When she is clean, I spread her legs. She is swollen, red, and glistening. Her cunt is a complete and utter mess, and I can see all the evidence of those men leaking out.
“One more, Dumpling,” I tell her, my voice husky with my own need. “I want one more orgasm, and I want you to push all their come out for me. I want to see my pet give back what does not belong to her.”
I lower my head between her legs. The smell is potent, a mix of her and them. I worship her pussy with my tongue, licking and sucking with a reverent focus on her swollen clit.
She is so sensitive that she cries out immediately, her hands tangling in my hair.
“I can’t, Master, please it hurts so much…” her voice is a broken, hoarse whisper.
I don’t stop. I am relentless, my tongue a precise instrument of both torture and adoration.
I feel her body begin to tighten, the telltale flutter deep inside her that signals the approach of another cataclysm. Her hips buck against my face but I hold her down, my hands splayed across her soft belly, pinning her to the bench.
“Push it out, Grace,” I command, my voice muffled against her flesh. “Show me you’re empty of them. Show me you only keep my come in you.”
A guttural cry is torn from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy and strain. Her back arches off the leather, her muscles seizing as the orgasm rips through her with a violence that seems to surprise even her.
As she shatters, as she screams my name to the ceiling, I feel it; a warm, slick gush of their combined release, spilling out of her and onto my tongue and chin.
I drink it down. I take every last drop of it, the final, most profound act of reclamation.
This is the proof of her surrender.
The evidence of my absolute ownership.
She is giving back what is not hers to keep; she is making herself clean for me and only me, through the very act of her climax.
She collapses, sobbing, her body wracked with aftershocks.
I rise up over her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and look down at my masterpiece.
Her eyes are glazed, her lips parted as she struggles for air. She is utterly spent, completely broken, and more beautiful than I have ever seen her.
“Sleep now.” I murmur. She has earned it. She has earned a week in bed for this, a week of every imaginable treat, every imaginable reward.
The first thing I become aware of is the pain.
It’s a dull, throbbing symphony of an ache that plays across my entire body. My ribs protest with a sharp twinge as I draw a shallow breath. My thighs feel heavy and bruised, and there’s a mosaic of purples and blues I don’t need to see to know is there. A deep, internal soreness echoes the violation, a ghost of the hands and bodies that claimed me last night.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to push the memories back but they flood in, vivid and cruel.
The laughter, the rough texture of unwanted hands against my skin, the weight, the smell of cigars, and Antonio’s dark, approving eyes watching it all.
I am now lying so willingly in his bed.
The realization is a second, colder wave of pain. The sheets are impossibly soft and the mattress cradles my broken body, a cloud designed to soothe and seduce. The pillow beneath my cheek is a gentle conspirator, urging me to sink back into oblivion.
Part of me wants to. Desperately.
If I keep my eyes closed, I can pretend. I can exist in this hazy, pain-filled limbo where the only reality is the softness of the bed and the distant hum of a mansion waking up.
I can be a pampered pet, oblivious to the world and not a prisoner in the bed of the man who orchestrated her parents’ demise and death. The alternative of opening my eyes, facing the gilded bars of this cage, acknowledging the fresh, raw horror of my existence feels like too monumental a task.
My soul is too tired, too battered.
Reality is a cliff face, and I am clinging by my fingernails.
But then the other voice whispers, a thin, sharp blade cutting through the seductive fog.
