deldeldeldel8
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Feb 15, 2005
- Messages
- 189
- Points
- 28
Tony Soprano had faced a lot of things in his time—FBI wiretaps, assassination attempts, even that time Phil Leotardo had his guys chase him through the streets of Newark like a goddamn animal. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the situation he was in now.
Flat on his back, wrists tied to the bedpost with his own goddamn neckties, ankles locked tight with Carmela’s silk scarf. And his feet—Jesus Christ, his bare feet—completely exposed. Vulnerable.
Carmela stood over him, arms crossed, a wicked glint in her eye. “You gonna talk now, Tony?” she asked, her voice cool, controlled. Too controlled.
Tony gulped. “Baby, come on—”
Wrong answer.
Carmela dragged a perfectly manicured nail up his sole, from the ball of his foot to his heel. Tony’s entire body jolted like she’d hit him with a goddamn stun gun.
“Shit, Carm! What the fuck!?” he bellowed, jerking against the ties.
Carmela just smiled. “Oh, what’s the matter, tough guy? Not so big and bad now, huh?” She traced lazy circles on his instep with her fingertip.
Tony thrashed, his gut shaking, feet kicking uselessly. His wife knew. She knew he was ticklish. Too ticklish. It was one of those things he kept locked away, deep in the vault. The kind of thing a man like him couldn’t afford to have out in the open. But Carmela? She’d known for years. She just never used it.
Until now.
“I swear to Christ, Carm, you gotta stop—”
She didn’t stop. She doubled down.
Both hands now. Fingertips skittering like spiders up and down his soles, across the tender skin of his arches, under his toes. Tony screamed—a full-bellied, high-pitched laugh bursting out of him involuntarily. It was undignified. It was humiliating. He was a boss, for Christ’s sake. A made guy. And here he was, cackling like a little kid.
“STOP! STOP! I’M GONNA FUCKIN’—”
“Oh, now you’re ready to talk?” Carmela smirked, never slowing her attack. “Who is she, Tony? Some Russian *****? Or is it that real estate girl, Julianna? Huh?”
Tony gasped, sucking in desperate breaths between fits of laughter. “Carm, I swear to you, baby, there’s nobody—”
Wrong again.
She grabbed his foot and scratched her nails across the ball of it. Tony let out a strangled squeal, twisting so hard he nearly broke the bed frame.
“OKAY! OKAY!” he wheezed. “VALENTINA! It was Valentina!”
Carmela stopped.
Silence.
Tony’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His wrists burned against the ties. His face was red, sweaty, exhausted. But Carmela? She was ice-cold.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic.”
She untied his wrists, then his ankles, and stepped back. Tony lay there, stunned, watching as she walked to the bedroom door.
She turned back once, eyes full of something that wasn’t quite sadness, wasn’t quite rage. Just disgust.
“Sleep tight, Tony.”
Then she was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Tony Soprano didn’t feel like the king of his castle. He felt like a goddamn clown.
Flat on his back, wrists tied to the bedpost with his own goddamn neckties, ankles locked tight with Carmela’s silk scarf. And his feet—Jesus Christ, his bare feet—completely exposed. Vulnerable.
Carmela stood over him, arms crossed, a wicked glint in her eye. “You gonna talk now, Tony?” she asked, her voice cool, controlled. Too controlled.
Tony gulped. “Baby, come on—”
Wrong answer.
Carmela dragged a perfectly manicured nail up his sole, from the ball of his foot to his heel. Tony’s entire body jolted like she’d hit him with a goddamn stun gun.
“Shit, Carm! What the fuck!?” he bellowed, jerking against the ties.
Carmela just smiled. “Oh, what’s the matter, tough guy? Not so big and bad now, huh?” She traced lazy circles on his instep with her fingertip.
Tony thrashed, his gut shaking, feet kicking uselessly. His wife knew. She knew he was ticklish. Too ticklish. It was one of those things he kept locked away, deep in the vault. The kind of thing a man like him couldn’t afford to have out in the open. But Carmela? She’d known for years. She just never used it.
Until now.
“I swear to Christ, Carm, you gotta stop—”
She didn’t stop. She doubled down.
Both hands now. Fingertips skittering like spiders up and down his soles, across the tender skin of his arches, under his toes. Tony screamed—a full-bellied, high-pitched laugh bursting out of him involuntarily. It was undignified. It was humiliating. He was a boss, for Christ’s sake. A made guy. And here he was, cackling like a little kid.
“STOP! STOP! I’M GONNA FUCKIN’—”
“Oh, now you’re ready to talk?” Carmela smirked, never slowing her attack. “Who is she, Tony? Some Russian *****? Or is it that real estate girl, Julianna? Huh?”
Tony gasped, sucking in desperate breaths between fits of laughter. “Carm, I swear to you, baby, there’s nobody—”
Wrong again.
She grabbed his foot and scratched her nails across the ball of it. Tony let out a strangled squeal, twisting so hard he nearly broke the bed frame.
“OKAY! OKAY!” he wheezed. “VALENTINA! It was Valentina!”
Carmela stopped.
Silence.
Tony’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. His wrists burned against the ties. His face was red, sweaty, exhausted. But Carmela? She was ice-cold.
“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic.”
She untied his wrists, then his ankles, and stepped back. Tony lay there, stunned, watching as she walked to the bedroom door.
She turned back once, eyes full of something that wasn’t quite sadness, wasn’t quite rage. Just disgust.
“Sleep tight, Tony.”
Then she was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Tony Soprano didn’t feel like the king of his castle. He felt like a goddamn clown.
