Giving In

Ellis is unemployed, broke and nearly homeless—until her best friend Sasha whisks her away to a Venetian villa to stay with a family friend. But her dream of a relaxing escape is shattered when she spies Sasha being spanked and seduced by their sexy, dominant host.

Ellis quickly realizes the guests at the villa want her to join their intense erotic games, but she’s never indulged such fantasies outside of her naughty stories. Now she has the chance to act them out…but does she have the courage to give in?

Giving In

Alison Tyler

www.spice-books.co.uk

Contents

Giving In

Copyright

“I can’t afford the airfare.”

“When will you have an opportunity like this again?”

“I can’t even afford a fucking taxi to the airport!” I never thought I’d allow myself to fail in such a spectacular manner. At 34, I was below rock bottom. I’d hit silt. Unless a fairy godmother suddenly arrived in a flutter of translucent wings, I had no way to pay rent. I didn’t even know where my next meal was coming from.

“El, I have miles.”

“Miles?” Was that a man? Would Miles help me?

“Airplane miles. I’ll cash them in. You know I don’t like traveling alone.”

I glanced around at my surroundings. The small bedroom belonged to a distant cousin—three times removed, by marriage not blood. The watered-down family connection hadn’t cut me any slack. Coldhearted Joyce loved cats more than humans. I knew she would put me out on the street as easily as any other deadbeat tenant if I couldn’t pay her rent money.

“I don’t have any cash,” I said, drawing a pattern with the quarters on my dresser. I’d changed my last few bills into coins to make the money last longer. “I mean, I can hardly afford…” The tears came then, even though I’m known for never crying. “I can’t afford New York anymore,” I said, “and I can’t afford to go back home.” Not that there was anyone waiting for me. “My next apartment is a cardboard box under the bridge.”

“I know what’s going on with you, honey,” Sasha said. “Don’t worry.”

“If you take me to Venice, I won’t be able to pay for anything. Food. Gas. Tickets. Toilet paper.”

“Uncle Stefan will take care of everything. He always does.”

“Uncle Stefan?”

“He’s the one with the place in Venice. Not really an uncle—an old family friend. He’s invited me to bring a guest to come stay. You won’t have to pay for a thing. I know you need to get out of the city. Let’s get.”

“What will I do with my stuff?”

I’d been pondering this question for the past few days. I knew I was going to have to move out of Joyce’s place on the first. And unless I got lucky with a generous one-night stand who might let me crash on his sofa and bring along my few pitiful belongings, I’d run out of options. Forget Blanche DuBois and her “kindness of strangers.” I needed the kindness of anyone.

“Box up your gear, and bring it to my place. You should have moved in with me when you first lost your job. We room well together.”

Sasha and I had met in the college dorm. But I hadn’t wanted her to know how close to the edge I’d gotten myself. I hadn’t even been honest with myself.

“I’m booking the flight right now,” she said. “I’ll be over in an hour to help you move.”

And that was my goodbye to the U.S. and my hello to Italy. Right when I needed saving.

* * *

Business class was sublime. Sasha and I floated on champagne all the way to Brussels, with my oldest friend describing the place where we’d be staying. “The villa has been in his family for generations,” she explained. “One of those grand palazzos on a canal.”

“What does he do?”

She smiled.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“He doesn’t really do anything. He doesn’t have to.” She sipped her champagne thoughtfully. “Or rather, he does whatever he wants to. With money like that, he can do as pleases.” I didn’t hear another word about Uncle Stefan, even during our layover or the final part of the journey to VCE in Venice. I conjured an image in my head: sixties, like her parents. Heavyset. I gave him a baldpate and a bit of gout.

Then I let the champagne take over and I fell asleep.

* * *

When we arrived in Venice, I felt as if I’d woken from a magical dream only to discover that the dream was real. I’ve had good dreams before—but never one that lasted when I opened my eyes. Sasha appeared as fresh as if she’d just emerged from a douche commercial. Even on no sleep, or after a drinking binge, she always has neatly coiffed Princess Grace blond hair and angel-perfect skin.

