“I want your cock,” I moan, reaching up to tug on my nipple piercings. “I need you to fuck me open and show me who owns me.”
I ride the dildo like it’s the only thing keeping me sane—deep and relentless, rolling my hips so my thighs quiver. I let myself get lost in it, imagining it’s his cock filling me, stretching me open, fucking me the way he used to when he couldn’t hold back anymore.
When I come, it’s sharp and messy, a guttural cry torn from my throat, raw and soaked in memories I can’t outrun. My muscles seize around the toy, wetness flooding my thighs. My hair sticks to my temples, my chest heaving.
I collapse onto my back and look back into the camera, dazed and flushed, tears shining in my lashes.
BegForMe:Fuck.
BegForMe:You’re my perfect little whore.
The words hit the screen like a slap, and my pulse stutters, quickening without permission. I hesitate, hovering over the keyboard, my fingers twitching as if they might obey a command I haven’t given. The cursor blinks at me, a heartbeat stretched into eternity.
BegForMe:Don’t forget who you belong to.
And then the screen goes dark.
Private session:Ended.
I lean back, letting the quiet wash over me, tasting the thrill of his need for control, the sharp edge of his composure cracking just enough for me to savour it. He thinks he’s the one holding the reins, but he doesn't realise that the game has just shifted. I’m not done with him yet. Not by a long shot.
And he sure as hell isn’t done with me.
Chapter 9
Waking up after a stream never gets less sore.
My hips are tight, my thighs ache in that delicious way that reminds me of what I did last night, how I pushed my body to its limits and then some. I stretch in my oversized king bed, silk sheets cool against my heated skin, and blindly fumble for my phone.
Seeing I still have plenty of time before my first class, I close my eyes for a beat, the shadows of last night flickering like sparks behind my lids. The way he watched me. His messages—restrained and raw all at once—like he couldn’t help himself.
Soon,BegForMewill be the one begging. He’s exactly where I want him—tangled in my web.
And still… some days I wonder if revenge will ever dull the ache he left buried in me.
I’d wanted him to stand by me that day in Jonathan’s penthouse, with everyone looking at me like I was my mother’s daughter, I needed him to fight for me.For us. Maybe I was as foolish as Jen always said, thinking he’d burn down the world before letting them cast me out.
Instead, he couldn’t even look at me as he stood there and that silence has been screaming in my head ever since. Being exiled from my home stung, but that betrayal… that betrayal cut deeper than anything else. After everything we’d shared, every night spent voicing secrets and fears, every scar we’d stitched together, the fact that he could so easily believe the worst of me twisted my stomach into a knot of fire and ice. My chest ached with the memory of his eyes—not seeing me, not trusting me—and I felt hollow, like a part of me had been pried out and left to bleed in the dark.
And yet, even now, when I think of him, my body betrays me. Heat blossoms across my skin, my pulse drumming so loud it feels like it might echo in the room. For one fragile, desperate heartbeat, I crave the curve of his arms around me, the familiar weight, the way he made me feel whole, like I belonged somewhere in the world.
It’s humiliating—humiliating and electric—how I still want the man who clearly never loved me more than his duty. My fingers clench, my jaw tightens, and I want to curse the way my body remembers him, remembers everything we once had.
I force out a shaky sigh, pressing my palms against my thighs as if to contain the chaos inside me. I shove the thought aside, burying the longing under a veneer of control. There’s no room for that softness anymore—not for me, not for anyone. Not even him.
I shower, blow out my hair, and decide to go full glam—heavy base, smudged liner, a soft gold sheen across my lids. I curl some lazy waves through my hair and spritz on Maison Francis Kurkdjian’s Baccarat Rouge before turning my attention to my wardrobe.
Today calls for that vintage Miu Miu slip dress I found in a little-known vintage shop last week, paired with white slingbacks and a cropped jacket to soften the effect. One look in the mirror and I snap a few pics and blow myself a kiss before shouldering my bag and heading out.
The hallway smells of old parquet floors and the neighbour’s cigarettes. On the stairs, an elderly man struggles with his shopping bags. I pause to help carry them down before heading to my local coffee shop, where the barista already has my iced oat latte ready before I even speak.
“Merci, chéri,” I say, flashing him a smile, before slipping back into the bustling streets, weaving past a flower stand spilling with dahlias and peonies.
The walk to the university is so ingrained it’s practically muscle memory. I could do it in stilettos, blackout drunk, hell, I have. My body moves before my brain catches up, legs carrying me forward while my mind loops back to him.
My thoughts snag on the same vicious cycle—the games, the secrecy, pretending we don’t know exactly who’s on the other end. Whether humiliating him, bleeding him dry, will ever dull the ache that twists through my chest. Some nights, I wonder if I’m only tying myself closer to him, not breaking free, if every orgasm on camera is another link in the chain binding me to the man I’m supposed to despise.
I imagine his fiancée. Does she know he’s addicted to his stepsister in lace and stilettos? That he pays thousands to watchas I twist my piercings and bite my lip, eyes half-closed, as if I could come just from thinking about him? The thought makes my stomach tighten, hot and hollow at once.
