Wendy
The room is a cavern of opulence and suffocating heat, smelling of expensive sandalwood, old money, and the sharp, chemical tang of the white powder that has become my only sun.
I’m on my knees. My skin is raw against the deep pile of the Persian rug, the intricate silk patterns biting into my shins.
I am entirely, jarringly naked—a discarded thing in a room full of priceless artefacts.
Felix doesn’t believe in clothes for his pets; he says silk and lace are just barriers between him and his property.
He wants to see the way my skin flushes when he looks at me, the way my muscles quiver when I try to hold still.
Felix sits in the high-backed velvet armchair, the golden light of the fireplace dancing in his dark, predatory eyes. He looks like a king, and I am the hound at his feet.
On the silver tray balanced on the arm of his chair sits a plate of thick-cut, honey-glazed bacon. The smell is intoxicating, making my stomach cramp with a hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with survival.
He picks up a strip with his fingers, the grease glistening. He doesn’t offer it to me. He holds it just out of reach, high above my head. I have to arch my back, straining my neck, my breasts heavy and sensitive in the cool air of the room.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice a wrecked, thinned-out rasp.
“Please what, my little widow?” He smiles, and it’s a terrifying thing. He reaches out with his free hand, his fingers dipping into the small crystal bowl on the side table. He brings a pinch of the white dust to my nose. “Take your medicine first.”
I lean in, desperate, inhaling the bitter, numbing sting of the cocaine.
It hits my system like a lightning strike, my heart rate exploding into a frantic, jagged rhythm.
The world sharpens until the fire is too bright and the shadows are too deep.
My skin feels like it’s vibrating, every nerve ending screaming for a touch I’m terrified to receive.
He drops the bacon. I catch it in my mouth like an animal, the salt and honey exploding on my tongue. It’s shameful. It’s delicious. I chew, my eyes rolling back as the drug and the food war for control of my senses.
“That’s a good girl,” Felix whispers.
While I’m still swallowing, his hand slides down. His fingers are cold against my heated skin, moving with agonising slowness over my stomach, down between my thighs. I’m already slick, a traitorous reaction to the constant, high-wire tension of this house.
He finds me, his thumb circling, a brutal, expert pressure that makes my breath hitch.
“Moan for me,” he commands, his voice hardening. “Show me how much you like being fed.”
I let out a low, broken sound—a mix of a sob and a gasp—as he slides two fingers inside me.
He’s not gentle. He knows exactly how to make the pleasure feel like a punishment.
I’m leaning against his knee, my forehead pressed against the expensive fabric of his trousers, shivering as the cocaine makes every stroke of his hand feel like a goddamn forest fire.
“Eat another,” he says, holding up a second piece of bacon.
I open my mouth, gasping for air, the salt of the meat and the wetness between my legs blurring into one sensory overload. I’m moaning into his palm, my hips bucking instinctively against his hand while I chew, the degradation of it settling into my bones like lead.
“You’re worth every cent, Wendy,” he breathes, his hand moving faster now, his fingers stretching me, claiming me. “Your husband is a ghost. This room is your world now. My hand, my floor, my white dust. You don’t need anything else, do you?”
I can’t answer. I’m lost in the white noise of the high, the firelight licking at my bare skin, and the crushing weight of the man who bought my life. I’m drowning in luxury and filth, and for a terrifying, drugged-out second, I can’t even remember why I’m waiting for the door to burst open.
Felix’s hand tangles in my hair, his knuckles dragging across my scalp as he wrenches my head back.
The world tilts, the ceiling murals spinning in a blur of gold and shadow, and then I’m being hauled upward.
My knees scrape the silk rug before I’m hoisted onto his lap, my bare thighs straddling his charcoal-grey trousers.
I can feel him through the fabric—thick, rigid, and unrelenting. He’s already hard, a solid bar of heat pressed against my aching core.
“Move for me, Wendy,” he commands, his voice dropping into a guttural rasp that vibrates through my chest. “Grind. Let me feel how much that powder has opened you up.”
I’m sobbing, the tears hot and blurring my vision, but the cocaine is a frantic conductor in my blood.
My heart is a trapped bird, and my body—this traitorous, drug-soaked cage—obeys.
