The Yellow Dress

Thank you to everyone who has helped with this story, there have been quite a few. DeathAndTaxes and Always_Yes have both looked over early drafts for me, their feedback has been invaluable. Extra special thanks goes to North200 for his patient and skillful editing. You should go and check out their work, its excellent.

Thank you for taking the time to read, feed back is most welcome.

Karaline

***

"It really suits you," Gerry tells beth emphatically.

"It's not my colour," says Beth, shaking her head.

"It is so your colour."

"I feel like a walking banana."

"Oh shut up. It looks amazing on you."

The dress is more of a primrose yellow than banana and however much Beth protests it really does suit her, but it is much brighter than she would normally wear. With its wide skirt, pinched waist and halterneck, it's beautiful, and a steal in the Selfrdge's sale. Gerry think it looks better on Beth than it does on her, she still has to convince Beth though. Usually Beth chooses to wear much more muted colours; greens browns blacks. Not yellow, never yellow.

The two women are in Rome on a weekend city break at Gerry's insistence. Beth can't really afford it but they are celebrating Gerry's new job. She has a teaching position in Bristol so she will be leaving the university and Beth has just completed her MA in Art History.

Gerry doesn't work in the art history department, she teaches sociology, but they had formed an unlikely bond, over a broken microwave. Where Gerry is loud, confident and charismatic, Beth is quiet, introverted and understated, but they have a similar sense of humour. With no way of heating their food, they had gone out for lunch and ended up drinking an inappropriate amount of red wine. Luckily for Beth she didn't have any meetings or classes after lunch. The same couldn't be said for Gerry.

And now here they are, in Rome. Beth has always wanted to come. She has a sneaking suspicion that's the real reason Gerry insisted, although she claimed she'd always wanted to see Rome too.

On their first night, they had found a quiet little restaurant, the food was simple but nice. The waiter was cute and it hadn't been too pricey.

This evening they want to have some serious fun. There is a drag bar in the old quarter of the city, according to last night's waiter. First they have to catch some museums and galleries, because if everything goes to plan they will both be sporting serious hangovers in the morning.

*

An hour later and they are waiting in line for the Palazzo Altemps to open and Beth has given into Gerry's nonstop pestering and is wearing The Dress. The sky is clear and blue and although the sunlight hasn't yet made it into the square directly, the day is already shaping up to be a scorcher. It is good that they got here early; there is already a queue of people waiting.

At first Beth feels a little self conscious, she is sure people are staring at her dress, but she soon forgets to notice. She has no idea what kind of trouble that dress is about to get her into.

A small van pulls up. The line of people turn at the sound of its screeching brakes. Three men tumble out, all armed with guns. Everyone gapes as the men scan the queue. No one has time to react, even if they were to consider facing down a group of armed men. Which most of them wouldn't.

Of course they go for Beth. In her sharply contrasting summer dress she stands out like a like a single dandelion in the middle of a patch of grass.

As they drag her backwards towards the van, the last thing she remembers is seeing Gerry's terrified face and then something strong smelling and acrid covers her mouth. She tries not to breath it in, but she doesn't last long. Fear has the upper hand and her instincts are telling her to breath through it. As she inhales, wooziness takes over and all the colour seeps away until everything is black.

*

He hears gravel crunch and there are his men, bundling an unconscious body out of the van and in through the front door. It's a woman. Good. She is wearing yellow. Other than that all he can see is a tangle of tanned limbs and a mass of black hair. He goes downstairs and meets them as they carry her in through the front door. There is a man at each end; one has her arms, the other her legs.

"She is Italian?" he demands as soon as they are through the door. He'd sent them for a German or a British tourist.

"No boss, she is English, we heard her accent."

He looks the group over with narrowed eyes, but he doesn't speak.

"Shall we put her in the basement boss?"

Something gives him pause.

"No," he says, after a moment. "Put her in that room." He points across the hall.

Marco and Giovanni both stand, watching him, waiting for further explanation. They are supposed to be taking her down to the basement.

"Go now."