I, on the other hand, looked exactly like someone who had slept in my clothes—which I had. Sasha didn’t say anything about my rumpled turtleneck and messy ringlets. But she pulled a sumptuous indigo velvet shawl from her woven leather messenger bag and wrapped the length around me, pinning the cloth effortlessly with a rhinestone broach. In seconds, I’d captured a little of her style. Sasha is so high-end, she rubs off on the people around her. Without a word, she twisted my black hair into a makeshift bun and used a silver barrette to hold the curls in place.

A man in a suit stood at our gate. He was bald and heavily muscled with a ginger-colored goatee. Uncle Stefan, I thought, feeling pleased with myself for having so easily imagined the man. Maybe he was younger and less paunchy than I’d guessed, but I had nailed his basic appearance.

“Lou!” squealed Sasha, confusing me as she embraced the man. “Ellis, this is Lou. He works for Stefan. Lou, this is Ellis.”

Lou shook my hand, and I wondered if he could see the difference between the two of us. Sasha, effortless with her money. Me, a poor church mouse on scholarship.

“You’re just as lovely as Sasha described,” he said. His accent was distinctly Irish, and charming. I felt my cheeks go pink at his words. The scarf slid a little and I hitched the burnt-out velvet back onto my shoulders. If he could discern the fact that I was in the empty-pocket club, he didn’t show the knowledge in his expression. He treated us equally, following us to the baggage claim, not appearing at all judgmental about my battered suitcase in comparison to Sasha’s pristine luggage.

On the way to the villa, Lou and Sasha shared stories, talking about people they knew in common. Sasha had spent many summers in Italy. I stared out the window, wanting to pinch myself. Was this for real? But something in my head nagged at me. Two weeks. I had two weeks in Venice, and then I’d have to return to the nightmare that was my real life. To the Frigidaire box under the bridge.

Sasha seemed to sense my mood. She put one hand on top of mine and squeezed. “Everything will work out,” she said. “Relax.”

I saw Lou put one hand on top of Sasha’s thigh and squeeze.

“Relax,” Sasha said again, softer.

The word must mean something different in Venice, I thought.

* * *

I don’t know what time it was when we arrived. New York time? Italian time? All I knew was that I was the walking dead. In a blur, Lou and Sasha led me through the grand entrance to the villa. I saw a tree in the foyer covered all over with small squares of white paper. We stopped here, and Lou said, “There’s a tradition.”

“A tradition?” I echoed. I could hardly make my mouth work.

“Write a wish,” Sasha said. “I’ll hang the paper on a branch for you.”

I gripped the pencil in my fist and scrawled something almost illegible on the squared. Sasha smiled, and moved us on. I caught glimpses of mirrors, dreamy-looking sofas, hanging rugs. But my eyes couldn’t focus. Sasha tucked me into a guest room and told me that my mind would be clearer in the morning. “You have both a champagne and travel hangover,” she said. “Sleep it off.”

“I haven’t even met our host,” I told her, feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t want to behave impolitely from the start. Not to someone so generous as to take me in for free.

“He’s a traveler, himself. He’ll understand.”

I stripped down to my T-shirt and boy briefs and climbed into the huge, welcoming bed. I’d been worrying for months, now. The weight of the heavy duvet lulled me. For the first time since I’d lost my last job, I felt safe. I was asleep in seconds.

But I didn’t stay asleep for long.

At some point during the night, I woke, feeling scared and alone. Was I in Joyce’s tiny, cat-smelly apartment? No. I’d never been in a bed this comfortable before. Had I landed a lover who’d taken me back to his place for a one-night fuck? No. The bed was empty except for me. Slowly, I remembered where I was, but I didn’t feel tired anymore. The excitement built with each breath.

I was in Venice! How could I sleep?

My watch read 2:00 a.m. I climbed out of bed and reached into my suitcase for my Walkman, thinking that a little Peter Gabriel might lull me back to dreamland. But when I clicked the on button, my ancient machine refused to do more than whine and sputter. The batteries had given up their alkaline ghost. Maybe Sasha had extras. Did I dare to go creeping through a house I didn’t know in order to find my friend?

Right then, I heard a noise that sounded like clapping. For a moment, I stayed still, trying to orient myself. I’d been rushed through the house to this guest room when we’d arrived. Sasha had promised me a full tour in the morning. I’d caught glimpses of canvases framed in gold, of porcelain vases taller than I was, of a central room tiled in black-and-white marble. But I didn’t have any sense of where I was in the house.

