“Perfect,” he says.
He moves to the bar and starts to pour drinks.
“Welcome to my private space.” He hands me a glass of something amber. I can tell it’s whiskey from the smell. “I come here when I need to think.”
Or when you need to remind yourself that you own people, I think but don’t say.
The women on the poles continue to dance. They don’t look at me, too focused on their performance. Melissa is nowhere in sight. She must have slipped out.
“I know what you’ve heard about me,” Marcus says, drinking his own whiskey in one swallow. “That I’m rough with women. That I hurt them.”
I take a long drink to avoid responding.
“What they don’t understand,” he continues, moving closer, “is that I only give them what they need. What they deserve.”
This prick actually believes it. He believes his violence is somehow justified, that the women he hurts deserve it.
I want to stab him in the neck with the broken glass, but I smile and drink more whiskey, letting the alcohol burn away the fear until I’m numb enough to survive.
He refills our glasses, the whiskey burning my throat as I drink, the music pounding through the red room. The women on the poles twist and sway, their bodies glistening in the low light.
Marcus leans back, his hand sliding onto my thigh, fingers creeping high, almost brushing the bare flesh of my cunt beneath the black lace teddy.
The sheer fabric clings to me, revealing everything. My stockings are tight against my legs, and the garters dig into my skin. I grip my whiskey glass, my skin crawling under his touch, but I stay still, refusing to flinch.
His fingers brush my nipple through the lace, pinching lightly. I bite my lip, swallowing any reaction, my mind locked on Ash’s tender touches.
“Fuck, you look good,” Marcus murmurs. His hand returns to my thigh, sliding higher up and squeezing. He turns to the dancers, grinning. “Keep it up, ladies! Show me more!” One woman, brunette and lithe, spins closer, and he beckons her. “Come here, sweetheart. Suck my cock.”
She drops to her knees, crawling to him, and unzips his pants, taking his cock into her mouth.
He groans, hand in her hair, but I look away, catching the two other dancers kissing, their lips locked, hands tugging at each other’s nipples, moans soft under the music.
It’s hot, undeniable, but I refuse to feel it, my heart locked on the cabin, the way Ash, Ghost, and Titan made me feel alive. Wanted, not owned.
Marcus grunts, pushing the woman away and zipping up. “Time to go,” he says, grabbing my arm. I follow him to another elevator, up to the fourth floor, his private wing.
The bedroom door opens to a dark room, lit only by a massive screen on the wall showing the red room. The women are now tangled in a threesome, limbs entwined, mouths and hands everywhere, their moans faint through the speakers.
Marcus locks the door, the click sharp in my ears. “Get on your knees and worship my cock,” he says, voice cold, commanding.
My fingers undo his pants, sliding them down, his cock springing free, nothing like the fullness of Ash, Ghost, or Titan. A blessing that it won’t stretch me to breaking. A curse, because it’s his, a mark of possession I’ll never want.
He steps out of his clothes, and I rise, standing rigid as he pushes me toward the bed. He shoves me onto the sheets, rough hands tearing the lace teddy at the crotch, exposing my pussy.
I close my eyes, refusing to give him my fear, as he climbs over me, thrusting in without warning, his cock filling me but not enough, nowhere near the way they did. I bite my lip, silencing any sound, as he moves hard and fast.
“Fucking tight for me,” he growls, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them wider. “You’re mine now, Bonnie. Gonna fuck you till you know it.”
His words are acid, burning away the warmth of last night’s memories. I picture Ash’s tender kisses, Ghost’s hard cock, Titan’s playful grin.
They touched me with desire, making me feel powerful and alive. Marcus’s roughness is empty, a power trip that leaves me hollow. I keep my eyes shut, clinging to those images, their hands on me instead of his, their voices whispering praise instead of possession.
“You like that, don’t you?” he says, thrusting harder, his breath hot on my neck. “My little club princess, taking my cock.”
I stay silent, jaw clenched, refusing to give him anything. My body rocks under his, the bed creaking, but my mind is elsewhere, back in the cabin.
These bruises won’t be cherished like their marks were, love-bites born of want. These are brands, proof I’m property now.