They do as they're told but when they think he isn't looking they share glances. He ignores them. When they're gone he slips into the room and studies her. She is still unconscious, sprawled out on the bed. Her skin is smooth and flawless. She's not his type, he prefers blondes.

He takes a step closer.

His eyes keep travelling back to a thin strip of white lace peeking out from beneath her dress. It contrasts strongly with both the yellow fabric of her dress and the olive tones of her skin. It's brilliant white -almost virginal - and he can't stop staring at it.

As he leaves he closes the door behind him and locks it. He can't think clearly. He needs to get away from from her and the effect she is having on him.

Why did he tell them to put her in the bedroom? She was supposed to go down to the basement when she arrived. He'd get them to move her. They would return to the original idea; keep her here over night as planned and then take her out to the forest near Calcata in the morning and finish her there.

He emerges from the bathroom to find the house deserted. He calls out, but there is silence. For a moment he is at a loss and then he remembers the match. Juventus are playing Roma. They'll be in the bar on the corner.

He could just leave her until they got back, get them to move her again. But it would be better to move her before she regains consciousness. He will have to do it. Once she is secure in the basement he can join the others. A cold beer would be most welcome. Swallowing, he goes back into the room.

*

When she comes to, she is on a bed, in a room she doesn't recognise. She gets to her feet. Her is head spinning and she feels queasy. Ignoring the urge to sink back down, she staggers to the door.

Locked. Another surge of nausea.

She looks around. There is another door. She rushes over and almost falls through it. On the other side there is a small bathroom. She reaches the toilet just in time. Her vomit is bitter. It has the unfamiliar taste of chemicals.

She gets to her feet more carefully this time. She still feels light headed but at least the nausea has gone. The small room is still empty, the door still closed. She walks back over to the bed and sinks down on the edge. She can see The Basilica from the window; it is a distance away, but it is there. It is comforting to know that she is still close enough to Rome to be able to see it.

She can't remember how she ended up in this room but she has a very bad feeling. And where is Gerry?

*

She is awake. He halts midstep and studies her.

Her eyes, now that he can see them, are a most unusual colour. He steps forward, she shrinks back and he feels a frisson of arousal. They are light brown, lighter than he's ever seen, almost yellow in fact and ringed in green. They are too big for her face.

A feral hunger stirs inside him. He wants her. Badly. She has the look of a trapped animal; casting him in the role of the predator. She has worked out that this situation isn't good, and she is right.

He barks an order at her. "Stand up."

She blinks a few times, the doe-like eyes grow wider and even more apprehensive. She doesn't speak any Italian then. This is hard to believe, considering her colouring, but he tells her again, only in English this time. She is trembling, but slowly she gets to her feet. He can feel himself starting to get hard. He needs to get her out of here, before he does something stupid.

*

It is all coming back to her now, the guns, the van, the horrified looks on everyone's faces outside the gallery before they dragged her away. Before they drugged her.

"Non capisco, non capisco." It's one of the few Italian phrases she has learned. She is sure he is new, not one of the men from the square. They were younger. He oozes authority. She is sure she would have remembered him.

"Up." He says in reply.

It takes her a moment to work out what he wants, for her fogged, petrified brain to process the word, but she finally stands and straight away he grabs her. His fingers dig into her arm as pulls her from the room.

This is it, he's going to kill me now.

She feels oddly peaceful about it, all things considered, there is no way to escape; his grip is too strong. She just has to let this happen.

After dragging her stumbling down a flight of wide stairs, they come to some narrower ones. He opens an old warped, wooden door and flings her into a small, damp smelling room. There are no windows and it's cold, but before she gets a decent look around, the door slams shut and everything descends into darkness.

She explores the room with her hands. Beneath her feet is dirt. The walls are made of stone. The air feels damp and cold. Is this some sort of dungeon? In the corner, up against the wall there is a rough wooden table, it's dusty and she feels what must be a vice at one end, heavy and metallic. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she finds the nuts that bolt it to the bench. She tries to undo them, but she cannot. Her fingers smell of rust.

