CHAPTER 6
HARLEY
Waking up feels like dragging myself through mud.
My eyes don’t open all at once—they fight it, like even my body knows I’m not going to like what I see.
And when I finally do manage to blink them open…
Red.
Everything is red.
Soft, dim lighting washes over the room, bleeding into the walls, the sheets, the ceiling. It’s not harsh like the auction lights. It’s low.
Almost… intimate.
My head throbs as memory starts piecing itself together. The party, the drinks, the skull mask, the stage, the bidding, ten million dollars.
My stomach twists.
And then—
The car. Getting drugged again.
“Great,” I mutter hoarsely
“Fucking great.”
My voice sounds rough.
I shift slightly—and immediately regret it.
Pain sparks in my wrists.
I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my arms.
Metal glints under the red light. Handcuffs, and they are attached to the headboard of the bed.
My pulse spikes instantly.
“What the fuck—”
I tug instinctively, but it’s useless.
Panic flares, hot and sharp in my chest.
Okay. Okay. Think.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out.
Then I notice something else. I’m not wearing the outfit anymore. No silk. No heels. No choker. Just an oversized shirt—soft, loose, slipping slightly off one shoulder—and a pair of underwear.
My stomach tightens again.
How long was I out? Did someone—
I stop the thought before it can finish.
No.
I don’t feel… different. Sore, yes. Disoriented. But not—
I swallow hard.
God, I hope not.
My gaze drifts down my body, taking in the way the shirt hangs off me.
And before I can stop myself—
A thought slips in.
I looked good in that outfit.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. That’s… fucked up. Right? Out of everything that’s happened, that’s what my brain decides to focus on? But it’s true. I did. And a smaller, quieter thought follows right after—
I hope he liked it.
The realization makes my stomach flip.
I don’t even know who he is.
And yet—
The door opens. I flinch instinctively, my eyes snapping toward it.
And there he is. Same as before. Dressed in the same total black outfit.
Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, veins faintly visible under his skin.
The skull mask still covers his face, glowing faintly under the low light.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then he steps inside and closes the door behind him. The click echoes too loudly in the room.
My chest tightens. He walks toward me slowly. He reaches the bed and leans down slightly, grabbing something from the side. Keys. Of course.
His hand comes up suddenly, gripping my jaw, forcing my face toward his.
“Don’t be stupid,” he says quietly.
Before I can react, he unlocks one cuff.
My left hand drops free. Then the right. The metal clinks softly as he sets the cuffs aside.
Freedom. But not really.
Not when he’s still standing there, watching me like that.
He drops the keys onto the bedside table.
Then, without a word, he drags a stool into the center of the room and sits. Spreads his legs slightly.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at me.
Then—
“Strip.”
“…what?”
He doesn’t repeat himself.
The silence stretches just enough to make it clear—
He’s not joking.
I hesitate. Of course I do.
Because what the hell is happening? Because I don’t know him. Because I shouldn’t just—
But then reality settles in again.
He bought me, which means he owns me now. And I have to do everything he asks me to.
So I slowly start to undress myself. The shirt slides off easily, pooling at my waist before I push it the rest of the way down. My skin prickles under his gaze. I can feel it.
My fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear. I pause for a second.
“Do I—” I hesitate, my voice lower now.
“Do I have to take these off too?”
“Yes.”
The fabric slides down my legs. And suddenly—
I’m completely naked. Exposed. Right in front of this masked stranger. Who now owns me.
“Get on the bed,” he says.
I hesitate for half a second. Then I move. Climb back onto the mattress, my pulse pounding in my ears.
My chest tightens. Because I know what will happen next.
This man owned me in all the ways you can think of. Except one. And now he’s about to change that as well. And after this moment I’ll fully belong to him.
The red light bleeds across the walls like a slow wound, turning everything the color of dried roses.
The air smells like leather and something sharper—whiskey, maybe, or the metallic tang of the cuffs still biting into my wrists.
I’m flat on my back on the bed, the black silk sheets slick beneath my skin, cool where my sweat hasn’t soaked through yet.
My chest rises and falls too fast, my cock already half-hard just from the way he’s looking at me.
