The Black Fox

I’m all alone. I always will be, because the man I love can’t love me back.

When I’ve lain upon the bed for an hour feeling thoroughly sorry for myself, I get up and pad naked through to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Mama will be angry if I’m late to the breakfast table, and if she yells at me I’m likely to burst into tears in front of her and Zacarias.

While I wait for the water to run hot, I stand naked in front of the mirror, admiring the thick red marks on my ass and thigh. I count ten all together, though at the time it felt like he broke the leather over my behind a hundred times. I start to grow wet again imagining asking him to double the number next time; that I can take it for him. It was such a wonderful rush coming through his punishment to the other side.

My heart sinks as I realize that I probably won’t ever get the chance to ask him to do that again. He’ll protect me from the shadows. I wonder if I’ll catch glimpses of him from time to time, always out of reach. Tears slip down my face, and I walk into the shower where they mingle with the hot water.

Twenty minutes later I’m down at the breakfast table. Zacarias is already there, but I ignore him as I enter the room. When I sit down, I wince with pain. I’ve forgotten my thoroughly punished behind.

Zacarias looks up, and his eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say innocently, reaching for the coffee pot. Zacarias gets there before me and pours a hot stream of coffee into my cup. I tell myself over and over to keep my eyes lowered, to ignore him, but I can’t help myself.

I look up, and our eyes lock.

I stare into those dark brown depths, flecked with gold, and a strange feeling overwhelms me. Strange and hot. My heart races for reasons that make no sense.

Coffee spills over the rim of the cup and onto the table. Zacarias swears and puts the pot down, and I’m finally able to look away. I busy myself with a fresh cup and pouring my own coffee as Zacarias uses his napkin to mop up the spill.

My heart aches with so much longing that even Zacarias is starting to seem like a human being. Maybe any husband would be a good idea right now, but I don’t want anyone but the Black Fox.

9

Zacarias

After breakfast, I head out among the vines to check their growth. I can’t concentrate. I can only think about Lolita. The tears she wept for me. Her pussy gripping my cock as I pounded her into the mattress last night. Her eyes, large and vulnerable, watching me over the breakfast table.

I held her for hours last night, wide awake, telling myself that it must be the first and only time. It must never happen again. She bears marks from my belt. Maybe I’ll be safe from the impulse to pin her down and make her whimper beneath me until the welts fade. And after that? I’ll just have to have some fucking self-control.

It’s a scorching hot day, and I lift the hem of my T-shirt and use it to wipe my face as I come up from the vines. I see that Lolita is out by the pool again and she’s zeroed in on my bare stomach. As I catch her eye she looks hastily away.

The following days are tense and pass in near-silence. Lolita pores over her textbooks, and I pore over my studies. We both lose ourselves in work while Valeria sighs around the house, complaining that she’s bored out of her mind living with two bluestockings. I remind her that the vineyard could bring in a tidy profit if the terroir, the land, is as good as I think it is, but she just rolls her eyes.

Two weeks pass. Two whole weeks since I tasted my angel’s lips. My little girl must be getting needy again. I know I fucking am. I sleep in the spare room every night, and Valeria never complains. We don’t even talk about it. Sometimes I wonder why she married me.

At dinner one evening, Valeria enters the room and does a strange thing. She pauses and sniffs the air above Lolita’s head, as if there’s a scent coming off her. A disagreeable scent. She wrinkles her nose and draws back. So many things she does are silly affectations, designed to wound or make her displeasure known without speaking. This time, though, she seems troubled, and quashes the expression as soon as she sees me looking at her.

Lolita glances up and realizes her mother is standing behind her chair. “Mama? What did you just do?”

“Oh—nothing, darling,” Valeria says haltingly, and sits down, sweeping her chiffon kimono out of the way. She gazes critically at her daughter. “I wish you’d keep out of the sun. You’re starting to freckle.”