“Better than a Botticelli.” Antonio replies.
I shudder as he moves inside me, as it feels like those fingers turn into something harder, bigger and he starts thrusting.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Jareth groans as he starts pistoning back and forth and I realise with horror that it’s not just his fingers, it’s his fist. He’s punching me, punching my insides.
“No.” I sob. I want it to stop. I want this all to stop.
“Ssssh,” Antonio says, dropping to his knees in front of me. “You’ve done so well, Pet. Let Jareth have his fun just like you let all the others.”
I sob harder, becoming inconsolable as it feels like this man obliterates my insides.
Antonio tuts before undoing his belt. “It’s okay.” He murmurs, like this is such a horrible misunderstanding.
He pulls his cock out, and before I can do anything he slides it into my mouth. “Take this.” He says gently. “Suck on this. Comfort yourself with my cock while my friend plays with your cunt.”
I have no choice but to do it. His dick is taking up all the space in my mouth, and in order to breathe I have to focus on suctioning my lips around him.
He tangles his hands in my hair, stroking it, stroking me like I really am a dog.
“Good girl.” He says. “Just suck.”
Jareth continues fucking me, using me, hurting me and then Antonio hits that button again, granting me the mercy I so desperately need. I sink further, I give in and embrace the creature I’ve become, embrace the pleasure I so desperately need in this moment.
The last thing I am aware of is the sound of my own voice, screaming into the void as the pleasure becomes a white-hot pain and then, finally a blissful, welcoming darkness.
I pass out, still suspended in the crimson silk, still screaming.
The city slides past the tinted windows of the Bentley, a river of blurred neon and distant, indifferent lights. In the backseat, cradled by the deep leather, Grace sleeps.
No, not sleeps.
She is passed out, a profound and total surrender that I know she didn’t enter willingly. Her head rests on a pillow I placed there myself, her breathing a soft, even rhythm against the low thrum of the engine.
I shift from the opposite seat to sit beside her, the leather sighing under my weight. The space fills with the scent of her, honey and tuberose. Now underscored by something darker, muskier; the lingering ghost of the club. It is the scent of my victory.
Tonight, I sent a message. No, I did more than that. I silenced all the whispers circulating about her, about me, about how the poor Ratcliffe girl needed rescuing, saving even.
There will be no salvation now.
There will be no grand rescue.
I have sullied her, tarred her, made everyone understand what a perfect little dog I’ve turned her into. She might not have wanted it, she might have resisted a little but in the end, my will overcame hers.
I reach out, my fingers hesitating for a moment before they make contact with her impossibly soft cheek.
Her skin is cool, almost porcelain-smooth. I trace the elegant line of her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear, brushing away a stray strand of hair that clings to her temple. She doesn’t stir. Not a flicker of an eyelid. She is completely, utterly mine in this moment.
A profound sense of possession, warm and heavy, settles in my chest.
“You were perfect, Grace,” I whisper, the words meant for her unconscious ears, a spell woven into the quiet dark. “So perfect. So brave for me.” My thumb strokes the plush curve of her bottom lip. “You took everything we gave you. You shone for them, my beautiful pet, you showed them all how well trained you are and what you can endure for me.”
The memory of the club is a vibrant, thrilling tableau behind my eyes. The hushed anticipation, the eyes, so many eyes watching as I presented her.
They wanted her. Every one of those fuckers wanted my pet.
They saw not a captive but a creature moulded to my will, a testament to my power. They saw that I have tamed what they could only ever dream of breaking. Her performance tonight wasn’t just about pleasure; it was a statement.
A coronation.