His mask is still on. When he was taking the cuffs off, he was so close, I was able to see the color of his eyes.
Those gray eyes—complete opposite of my hazel ones, and colder, like steel left in the snow—track down my body like he’s deciding where to start carving.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. His weight shifts as he crawls up the bed, the muscles in his arms flexing under the tight black sleeves of his shirt.
The mattress dips under him, the headboard creaking when he straddles my chest. His thighs bracket my ribs, heavy, unyielding.
The heat of him seeps through my skin. I can feel the ridge of his cock through his pants, thick and impatient, pressing against my sternum.
My pulse jumps when his fingers find the button of his slacks.
The zipper hisses down. No rush. Just the slow, deliberate reveal of what he’s packing—what I’m about to choke on.
His dick springs free, already flushed dark at the tip, the vein along the underside throbbing.
Precum glistens in the red light, a silver bead welling at the slit.
My mouth waters. I lick my lips, and his cock jerks in response, like it’s hungry for attention.
My attention. His fingers tangle in my hair, yanking just enough to tilt my head back. The angle forces my throat open.
“Tongue out,” he orders, voice rough as gravel.
I obey.
The first touch of him is salty-sweet, the precum slick on my tongue.
I lap at the crown, swirling around the ridge, and his breath hitches.
His grip tightens. The sound he makes—low, guttural—vibrates through his chest, down into mine.
I hollow my cheeks, taking more of him in, but he’s too thick.
My jaw aches almost immediately. I gag when the head hits the back of my throat, tears pricking my eyes.
He doesn’t let up. Just holds me there, watching my struggle with something like pride.
“That’s it, Angel” he murmurs, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
“Take what you can.”
I try. Really, I do. But he’s too much—too wide, too heavy.
My lips stretch obscenely around him, spit dripping down my chin. I pull back, gasping, and his cock slaps wetly against my tongue. The sound is filthy. Degrading. My dick twitches, leaking against my stomach. He notices. Of course he does.
One hand stays tangled in my hair, guiding me back to his cock.
The other reaches for the nightstand. The lube bottle makes a wet, squelching sound when he squeezes it.
Cool gel drips onto my shaft, and then his fingers are there, slick and sure, stroking me in slow, maddening pulls.
My hips jerk up into his touch, but he pins me down with his thighs, keeping me still.
“Greedy little slut,” he observes, thumbing over my slit.
“Already dripping for me.”
I whimper around his cock. The dual sensations—his dick filling my mouth, his fingers working me—are too much. My balls draw up tight, the orgasm coiling low in my gut. But just as I’m about to tip over, his grip shifts. His fingers loosens. The rhythm stutters. Denied.
“Not yet,” he growls.
I groan in frustration, the vibration making his cock twitch. He rewards me by thrusting deeper, hitting the back of my throat again. My gag is loud, wet. His fingers find my hole, circling the tight muscle with lube-slick pressure.
“Relax,” he commands, but it’s not a request. It’s an order. That I’m more than happy to follow.
I try. I really fucking try. But he’s pushing in before I’m ready, one finger breaching me with a sharp, burning stretch.
My body resists, clenching around him. He doesn’t stop.
Just works it in deeper, twisting, scissoring.
The lube eases the way, but it’s still too much.
My nails dig into the silk sheets. A second finger joins the first, stretching me wider.
The burn is white-hot, but beneath it, there’s something else—something dark and hungry, unfurling low in my belly.
“Fuck,” I hiss around his cock, the word muffled.
“Please… Daddy… it’s too much… I can’t…”
“Daddy? So you are a whore after all. And don’t worry, I know I’m too big for you to take me whole, but I know you can do it baby.”
He chuckles, low and dark.
“But you’ll take it. Do you want to make Daddy feel good? I know you do, baby.”
I can’t say it with words, because my mouth is busy with his cock, so I just nod in agreement with what he says.
His fingers crook inside me, pressing against that spot that makes my vision blur.
My cock leaks, a steady drip of precum painting my abs.
He notices. Always notices. His free hand abandons my shaft, reaching for the lube again.
The squelch of the bottle is obscene. Then his fingers are gone, leaving me empty, aching.
The sound of him stroking lube over his cock is a wet, rhythmic slap.
