Chapter 7 #2
He bottoms out, buried so deep I swear I can feel him everywhere. The position has me pinned, helpless, completely at his mercy. My inner walls flutter around him, trying to adjust to his size.
"Mine. This pussy belongs to me. Say it."
I can barely form words with him stretching me so completely. "Yours, Sir."
"Good girl." He pulls back slowly, letting me feel every ridge and vein as he withdraws. Then he slams back in hard enough to rock my entire body forward.
I cry out, the sound muffled against the sheets.
"You’re falling apart on my cock. Stop performing. Feel."
He's right. I can't perform through this. Can't maintain any illusion of control when he's fucking me like he owns me. Each thrust drives deeper, hits places inside me that Vincent never reached, sends sensation spiraling through my entire body.
The sounds filling the room are obscene. Skin slapping against skin. My broken gasps and whimpers. The wet slide of his cock pounding into me. His breathing, harsh and ragged.
One hand leaves my hip to press against my lower abdomen, right where I can feel him moving inside me. The pressure makes everything more intense. I'm so full I can barely breathe, stretched around him, impaled on his cock while my bound wrists keep me helpless.
"Please—" The word breaks from me before I can stop it.
"Please what?" He doesn't slow down. "Use your words."
"More." The admission costs me everything. "Please, Sir. More."
He doesn't respond with words. Just fucks me harder, faster, the force of him driving me into the mattress.
His cock drags against my inner walls with every stroke, the friction building sensation that climbs higher and higher.
I'm soaked, making the slide easier even as the stretch continues to burn in the best way.
His hand reaches around to find my clit. His fingers circle with brutal precision, adding another layer of sensation I can't escape.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. His cock driving deep, hitting that spot inside me with every thrust. His fingers working my clit with demanding pressure. The rope around my wrists. The blindfold. The burning in my ass from the flogger. My entire world narrows to sensation.
His fingers press harder, circling faster. The pressure inside me builds, tightens, coils into something almost painful in its intensity.
"Now, Simone."
The orgasm detonates through me. My inner walls clamp down on his cock, clenching in rhythmic pulses that I can't control.
Pleasure floods every nerve, whiting out thought, stealing breath.
I'm dimly aware that I'm crying out, that my whole body is shaking, that I'm coming harder than I ever have in my life.
And he doesn't stop. Just keeps fucking me through it, prolonging every spasm, dragging out the pleasure until I'm whimpering and boneless beneath him.
"Feel yourself squeezing my cock? This is real."
I can't respond. Can't do anything except feel. The aftershocks rippling through me. His cock still moving inside me, harder now, chasing his own release. The overstimulation that borders on too much but somehow isn't.
"Fuck—" His rhythm stutters. Both hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as he buries himself deep one final time.
I feel him come. The hot pulse of his release flooding inside me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. He groans low and rough, his cock throbbing as he empties himself.
The sensation of him filling me—skin to skin, nothing between us—makes me shudder. Marking. Claiming. Making me his.
We stay locked together for a long moment, both breathing hard. I can feel him still inside me, softening slightly but not pulling out. His body heat against my back. The weight of his hands on my hips, gentling now but still possessive.
"Don't move."
He withdraws slowly, and I feel the immediate shift—empty, aching, and then the hot slide of his release starting to leak out of me. My face burns with the intimacy of it.
"Fuck." His voice is rough, satisfied. "Look at that. Dripping with my cum. Mine."
One hand spreads across my lower back, holding me in position while he watches. The possessiveness in the gesture makes me shudder.
Then I hear him move—water running, a drawer opening and closing. He's back moments later, warm wet cloth in hand, cleaning me with efficient thoroughness. No wasted movement. Just taking care of what's his.
He works methodically—cleaning between my thighs, wiping away the evidence of what we did, his fingers occasionally brushing over sensitized flesh that makes me jerk.
"Easy. Almost done."
The rope around my wrists loosens. His fingers work the knots with practiced efficiency, unwinding the column tie he created. Blood rushes back into my hands, bringing pins and needles that make me flex my fingers.
