnificent form, and you think he's on to something with his penchant for voyeurism. 

“Avarice for my cock. Lust. Vanity. It's not looking good for you,” he teases darkly, barely brushing your clit with his fingertips.

“That doesn't make me a bad person,” you snarl beneath him, frustrated and bewildered by all this. A gift can never just be a gift from this man. An outing cannot just be for fun. There are always layers upon layers, and you are dizzy from it all. 

“Oh, add wrath to the list too. It’s nothing personal. No one is truly good. Not really. Some people are just a little less terrible than others, and if you ask me, anyone who insists they are good are just fat, fucking, hypocrites.” 

“What an uplifting view of humanity.” Are you really having this debate right now? 

“I'm a realist. I watch all the naughty things people do when they think no one’s looking for a living,” he insists, holding your hips as he drives himself inside you to the hilt. You shudder as he leans over your body, his lips to your ear again. “And I'm trying to set you free to enjoy this adventure with me without over analyzing every little moment of it. Do you have to fight me at every turn?”

It’s impressive, how quick he is to pivot in his methods of manipulating you. You told him once that you didn't really care for ostentatious wealth, despite your obvious fascination with him. Expensive things are not quite enough to tempt you, but to have his company? You must accept them all. This will become clear later, as you're looking back with bewilderment on the night’s events, but your brain is not functioning well enough to totally piece it together now. There’s just a fuzzy outline, a suggestion of what he’s doing to you, and you don’t know what to say back to him that won’t sound stupid or childish. 

You hate it that tears of frustration fill your eyes, and you hide your face by glaring down at the bed.

“I don't want to fight you,” you whimper with your face in the sheets, finally worn down by this man’s exhaustive games. All you really want is him, but he talks circles around you until you’re unsure of everything. 

All I want is you.

It’s stupid, but true, If you say it aloud you fear he’ll take everything. Because he is not a good man. You know that in your bones; and maybe you always have, but you want him anyway. What does that make you?

He goes still above you, caressing the curve of your spine, and you shudder like a nervous filly beneath the warmth of his hand. He's gentle with you now, almost as though to soothe you through the shock of your disillusionment. “It’s alright, y/n,” he purrs. “I've seen you all along.”

You're afraid he's telling the truth about that. Maybe he’s always known the weave and weft of you, and how it all ties together in the binding of your heart and soul. You are no great mystery, and he was certainly right when he said you’re no saint. 

What does it say about you, that a man like him wants you so much? You don't know, and you're definitely not going to suss it out now. You are tired, and half crazy with lust and unsure if the rest of what you feel is actually love, or just a stubborn craving for his approval. 

You feel him undressing behind you, divesting his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt leisurely while still warming his cock inside you. You wait with a new sense of patience, feeling strangely disconnected from yourself, almost meditative as you kowtow with your head bowed.

With a hand tangled in your hair he pulls you upright on your knees, his arm about your waist supporting you. The press of his bare torso engulfing you from behind is a splendid thing; you can't help but sigh for the solid wall of warmth behind you, and for the umpteenth time you know you are utterly lost to this man. 

He stares you down in the mirror, those black holes for eyes boring into your very soul. He lets you get away with closing your lids this time, allowing you to retreat into yourself as his possessive touch slides up your torso, beneath the pearls to press over your thundering heart, then higher to your throat, your pulse beating like a trapped butterfly against his fingertips. “Don’t cry, bunny,” he consoles you, his tone deceptively gentle as he kisses a tear away, savoring the taste of your mourning for the death of something you’d clung so dearly to. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’ve got you?” 

Despite how many times this man has already taken what he wants from you, somehow this is the moment it really, truly sinks in. You will remember the turning point of this night until the day you die, as though something inside you stretched and finally snapped like a rotten rubber band. He reads this shift in you as surely as writing on a sign, the tilt of your head on his shoulder and the submission of your body in his arms, as though your very bones have finally wilted in surrender to him. 

He doesn't make you say anything more, revelling in his victory as his lips claim yours, and his arms wrap around your body possessively, holding you hard as he pistons his cock inside you. With an all too knowing curl of long fingers between your legs he sets you free, and you cum on his dick with a moan that is tellingly close to a sob. He swallows it all with his mouth over yours, shuddering as he spends inside you with a triumphant growl.

When you collapse at the foot of the bed, too wrung out body and soul for anything more, you feel the whisper of dextrous fingers at your neck relieving you of your precious neckwear. He goes off to the closet, presumably stashing them for safe keeping. Then you are surprised when he spoons his long body behind yours, indulging in a post-coital cat nap with his freshly-conquered prize caged in his arms. 

When you wake later the room is dark, and Donaka is gone. You can’t decide if you are disappointed or relieved, and you are still confused about it by the time you shower and crawl back under the sheets. 

TBC...