The condom wrapper tears. He rolls it on with practiced ease, the latex gleaming in the red light. My pulse spikes. I know what’s coming.
My hole clenches in anticipation, still sore from his fingers. He lines himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me. No warning. No mercy. Just the slow, inexorable push inside.
I cry out. The stretch is brutal, my body fighting him even as my cock weeps. He doesn’t stop. Just sinks in, inch by agonizing inch, until his hips press flush against my ass. His breath is ragged, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, Angel” he grunts.
“Your pussy is so tight.”
I can’t answer. Can’t do anything but breathe through the burn, my body adjusting to the intrusion.
He gives me a moment—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts in again.
This time, it’s easier. The pain bleeds into something else, something darker, heavier.
Pleasure curls in my gut, twisted up with the ache.
His rhythm starts slow, deliberate. Each thrust drags against that spot inside me, sending sparks up my spine.
My cock is rock-hard, leaking, desperate.
But he ignores it. Focuses on fucking me, on making me take every inch.
The headboard slams against the wall with each snap of his hips. The sound is violent.
Then his hand is around my throat.
Not tight enough to cut off air. Just enough to remind me who’s in control. Who owns me. Who I belong to. His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the way it jumps beneath his touch. His other hand grips my hip, fingers sinking into the muscle.
“You’re mine,” he snarls, thrusting harder. The words are a growl, a promise.
“Say it, Angel.”
I choke on the command, my voice raw.
“Yours.”
“Louder.”
“Yours!” The word tears out of me, desperate. Needy.
His fingers tighten around my throat. My vision spots at the edges. The lack of air makes my cock throb, my balls drawn up tight. I’m so close. So fucking close. But he knows. He always knows.
He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty, gasping.
My hole clenches around nothing, aching.
Before I can protest, he’s flipping me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up.
The position forces my ass into the air, my face pressed into the sheets.
His hand cracks across my ass cheek, the sting sharp and sudden.
“On your knees,” he orders.
I scramble to obey, my limbs unsteady. The moment I’m kneeling, he’s behind me, his cock pressing against my hole again. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ease in. Just slams home in one brutal thrust. I scream, the sound muffled against the silk. His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back.
“Who do you belong to?” he demands, his voice a dark velvet rasp.
“You,” I gasp.
“Fuck, I belong to you—”
His other hand grips my chin, forcing my mouth open. Then he’s spitting into it, the warm, slick heat of his saliva dripping down my tongue. I swallow automatically, my cock twitching.
“Dirty whore,” he praises, his hips snapping against my ass.
“Tell me how much you love my cock.”
“I love it,” I moan, my voice breaking.
“Love your fucking cock, Daddy, please, I can’t anymore—”
He fucks me harder, his balls slapping against me with each thrust. The sound is wet, obscene. His fingers dig into my hips, bruising. I can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in my gut. My cock is leaking, desperate for release. But he won’t let me. Not yet.
His rhythm stutters. His breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps.
Then he’s pulling out, his cock slipping free with a wet pop.
His hands shove me down, forcing me onto my knees, my ass still in the air.
The first rope of cum hits my cheek, hot and thick.
Another lands on my lips, dripping down my chin.
I stick out my tongue, catching the rest of it.
His cock twitches, painting my face with the last of it. His thumb smudges cum across my bottom lip, pushing it into my mouth.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, his voice rough with satisfaction.
Then I look down and see that I also came as this man’s cum was painting my face.
Then he’s stepping back. The bed shifts as he moves away. The click of his zipper. The whisper of fabric. The door opens, then closes with a quiet, final thud.
I stay there, kneeling in the mess we left behind, my cock still hard, still aching. The cum on my face is drying, tight and sticky. My hole throbs.
Some guy in a mask with a huge cock just fucked me, which was the best sex in my life, and just left. I truly feel like a whore right now.
Because, I mean, he paid to own me. So, technically, he wasn’t wrong when he called me that. And if I'm being totally honest, I loved it, and would let him call me that again.
Because this was the most mind-blowing, life-changing moment of my life.
And I’ve never felt so fucking alive.
Now, the only thing I need to know is who is hiding behind the mask?