"Arms forward." He guides my hands in front of me, those strong hands massaging my wrists where the rope left faint red marks. "Numbness?"
"No, Sir." My voice is wrecked, barely more than a whisper.
He continues massaging, working circulation back into my hands with the same tactical precision he brought to everything else. His thumbs press into my palms, then up each finger. The simple touch grounds me, brings me back into my body after floating somewhere else entirely.
The blindfold comes off last. I blink against the low lighting, my eyes adjusting slowly. Luc's face comes into focus—serious, assessing, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Sweat gleams on his skin. His dark hair is disheveled. He looks as wrecked as I feel.
"How are you feeling?"
The question isn't soft. It's tactical assessment. He wants to know if I'm okay with what just happened, with how thoroughly he dominated me, with the way I surrendered. With the way he made me feel things I've spent years pretending I didn't need.
"I'm..." I search for words that feel true instead of performative. "I'm shaken. But good. Really good."
"Shaken how?"
"I've never..." I trail off, unsure how to explain what just happened. "That wasn't like anything I've done before."
"Because you actually submitted instead of performing it." He helps me sit up, wrapping a soft blanket around my shoulders. "Your body knows the difference even if your mind is still catching up."
He's right. My body feels used in the best possible way—satisfied and claimed and utterly wrung out. But my mind is reeling, trying to reconcile the woman who walked into this room with the one who just came apart on Luc's cock.
"Drink this." He hands me a bottle of water.
I drink, grateful for the hydration and the moment to process.
Luc settles beside me on the bed, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not crowding me.
The care in the gesture catches me off guard.
Vincent always left after scenes, treating aftercare as a checkbox rather than actual connection.
"Talk to me," Luc says. "What's going through your head right now?"
"I don't know how to go back." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "To performing. To pretending that's enough."
"Then don't." His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. "You can choose something different."
"What if I can't? What if I try to submit like that again and it doesn't work? What if this was just—"
"It wasn't." He cuts me off. "You finally let go long enough to feel it. Now you know the difference. Can't pretend you don't."
His phone buzzes on the small table beside the bed. He glances at the screen, frowns.
"Margot." He answers. "What's wrong?"
I watch his expression shift from concern to something harder. Tactical.
"How long ago?" A pause. "Still active?" Another pause. "Don't touch it. I want the signal traced before we pull it. Get Andy on the phone."
He ends the call and turns to me. "Get dressed. We need to move."
"What happened?"
"Margot's tech team detected an active transmission coming from this room." His voice is flat, tactical. All business now. "Hidden camera. Still transmitting. They're tracing the signal now."
Cold dread washes over me. Someone was watching. The entire time. Everything we just did—
"They saw—" I can't finish the sentence.
"They saw what we wanted them to see." Luc's already moving, retrieving my clothes from where they were discarded. "You submitting to me. Me claiming you. Proof that you're under my protection now."
He helps me dress—the micro-mini, the corset, his hands efficient despite the urgency. I'm still shaky from the scene, my mind struggling to shift from the intimacy of what just happened to the reality of surveillance.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yes." I force steadiness into my voice, into my legs. "I'm fine."
"Good." He pulls on his own shirt, fastens his leather pants. "Stay close to me. We're going straight to the operations center."
The hallway outside is quiet. Other members moving between rooms, lost in their own scenes, oblivious to the hunt happening around them. Luc keeps me tucked against his side, one hand on my lower back, guiding me through the club with the same confidence he showed in the private room.
Margot meets us at the entrance to the third-floor operations center. Her expression is grim.
"We're tracing the signal now," she says without preamble. "Tech team's working on the exact location. Andy's standing by to move once we have coordinates."
"How long between the afternoon sweep and when we entered the room?" Luc's voice is deadly calm.
"Maybe three hours. The room was clear at four when my team finished. You entered just after seven."
"Who knew which room we'd be using?" The question comes out sharp.
Margot's jaw tightens. "Me. You. The booking system logged it under my admin credentials when I made the reservation this morning. And..."
"And?" Luc presses.
"The attendant who prepared the room. She's been with us for over a year, fully vetted, but she would have known which space to set up."