I sink into her, burying myself to the hilt in her welcoming, stretched warmth. I collapse onto her, my face buried in the curve of her neck as I inhale the mingled scents of her perfume, her sweat and the faint, musky scent of sex that is not entirely mine. The feeling is overwhelming.
The slide of my damaged skin against her softness, the tight, wet heat clasping around me, the absolute vulnerability of her unconscious form beneath me almost makes me come undone.
“My good girl,” I whisper into her skin, my voice a ragged thing. My hips begin to move with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “My perfect, beautiful girl. You took them so well. You took every single one of them for me, didn’t you? You let them use you because your Master wished it.”
It’s not quite true, I know that. I know my pet had to be forced, had to take all those cocks whether she wanted it or not but as I shut my eyes I can hear her moans, I can hear the way she screamed as I demanded one orgasm after another.
Whore. My perfect whore.
I rock into her, each slow, deep stroke a claim staked deeper than the last. The silk sheets whisper beneath us. Her body, pliant and warm, accepts every inch of me, and the passivity is its own kind of ecstasy.
She is mine to move, to use, to worship in this dark, possessive way.
“You love this one the most, don’t you, Grace?” I murmur, my lips moving against her ear. “You know who this is. You know this is your master’s cock. Your body knows.”
The praise falls from my lips like a prayer but the fervour is turning, twisting into something darker, more desperate. The slow, claiming rhythm isn’t enough. The beast I keep chained is rattling its links. The sight of the faint fingerprints on her hips, the memory of other hands on her fuels a jealousy that is irrational because I commanded it all, yet it consumes me nonetheless.
My thrusts become sharper, harder. The gentle rocking evolves into a driving, possessive pounding. The growl that has been building in my chest finally breaks free, and I become rabid.
“Mine,” I snarl the word into the shell of her ear, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, surely leaving new marks over the old ones. “Do you hear me? You are mine. My creature, my whore. Everything you are, everything you feel is because of me.”
I am losing myself.
The control I pride myself on is vaporizing in the heat of this raw need.
My eyes squeeze shut, the world narrowing to the feeling of her soft body beneath mine, the sound of our skin slapping together. The wet, slick sounds of my cock plunging into her well-used cunt.
The images of the night flash behind my eyelids; her bound, her begging, her coming on a stranger’s cock and it only drives me harder, faster, deeper.
I am claiming not just her body, but every sensation imprinted on it tonight. I am overwriting them all with me. Only me.
My hands grip her tighter, one arm banding across her torso, holding her locked against me as I piston into her. I am an animal atop its prize, blind to everything but the need to possess, to mark, to own.
The climax hits me like a seizure; a violent, unstoppable wave that crashes through me with the force of a freight train. A raw, guttural shout is ripped from my throat as I empty myself into her, my body convulsing, my fingers pressing bruises into her skin.
I collapse fully on top of her, my face buried in her hair, my harsh panting the only sound in the room. The scent of us-- of sex, sweat, and my own desperate possession fills my lungs.
I stay there for a long time, spent, listening to her steady, untroubled breathing. Slowly, reality seeps back in.
With a final deep breath, I push myself up. I slide out of her, and the loss of connection feels profound. I look down at her, at the new bruises already purpling on her hips, at the way my release leaks from her. The sight still stirs something primal in me but now, the duty returns.
I move to the adjoining bathroom, a cavernous space of black marble and polished nickel. I turn on the taps, and steaming water begins to gush into the sunken tub. I select some oils, lavender and chamomile, and pour them under the stream. The air thickens with the scent, a clean, herbal fragrance that begins to erase the last vestiges of the club.
I return to her, lifting her again, and carry her to the bath. The water is the perfect temperature, clouded and fragrant. I lower her in one limb at a time, supporting her head until she is sufficiently submerged, cradled by the warm, scented water.
She lets out a tiny unconscious sigh, a sound of pure comfort that sends a jolt to my cock.
I start with her shoulders, running a sponge over the delicate slope of them. I wash away the sweat, the scent of other people’s gazes, the memory of their hands, where I allowed them to touch.
I’m methodical, reverent. I cleanse her arms, her hands, paying careful attention to each slender finger.
I trace the path of the sponge over the swell of her breasts, down the roundness of her stomach. I am an archaeologist cleansing a priceless artifact, revealing the pure form beneath the grime of the world.
There are faint marks on her skin, and a slight redness at her wrists where silken cords held her. Along with a bloom of bruises on her hip, a souvenir from where I held her. I press my lips to each one, a silent apology and a claim all at once.
Mine. I did this. I allowed this, and I will make it better.
Turning her gently I wash her back, the long, elegant line of her spine. She is so fragile, this beautiful pet of mine.