With nowhere to sit or lie she spends as long as possible leaning against the wall opposite the door waiting for it to open, but eventually she sinks to the ground; still groggy from the drugs they've given her, she drifts, not quite awake, not quite asleep.

*

Salvo goes into the kitchen and shuts the door. He wants her. He shouldn't but he does. He should leave, he should go to the bar and find the others.

He gets the Fernet Branca down from the shelf above the fridge and pours himself a healthy slug and downs it in one. He stands up, and, running a hand through his hair, he paces back and forth in the kitchen. He sits back down and pours himself another drink. What else can he do? She's seen their faces now.

Another few slugs of the Branca and before he knows it, he is doing what he said he wouldn't do. He is going to find her. It doesn't matter what he does. She is going to be dead soon anyway. He will fuck her, he will get her out of his system and then let his men deal with her.

*

It seems like hours have passed when Beth is startled awake. The door hits the inside wall with a wallop as it opens. She blinks a few times. The light from the stairway is dazzlingly bright, even with him almost filling the door frame. Shielding her eyes, she scrambles awkwardly to her feet. It is hard, she is stiff and cold but she feels less vulnerable standing. Somehow, even though she can't see his face, she knows it's him, but as he stalks towards her, something is off about him.

The penny drops as he gets closer. That's not brandy she can smell but it is a spirit of some sort. It's more bitter than brandy. It reminds her of absinthe, but sweeter.

She hasn't quite made it to her feet when he grunts another order. Again, she doesn't catch it.

"Huh?"

"Up," he says once again and, digging his fingers into her upper arm hard enough that it hurts, he lifts her to her feet.

He releases her and, with his arms braced on either side of her head, he studies her. His stare is unfocused and he is frowning as though he's forgotten why he is there.

She ducks under his arm and makes a dash for the door, but his reactions are quicker than she expects, given his apparent state of inebriation. He grabs before she has even manages to pass him. He swings her back to her place, slamming her against the wall.

Slowly, he reaches up with a large calloused hand and, grabbing her by the throat, he pins her to the wall. His grip tightens until she almost can't breathe. He moves closer. His jaw is clenched, his brow is furrowed into a scowl and despite the poor light, his steely grey eyes are terrifying. She can feel his breath against her skin. The stench of the alcohol he has drunk is all-pervading and, for a moment, they only watch each other.

He loosens his grip, her feet make better contact with the ground and she can breathe properly again. He's still watching her, but the fury in his eyes is retreating. It's being replaced by arousal.

Finally what's about to happen dawns, and the tears begin to fall at the inevitability of it all.

They don't need a common language for a transaction as old as this.

Leaning forward, he runs his tongue up her cheek and licks the tears away. The urge to reach up and wipe her face is almost overwhelming. It repulses her knowing it's not her tears but his saliva that's making her face damp, but she is too scared to move. He is caging her with his arms, watching her. Waiting to see what she will do, daring her to defy him. Her skin itches as it dries. but she doesn't give in to the urge to wipe it away. She doesn't dare give him an excuse for retribution.

Suddenly he grips her jaw and presses his lips against hers. The kiss that follows is not tender, it's not affectionate. It's rough and aggressive. He is taking what he wants. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops and he laughs for the first time. The sound is like smooth steel cutting through silk and it sends a shiver down Beth's spine.

With a single sharp yank, Beth's pants are gone and she is naked beneath her dress.

He rests two of his fingers against her lips. Before she has time to resist him, he forces them into her mouth. The invasion shocks her and for a fleeting moment she has no idea why he would do such a thing.

Until reason dawns on her. He removes them again and slips his hand between them and under the dress. He curls around her pelvic bone and slides his wet fingers into her. He is plunging them in and out, pinning her hips against the wall, rubbing the heel of his hand against her pubis, against her clitoris. She tries to move away but she can't, he is pinning her in place.

Withdrawing his fingers, he spins her around and his hands encircle her waist. When a trail of gentle kisses begins across her exposed back, her knees turn to jelly and a confusing war of emotion and sensation kicks off in her mind.

