He doesn’t use his hands. He leans forward, his massive, hot weight pressing against my chest, pinning me to the floor of the cage. I feel the blunt, brutal head of his cock—hot, dry, and unforgiving—pressing against my entrance.
“Please,” I try to moan behind the tape, but it comes out as a wet, muffled whimper.
He drives in.
He doesn’t go slow. He lunges with a sudden, violent force, his cock tearing through the raw, sensitive tissue Viktor already ruined. I am a mess of trauma and chemicals, my body buckling under the impact,my head hitting the gold bars with a dull, hollow thud.
“God, she is tight,” the man gasps into my neck, his teeth grazing the brand on my shoulder.
He begins to pump, a frantic, jagged rhythm that sends the cage swinging on its cable. Above us, the LED screen continues to broadcast the violation to the entire room. I am a live-streamed nightmare, my pussy milking him in a desperate, drugged-out reflex while a hundred men in masks watch my destruction in 4K.
The bidding terminals start to scream. The numbers turn a violent, flickering gold.
$45,000,000… $50,000,000… $60,000,000…
I am being sold while I am being used, the sounds of the digital auction mixing with the wet, rhythmic slaps of his skin against mine. I am disappearing. I am becoming nothing but a ghost in a gold cage.
The man in the porcelain mask isn’t just taking a sample; he is trying to hollow me out. His fingers, encased in black lambskin, shove into my mouth over the silver tape, pulling my jaw down so far it feels like it will hinge off. He’s a manic, twitching shadow, his breath coming in jagged, wet rattles that spray against the side of my face.
“Fuck,” he snarls, the word a guttural explosion of lust. “Fuck, you’re perfect. I’m going to double the bid. I’m going to buy you and keep you in a box under my bed so I can wake up and do this every fucking sunrise.”
He hits me again, a deep, pelvic-shattering lunge that makes the gold cage groan on its chain. The heroin is a thick, velvet shroud, but it can’t hide the sensation of him. He feels like a hot lead pipe being driven intomy guts. My internal walls are raw, shredded from Viktor’s cruelty, and this new intruder is salt in the wound. I feel the blood—fresh, hot, and slick—pooling in the base of the cage, soaking into the white velvet floor until I’m kneeling in a red swamp of my own making.
Peter.The name is a flickering candle in a hurricane. I try to scream it, my throat working until the tendons in my neck stand out like cables. My voice is trapped behind the duct tape, turning into a pathetic, animalistic grunting.
Look at me, Peter. Look at what they’re doing. Please… just kill me. Don’t save me. Kill me.
The man’s hands move with a crazed, obsessed energy. He reaches up and grabs the gold bars of the cage above my head, using them as leverage to drive himself deeper, harder, his cock hitting my cervix with the force of a hammer. He’s a maniac, his porcelain mask tilted at a terrifying angle as he stares down at the blood and the black silk.
“You’re clenching so hard,” he rasps, his voice breaking with a sick, high-pitched glee. “Are you trying to hold me inside? Do you want me to stay? I think I will. I’ll weld this cage shut and keep you for myself. To hell with the auction. You’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever broken.”
He lets go of the bars and reaches for my throat, his gloved thumbs pressing into my windpipe. He isn’t trying to kill me—not yet—he’s just choking me to feel the pulse of my terror. My vision starts to vignette, the red spotlights of the ballroom turning into dark, pulsing stars. I can see the bidders on the floor, their chrome masksreflecting my splayed, violated body like a thousand shattered mirrors.
I’m cumming.
It’s a disgusting, violent surge of electricity that rips through the drug haze. My pussy spasms around his thick, invading length, milking him with a frantic, rhythmic intensity that makes me want to vomit. It’s the ultimate betrayal—my body finding a jagged peak in the middle of a massacre.
“Yes!” the man screams, his voice echoing off the rafters. “Squeeze me, you fucking whore! Show them how the Queen takes a real master!”
He delivers three final, punishing thrusts, his body locking up as he slams himself to the hilt. I feel the hot, invasive flood of his release—a thick, burning tide that fills me to the brim, mixing with the blood and the silk. He collapses over me, his heavy, sweaty chest crushing my lungs, the porcelain of his mask cold against my cheek.
He stays there, gasping, his heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“I’m keeping you,” he whispers into the tape over my mouth. “I don’t care what the price is. You’re mine now.”
He slowly withdraws, the sound wet and horrific in the sudden, expectant silence of the ballroom. He stands up, his suit rumpled, his mask smeared with my blood. He looks at the bidding screen, which is now flashing a chaotic, blinding gold.
$75,000,000.
He turns to Viktor, his hand trembling as he points at my shivering, broken form. “Close the bidding. Now. I’ll pay double that to end itright here.”
Viktor steps into the light, his eyes gleaming with a dark, satisfied greed. He looks at me, then at the man. “The auction is a sacred contract, my friend. But for a hundred million… I think we can make an exception.”
I lie there on the red-soaked velvet, my legs still locked in the gold stirrups, my mind a fractured mosaic of amber and pain. I am a sold commodity. A hundred-million-dollar ghost. And Peter is nowhere to be found.
Wendy
The world is tilting. The floor isn’t flat; it’s a sliding, marble sea, and I am a piece of driftwood being tossed in the wake of a shark.
