Chapter 55 Antonio
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.
She is my masterpiece.
And what a masterpiece… I slip my hand between her thighs, feeling the tender flesh there.
She took so many cocks, took so much that it’s going to be a while before I can fuck her without causing pain.
She’s going to need rest, she’s going to need comfort.
But that’s okay, I can do that, I can be that.
She’s earned her reward, and I’m more than willing to spend the time now showing her what obedience will grant her.
I circle her clit, playing with the piercing that sits so heavily, buried in the middle of paradise.
I’m going to keep this toy here, it’ll be another treat for her as well as a way to ensure she has little control over her behaviour moving forward.
Once her cunt has recovered I’ll lend her out again, I’ll select a few choice friends, and we can play once more.
This time, I’ll have Grace so well trained she’ll be begging for us to all use her.
I smile, bringing my now wet fingers to my lips and I lick them slowly, savouring the taste as we drive up the long, winding road to the house. When we stop before the grand entrance, the staff are there, waiting.
One man opens the door, his gaze flicking to Grace’s unconscious form.
“Sir, shall I…?” he offers, gesturing to carry her inside.
“No,” I say, the word soft but leaving no room for argument. My voice is a low thrum of finality. “I will take her.”
She is my responsibility.
My prize.
The act of carrying her, of bearing her weight is a rite. It is mine to perform.
I slide my arms under her, one beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. Her head lolls against my shoulder, her breath a warm puff against my neck. A fierce, protective wave washes over me, so intense it steals my breath for a second.
This is more than ownership, this is care. The other side of the coin of absolute control.
I carry her through the vast, silent foyer. The only sounds are the soft click of my shoes on marble, and the whisper of her breath against my suit. The house staff are invisible, as they are trained to be.
Up the sweeping staircase each step is a deliberate, careful movement. I am Hyperion carrying a fallen goddess, a king bearing his most sacred treasure.
My suite is a sanctuary of dark woods and rich fabrics lit by a single, low lamp. I cross the room to the immense, four-poster bed and lay her down with an excruciating gentleness. She sinks into the duvet, her limbs arranging themselves in innocent abandon.
For a long moment I just stand there, watching her. The sight of her here, in my bed where she belongs sends a thrum of pure satisfaction through me.
She is utterly, devastatingly beautiful like this. Her lips are slightly parted, her blonde hair a wild halo around her head.
I should clean her up, I should let her rest.
But I also haven’t come.
She might have sucked my cock, might have found comfort in using it like a pacifier but I did not get my release.
I glance down between her legs, at her bruised cunt. Why shouldn’t I have my fun too? It’s not like I’m going to be able to fuck her for a while anyway, and one more cock now makes no difference.
Suddenly I am painfully hard, my cock aching with a need that goes deeper than mere physical release. I strip off quickly before climbing onto the bed.
The first touch of my bare chest against her skin is an electric shock. A groan is torn from my throat, raw and involuntary. My scarred, ruined skin meets her flawless, smooth flesh. The contrast is brutal. The burnt, twisted flesh of my shoulder and side presses against her perfection.
It should feel wrong, this marred thing against that pristine beauty, but it doesn’t. It feels like truth, it feels like the two halves of my world, the brutal and the beautiful, finally connecting. Her warmth seeps into my deadened nerves, a sensation so foreign and profound it borders on pain.
I shift, my hands sliding around her hips as I nudge her legs further apart with my knee. She murmurs something incoherent in her deep sleep, a soft sound that spears right through me.
I guide myself into her, having more care than any of the men who fucked her earlier.
Another groan, deeper this time rumbles in my chest. She is so wet.
Slick, hot, and used. The remains of the other men, of the cocks I allowed inside her greets me.
The feeling should repulse me. Instead, it ignites a fire in my blood hotter than the one that scarred my flesh.
They played with my toy because I permitted it.
I watched them bring her to peak after peak, but it was my will that took her there.
And now, this… this is mine alone. This is reclamation.
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.