FOURTEEN #2
Her knees quivered, but she shifted on her own, spreading wider, a choice masquerading as surrender.
Her breath came in broken gasps, and somewhere beyond the double-mirror a sound formed.
Oh, she was such a good girl – mine in every filthy thought, even if she didn’t know it yet.
He pressed the plug into her palm, holding it between them like a dagger and a benediction.
A steel gospel about to be written into her arse.
He turned it slowly, showing her, letting the light catch along the steel.
Then he went back, reached into the bag again – lubricant.
I recognised the brand. Expensive. Scentless.
My cock twitched in rage and need.
He knelt before her like a god claiming tithe. One hand braced her thigh open while the other slid the cool plug against her entrance.
She whimpered. Not a protest. A plea.
Filthy angel.
No… No. My angel.
He didn’t say much. Just moved with that same quiet authority, spreading her cheeks with a reverent force firm enough to remind her whom she belonged to. I fantasised about cutting each of those fingers that touched her pebbled skin and fucking her with them.
She shimmered like a promise, open and waiting, twitching at the chill in the air and the weight of his gaze. Exposed. Prepared.
His gaze never wavered. I watched the tension in his shoulders, the angle of his neck – not a single wasted movement. He was focused. Present. A man carving out devotion with every breath.
Leaning in, he whispered something to her. She spread wider.
God, she spread wider.
Then—
His tip pressed deeper inside.
My blood roared in my ears as her mouth dropped open, her spine curved like a bow pulled tight. And she – fucking – took it.
He fed it to her slowly. Torturously. One breath at a time.
He would be slow.
She writhed like a creature falling to pieces. Every plunge made her folds stretch and draw around him, snug and eager.
My breaths staggered, my chest burning as I witnessed the desecration of what was mine. She should be cleansed… any trace of him wiped clean. In hellfire.
He paused. Let her breathe. Let her body remember what it was made for. His hand cupped her hip in a steady, possessive rhythm until her muscles softened, yielding to him.
Then, he sank the final inch in and let it settle.
Buried. Owned.
She shivered as though her last resistance had broken apart.
My nails carved crescents into my palm. I should have looked away. Should have turned and walked out before I made things worse.
But I couldn’t. I saw her first. And here he was, taking what was mine. Soiling it.
Heat drew taut – a venomous psalm pulsing through my veins.
My cock pressed against the zipper like a penitent at a grille, desperate for an absolution I would never be granted.
I moved to let it out just as he cupped her cunt with his other hand – fuck! – just held her there like she was a pulsing little toy wound tight around his hand.
And my Paula was biting the sheets, face flushed, eyes wild with hunger. So ready. So ruinable.
That bastard stood up. Admired his work like a sculptor – as if she were the masterpiece he had broken in.
I broke her! I did!
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to scream or laugh or bite through the mirror.
She… let him.
Let him plug her, own her. She knelt for him.
She was mine.
Mine.
Mine!
And she had gone to him, carrying pieces of me.
‘Breathe through the impulse.’ The good doctor’s dead voice rasped at the edges of my skull. ‘Observe it. Do not become it.’
The mantra pulsed like a heartbeat against my teeth.
Fuck her.
Fuck him.
Fuck. Those. Words.
But I tried.
I really did.
I counted backwards. Five. Four. Three—
Her moan shattered my streak.
It was real. Guttural. Choked with pleasure. Not acted. Not manufactured.
Not meant for me.
Something snapped.
I opened my eyes.
He pressed her face into the mattress, knees parted, that silver gleam still buried in her arse like a goddamn crown.
He was pushing into her pussy from behind, slow and deep, the muscles in his back flexing with every thrust. His grip on her hips was merciless, anchoring her like she was his to wreck.
He was twice the size of her but her body took him anyway.
No protest. Just greed. Surrender.
The click of my belt coming undone sent a tremor through my hands.
I wasn’t watching any more. I was consuming.
The way she folded back into him. The tremble in her thighs. The fucking sounds. She whispered his name – Ghost – with reverence. With need.
My palm tightened around my cock as I watched him yank her up by the neck, roll up his mask slightly, and bite her shoulder. Her eyes rolled.
And she looked…
She looked like she didn’t know if she was crying or coming.
I stroked harder. Every wet slap of his thrusts syncing with the speed of my hand.
The plug shifted inside her with every drive of his hips. Her walls were clenching so tight I could see it.
She let him own her, make her kneel – because she wanted to.
I am in control. I am in control, I reiterated inwardly.
I would remember every single moment of this.
The angle of her mouth. The twitch of her thighs. The way her folds stretched.
With a low curse, I punched the button beside the window. The receptionist’s voice crackled through the speaker.
‘Send me the new girl,’ I said in Italian, then killed the line.
My hand never stopped moving. The switchblade in my pocket hummed restless and hungry. It hadn’t tasted anything in days. It ached for sin.
The woman that slipped in moments later was well in her forties. Bare-legged and smeared in last night’s eyeliner. She locked the door behind her, eyes flicking once to the glass, then to the twitching of my hand.
She dropped without a word. Her mouth claimed my shaft effortlessly. Filthily.
But I wasn’t watching her. I was watching Paula.
The arch of her back. The shudder of her legs with each brutal thrust.
The sound she made – saints and sinners – that sound.
I drank it in.
My hips bucked. The woman choked, gagging wetly around me.
I didn’t even notice it at first – not as the switchblade slipped into my palm, not as my fingers flicked the hinge with muscle memory – not until I felt the hot, crimson spray, consecrate my knuckles.
Her throat split open like a seam unpicked, guided by a higher power.
Blood poured out in ribbons, cleansing her wretched body.
I watched the sacrament unfold, Ghost’s and Scarlett’s murmurs bleeding through the speaker like a congregation in prayer.
Another sinner cleansed. Another soul offered – all thanks to my Paula.
I let the body crumple to the ground, twitching and gurgling, and I looked back at the window.
He was still draped over her, as though she was his to keep.
She wouldn’t be his forever.
I had already built the stage.
And when I took her back, there would be no masks, no words, no name to scream except mine.
Just us.
In the quiet.
With the slowing rhythm of her heart under my hands.
An eternity for only us.