She tries to turn around so she is facing him again, to escape from this onslaught of pleasure, but his grip on her waist tightens and she feels rather than hears the accompanying growl. So instead, she presses her hands against the wall and, bracing herself, she pushes back, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he grabs both wrists and holds her hands against the wall.

As he grinds his hips against hers she is awash with fear and terror, but even so the slow heat of arousal is quietly creeping up inside her. Something about being pinned against a wall by this man is messing with her mind in ways that are wholly unexpected.

She struggles harder still, and he laughs again. He braces her legs to the wall with his own so she can't kick and changes his hands so he is holding both her wrists with only one. She hears the click of his belt unbuckling, then the zip. It seems to take forever as she waits for the next stage.

Her head swims with the panic and she's crying unabashedly now, desperately sobbing.

"stop, please stop" she says, between shuddering breaths.

He releases her wrists and, although she lowers her arms a little, she continues to hold them over her head as she leans against the wall. There doesn't seem to be another suitable place to put them just now and she isn't going anywhere. He thrusts into her in one strong fluid movement while, with his other hand, he presses her against the cool stone by her throat.

She bites her lip , suppressing a cry in the nick of time. Thank goodness he can't see her face. Her head is spinning and she is quaking with terror but also trying to ignore the increasing feeling of need building in her. He pulls almost all the way out. Torturously slowly he pushes back into her, he is big, but thankfully the time he has taken to ensure she is lubricated means it doesn't hurt. She feels light headed, so she tries to breath more deeply.

He presses his chest into her back as he fills her with a grunt. The force of his thrusts lifts her onto her toes again. At the same time he slides a hand around her front and, finding her clitoris, he brushes it back and forth roughly. She squirms involuntarily at the unexpectedly pleasurable sensation.

Regardless of her fear, her body is reacting to him.

"Try to relax. It will be easier on you."

He is speaking through gritted teeth. His accent is thick, and he is still thrusting in and out of her, so it takes her a while to process the words. It doesn't make any sense: he is raping her and yet he is trying to make it less painful.

After a while he withdraws again and smoothly spins her around to face him. Lifting her, his hands beneath her thighs, he wraps her legs around his hips, and he's inside her again. When he has her where he wants her, he begins to move and she clings to him as he walks them across the small space and lowers her onto to the wooden work bench.

The bench smells of rust, and there is sawdust everywhere but none of that matters. What matters is he is inside her, filling her. His fingers are digging into her thighs as he grips her hips and thrusts into her. She hears him grunt every time he bottoms out. The thrusts get faster, more frenetic, less rhythmic. He reaches for the clitoris again; she grabs his wrist and tries to pull his hands away. It doesn't work, he doesn't budge an inch. He just scowls and her and his expression gives her reason to pause. Releasing his wrist and taking a breath, Beth turns her face towards the wall and squeezes her eyes shut.

Immediately he stills and says something she doesn't understand. When she just squeezes her eyes tighter he grabs her roughly by the jaw, turning her face back towards him. He says it again louder and her eyes fly open. His face is so much closer than she expects and his eyes are flashing like steel. She swallows but her mouth is so dry it hurts. He starts to move. Watching all the while as he does. Her eyes begin to fall closed again.

"Non." It's a growl.

She gets the message this time:

eyes on me

-there is no escaping to some hidden little mental world.

After a moment he seems to relax again. "Good girl."

She's still crying, but not sobbing uncontrollably anymore. It's more of a steady stream of silent tears pouring down her cheeks. Her body has lubricated itself against him. This thing is just happening. It isn't painful. It isn't that unpleasant if she tries not to think about it, except she isn't allowed to close her eyes.

He is facing the door so she gets a proper look at him. He is stocky, with a presence that makes him seem all together taller than he is. He's wearing a dark coloured t-shirt that has seen better days, it has an Everlast logo across the front. His hair is cropped very close to his head. As he fucks her, the steely grey eyes watch her as though he can see in to her soul, read every one of her dreams and fears. The contrast of the thick dark eyebrows and lashes and his mediterranean complexion make them even more striking. There is a few days of growth on his face and a scar dissects his right eyebrow, lending him an even more intimidating look.