I shift my weight, my hips rolling in a slow, agonising circle.
The friction of his expensive suit against my sensitive skin is a jagged spark.
I let out a broken, high-pitched whimper, my fingers digging into the velvet upholstery of the chair until my nails catch in the weave.
“No… please, Felix…” I gasp, the words catching on a sob.
“Hush,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up my spine to the nape of my neck, forcing my face close to his. “You say no, but your body is screaming something else entirely.”
He reaches for his fly, the metallic zip sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He frees himself, and the sight of him—dark and pulsing—makes my stomach do a slow, nauseous flip.
He doesn’t go inside me. Not yet. He teases the head of his cock against the slit of my pussy, dragging it upward, smearing my own slickness across my belly.
He waits. He watches the way my pupils blow out until the green of my eyes is almost gone.
Then, he grabs my hips, his fingers bruising the bone, and slams me down.
The impact is total. He fills me so completely it feels like my ribs are stretching, a blunt, heavy invasion that forces a jagged scream from my throat. I collapse against his chest, my breath coming in short, panicked hitches.
“Again,” he growls.
He forces me to lift, the vacuum of his exit making me whimper, and then he slams me down again. He does it with a rhythmic, punishing brutality until he lets out a low, ragged moan, his head falling back against the velvet.
“You’re a fucking siren,” he breathes, his eyes closed.
He reaches back to the side table, his movements lazy and arrogant. He takes a generous heap of the white powder between his thumb and forefinger and rubs it directly onto his bottom lip, staining the dark skin with a stark, chemical frost.
“Lick it off,” he says, his eyes snapping open, burning with a feverish intensity. “Every grain, Wendy. If you miss a bit, I’ll start over. And I don’t think your heart can take another round of starting over.”
I lean forward, my hair draping over his shoulders like a shroud.
My tongue is numb, my mouth dry, but I begin to lick.
The bitterness is sharp, an electric sting that travels straight to my brain.
I’m sliding up and down on him, the rhythmic wet sliding of our bodies the only sound in the room besides my broken sobs.
I’m crying into his mouth, the salt of my tears mixing with the bitter cocaine. I’m a mess of fluids and fear, my hips working instinctively even as my mind screams for an end. I slide up, the air hitting me, and then I sink back down, taking him all the way, feeling him pulse deep inside me.
“No,” I whisper against his lips, my voice a thinned-out thread of reality. “Please… no more.”
“You don’t get to say no to me,” he murmurs, his hands locking onto my waist, picking up the pace until the chair is creaking under us. “You’re the widow who forgot how to mourn. You’re my little addict now.”
I’m lost. The fire is a roar in my ears, the drug is a white-hot sun in my skull, and the man beneath me is the only thing keeping me from floating away into the dark.
I sink my teeth into my lip to keep from screaming his name, the room dissolving into a haze of gold and white and the crushing weight of my own ruin.
Felix doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let me breathe.
He stands, hoisting my dead weight up with a grunt of effort, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as the cocaine-fuelled tremors rack my thighs.
He marches toward the massive mahogany desk in the centre of the room, the surface cluttered with crystal decanters and leather-bound ledgers that cost more than a human life.
He drops me onto the cold, polished wood. The chill of the mahogany is a shock against my flushed, sweaty skin. He flips me over with a rough shove, my chest pressing into the hard surface, my cheek sliding against a cool brass paperweight.
“Look at you,” he pants, his hands roaming over the curves of my backside, his palms stinging as they slap against my skin. “Glistening like a prize.”
He grabs my hair, winding it around his fist and pulling until my back arches, my spine a taut bow.
I’m sobbing, my forehead pressed against the desk, the white dust still coating my tongue and making my throat feel like it’s closing.
Then, I feel the blunt, hot head of him pressing against me again.
He doesn’t slam home this time. He’s cruel. He slides in an inch—just enough to stretch the entrance, to make me gasp—and then he stops.
“Felix… please,” I moan, the sound muffled by the wood.
“Shh,” he whispers, leaning over me, his chest hot against my back. He slides in another inch. Slow. Methodical. It’s a torturous invasion, every ridge of him felt in agonising detail. “I want you to feel every second of this. I want you to remember who owns your breath.”