The noise didn’t stop, and I found myself compelled to investigate. Quietly, I tiptoed out of the bedroom. The scent of honeysuckle was in the air. Sasha’s favorite perfume. I strode along the hallway, doing my best to be silent. The old place was creaky. I walked on my toes down the darkened hall. I could hear the noise getting louder, and I could also hear something else: the sound of a woman crying.

When I arrived at my friend’s room, I planned to simply push on the door and walk in. But something caught my eye and I stopped. The door was open a crack. A shaft of dust-shimmered light fell on the hallway runner. I was standing on an antique rug in my bare feet. The fibers were well-worn, yet decadent at the same time. I noticed how deep and lush the colors were in the rug. Every thought in my head seemed to be moving in slow motion. Maybe I ought not to interrupt. Who was I to barge in?

Carefully, I pressed closer to the crack in the door.

What I saw was something shocking. Sasha was over a man’s lap, and her lemon-yellow nightgown was pushed up to her slim hips. She didn’t have on panties, and her long, lean legs flailed in the air. The man was spanking her naked ass with a hard-backed black hairbrush, and Sasha’s feet were kicking with each blow.

After the initial shock of the scene wore off, I took a second to stare at the man punishing my best friend. He was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in real life. Dark hair, dark eyes, a stern expression on his face. Not angry so much as fully focused.

The concept of what I was witnessing did not immediately compute in my mind. I’d known Sasha since freshman year of college. We’d discussed many boyfriends, dating, lovers. Kink had rarely come up before. Was I dreaming? I bit my lip hard, hoping against hope I didn’t wake up back in Joyce’s humble Brooklyn digs.

No. I was still here. In Venice. Watching my best friend receive a bottom-blistering spanking. And from what I could see, I’d missed most of the show. Sasha’s normally pale skin was cherry-hued.

“Lou’s been waiting for you,” the man said. “He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be going here tonight.”

He licked his finger and parted Sasha’s rear cheeks. Gently, he touched her asshole. Sasha shivered. So did I.

Sasha was going to fuck Lou? The man looked like a bouncer outside one of the meaner New York clubs. I crossed my legs, but kept staring through the crack in the door.

“You’re such a tease, girl. He’s been waiting since December,” the man continued, and now I watched, my mouth open, as he slowly started to push his finger into her hole. My pussy tightened as I continued to stare, as the man firmly began to finger-fuck her asshole. “And you’re going to let him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” Her response was barely audible.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a dirty little slut, sir.”

Shit. Sasha was a dirty little slut? My friend Sasha? This had never occurred to me before. The girl only dated the best-looking, wealthiest men on the market. She never slummed in Manhattan. Whenever we’d discussed sex over the years, I always got the feeling that she enjoyed the activity, but would prefer a few rounds of shopping at Bloomingdales.

Now, she was bent over a man’s lap having her most intimate regions explored, and she was telling him and the polished antique hardwood floor that she was a slut? My heart couldn’t have been pounding any harder.

“Of course,” the man said, “I’ve been waiting, too.”

I swallowed hard. Were they both going to fuck her? Where had Sasha taken me? What world had we arrived in? And why were my panties sopping wet at the center?

“Yes, Stefan,” said Sasha, shocking me even further. This was Stefan? I’d assumed the man was another employee, perhaps the major domo of the Villa. He was nothing like what I’d expected. He seemed young—not quite our age, perhaps ten years older. He had thick, dark hair and the type of face you see in magazine cologne ads. Chiseled.

While I watched, he stopped touching Sasha. She moaned. I would have, too. “Ah, my girl likes to be played with, doesn’t she? It’s been too long since you last had a good hard cock up your ass, hasn’t it?” Sasha made soft mewing noises of assent. The man flipped her around, then picked her up in his arms and brought her toward the other end of the room. Now, I could no longer see them. Fuck. I wanted to watch whatever was going to happen next. But how could I? With a sigh, I turned around, coming face-to-face with Lou.

I upgraded my mental status from fuck to Holy Fuck.

He appeared completely nonchalant, undisturbed by the fact that I was spying on his boss and my friend. “Did you require something, Miss Ellis?” he asked.

Had my thoughts been coming slowly before? They’d just hit a brick wall. No going forward. I stared at him, blinking, as if I’d forgotten how to speak. Lou took me by the hand and kindly led me down the hallway. He didn’t say a word, didn’t ask me what I thought I was doing—snooping on my friend and the host. He simply escorted me back down the hallway. I wanted to turn, to look over my shoulder, but unlike Lot’s doomed wife, I found a sliver of willpower and clung to it.

When we reached the bedroom, Lou opened the door and waited. Was he going to follow me inside? Was he going to spank me? I walked into the room. The bedside lamp gave the room a golden glow. On my bed? A new iPod with headphones and a vibrator.

I looked toward the doorway. Lou was still standing there, smiling. I opened my mouth to say something, but he simply bowed slightly and wished me a pleasant night.

Pleasant.

The word must mean something else in Venice, I thought.

* * *

In the morning, I hurried to Sasha’s room. I wanted to talk to her, to ask her questions, to find out what was going on. Were she and Stefan lovers? Had she really been with Lou? What was the true reason she’d brought me with her on this trip? Why had she never told me about the goings on at the villa before? But when I got to Sasha’s, the room was empty. The bed was made with hotel preciseness. Carnival roses, which I knew were Sasha’s favorites, bloomed in bright pinks and oranges in a vase on the bedside table. All of her clothes were hung neatly in the closet. The black, hardback brush she’d been spanked with the previous evening lay innocently on the bedside table. My stomach tightened at the sight.

Where was she?

I wandered down the stairs, listening. Would I stumble upon a scenario as decadent as the one I’d found the previous night? Or had I possibly imagined the punishment scene? I felt disjointed and disoriented.

When I entered the kitchen, a white-clad chef told me that the others were waiting for me on the veranda. She spoke English with a British accent, and she was pretty in a slightly smudged way. Her crisp shirt had one too many buttons open in the front, so that I could see a peep of her scarlet lace bra. Her eye makeup, shimmering charcoal around beautiful green eyes, seemed too dark for so early in the morning, blurred as if she hadn’t bothered to take it off the previous night.

Outside, Sasha looked same as always. Except, on second glance I realized that was not entirely true. She was wearing her traveling clothes—a more dramatic version of what she usually wore in the city. Her hair was down and straight, instead of up and pinned, and her eyes looked more alive, aglow.

“We’re sightseeing, Ellis,” she said excitedly. “Right away. I want you to love Venice.”

I wanted something else. I wanted to ask her what the fuck was going on. But I couldn’t, because just then Lou joined us on the terrace. Had she screwed Lou the night before? Had the debauchery I’d witnessed in the wee hours continued—or even occurred?

“Come on,” she said, grabbing one of my hands in hers. “We’re starting at my favorite museum.”

“What about Stefan?” I asked. I was surprised at how normal my voice sounded. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” I continued, wondering who did I think I was, the Queen of England? Clearly, Sasha had invited me into a fairy-tale land where dirty dreams came true, and I ought to enjoy the program.

“You’ll meet him later,” she assured me. “He’s busy this morning.”

Busy punishing other guests? Busy paddling his staff? The chef came outside and handed me a cup of coffee and a plate of crisp buttered French bread and artfully arranged fruit. I set the plate on the stone railing, and I gratefully devoured the exquisite breakfast. Why was I so worried? My alternate choice in life was nothing. That concept Be Here Now? I had no other options.

Maybe Sasha would tell me what had happened while we were out. I decided I wouldn’t ask any questions. She might not even have known I had seen her. Could I confess to spying without coming across as a pervert? All of these questions flickered through my mind as Sasha led me out of the villa and we began to stroll through the streets.

I had been to Venice years before, with a group of students from my university. We’d raced through Italy—not staying in any one place for more than 24 hours. But I still remembered the overwhelming beauty of the Piazza San Marco, the feel of riding beneath the bridges in a vaporetto, the magic that is Venice.

Yet although I was seeing The Floating City again, and listening to Sasha describe the sights, I could not fully focus. She chattered happily at my side, telling me of her past visits, the dinner she’d had at a special restaurant, the flowers she’d bought at a stand. I nodded, as if I were part of the conversation—but every time I looked at her, I saw her over Stefan’s lap. This was my best friend. Why could I not simply say that I’d had trouble sleeping the previous night, that I’d found myself outside her room, and see how she responded?

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