12.
I woke up on Sunday morning to the sound of soft, classical music playing from the invisible speakers in the ceiling.
I stretched, my body aching with a deep, intense soreness that radiated from the very depths of my cunt. I was alone in Richard’s bed. The sheets on his side were cold.
I sat up, the duvet falling away to reveal my naked, bruised body. I felt different. It took a moment to realize why.
The crippling, pervasive anxiety that had defined my existence for the last three years? It was gone.
The constant, grinding panic of unpaid bills? Gone.
Tyler’s incessant, pathetic whining? Gone.
The terrifying threats of the bookies’ goons? Gone, gone, and gone.
All that was left was the cold, hard fact that I belonged to Richard now.
I found the heavy, plush white terrycloth robe draped over a chair, wrapped it tightly around myself, and walked out of the master suite.
Richard was sitting at the dining table, wearing another of his crisp white dress shirts and a pair of dark slacks, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was on a phone call, speaking in a low, rapid-fire tone about zoning permits in downtown LA.
He glanced up as I walked in. He held up a finger, signaling me to wait, and finished his call.
"Good morning," he said, setting the phone down. He looked at me, a critical, appraising look. "Have some coffee. Your appointment is in fifteen minutes."
"An appointment?" I asked, confused, walking over to the kitchen island to pour a cup. "For what? Richard, I don't even have anything to wear outside. My dress..."
"The housekeeper threw the dress down the incinerator chute last night," Richard interrupted smoothly, picking up his tablet. "Along with your cheap purse and those scuffed pumps. You own absolutely nothing right now."
I froze, the coffee pot hovering in my hand. I was literally stripped bare. I couldn't leave this penthouse even if I wanted to.
"That is why," he continued, not looking up from his screen, "your appointment is coming to you."
Exactly fifteen minutes later, the private elevator chimed.
A woman named Katya, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, stepped into the penthouse, followed by two assistants pushing heavy, polished chrome rolling racks loaded with garment bags.
"Good morning, Mr. Davies," Katya said professionally, her eyes barely flicking toward me in my oversized bathrobe.
"Katya. Set up in the living room, please" Richard said, moving to sit on the cream-colored leather sofa. He crossed his legs, a cup of espresso in his hand. He looked at me. "Drop the robe, Sloane."
My heart gave a sudden, nervous flutter. Katya and her assistants were strangers. But I looked into Richard's eyes, and I remembered the rules of my new reality. I belonged to him.
I untied the sash and let the heavy white robe slide off my shoulders, pooling on the hardwood floor. I stood in the middle of the sun-drenched living room, completely naked, my bruised thighs and the faint red marks on my ass fully visible to the styling team.
Katya didn't blink. She stepped forward with a tape measure, working with terrifying, clinical efficiency.
"We need to rebuild from the foundation up," Katya said to Richard as she wrapped the tape around my waist.
"I agree," Richard said, taking a sip of his espresso.
"She is twenty-one. A student. I don’t want her looking like some Beverly Hills housewife playing dress-up for TV.
I want high-end casual. Cashmere sweaters, tailored denim, impeccable coats.
Nothing flashy. No logos. Quality that whispers has no need to scream. "
He paused, his eyes cutting to my bare, shaved pussy, then up to my face. "And the lingerie. Simple. Black or white. No cheap lace. French silk only."
For the next four hours, I was a living mannequin.
Katya pulled garments from the racks. I stood in the center of the room, pulling on clothes that cost more than my tuition.
Soft, buttery cashmere that felt like a hug against my sensitive breasts.
Denim that fit my waist and hips perfectly without needing a belt.
Simple, elegant flats and knee-high leather boots.
Richard sat on the sofa, acting as the ultimate arbiter.
"Turn around," he would tell me and I would spin for him, letting him inspect the fit of a sweater or a pair of slacks.
"Too tight across the chest," he would say to Katya. "It looks cheap. Size up."
Or, "The skirt is good. We’ll take it in three colors."
I was surprisingly grateful that he wasn't turning me into some trophy wife.
He was dressing me like a serious, wealthy, untouchable college student.
He was giving me the air of effortless, old-money elegance.
It was camouflage. Richard was building the perfect, polished exterior to hide the absolute, filthy degradation he demanded of me behind closed doors.
By mid-afternoon, Katya and her team had packed up the empty racks and left, leaving my new, curated wardrobe hung neatly in the massive walk-in closet of the master suite.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across the skyline.
I walked back into the living room, wearing a pair of perfectly tailored dark jeans and a soft, cream-colored cashmere sweater with nothing underneath. Richard was standing by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city, a fresh glass of scotch in his hand.
"Come here," he said quietly.
I stepped up next to him. The view was breathtaking. The city looked like a circuit board of light, a sprawling grid of wealth and power, stretching out to the horizon.
"This is your city now, Sloane," Richard said. "You are not a struggling cheerleader anymore. You are not a girl who worries about tuition or rent."
He turned to face me. His eyes were dark, serious, and completely overpowering. I felt it in my cunt.
"Here is how this is going to work," he said. "You will remain a student. You will finish your degree. You will pack up whatever personal items you have left at that squalid apartment, and you will move in here. My driver will take you.
“From now on, this penthouse is your home. I spend Monday through Thursday at my estate in Calabasas. But I will be here with you, most weekends."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, leather key fob. The Mercedes emblem gleamed in the twilight. He took my hand, placed it in my palm, and closed my fingers tightly over it.
"There is a matte black G-Wagen in parking spot 4A downstairs," he continued. "It is in your name. Your tuition is paid. Your credit cards are paid. You will receive a weekly allowance deposited into your account. You will want for absolutely nothing at all."
I stared at him, my lips parted, my brain struggling to comprehend the sheer magnitude of what he was giving me. He was handing me a life I couldn't even have dreamed of. He was erasing every single struggle I had ever faced.
"And in return?" I asked, although I already knew. He made it very clear last night with his cock in me.
"In return," he said, stepping closer, invading my personal space. He reached out and cupped my jaw, his thumb resting against my bottom lip. "You belong to me."
His grip on my jaw tightened slightly.
"In public, you will be the perfect partner for me," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "You will be polite. Elegant. You will be composed. You will be the envy of every man in the room. You will wear the right clothes, and you will belong there."
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against my cheek, smelling of smoke and peat.
"But behind these doors, Sloane," he whispered. "You will be my whore. My absolute, shameless slut. You will open your legs when I tell you to. You will swallow whatever I put in your mouth. You will endure whatever I demand of you."
He paused, a cruel, wicked smile touching the corner of his lips.
"... and occasionally, you will do it for my friends, while I watch."
Those last words hung in the air between us, brutal and cold, freezing the breath in my lungs.
For his friends.
What the actual fuck?
It was one thing to submit to Richard, to be his whore, his slut. But it was another thing entirely to agree to be passed around his peers—the men I had served bourbon to just a week ago.
My mind flashed back to the booster party. The wandering hands. The arrogant man in the kitchen offering me a thousand dollars for a blowjob. The idea of being handed over to them made my stomach twist.
But as I stared into Richard’s dark, unblinking eyes, my brain snagged on the last three words he had said. While I watch.
I thought about Friday night. I thought about being fucked on the rug, Richard’s massive cock splitting me in half, while Tyler sat in the corner.
I remembered the burning, suffocating shame of knowing my boyfriend was watching me get destroyed.
And more importantly, I remembered the blinding, violent orgasm that shame had triggered.
I had never come so hard in my entire life. Knowing I was being watched, that I was pornography, had hot-wired my nervous system.
The idea of kneeling in a room full of powerful, wealthy men, wearing nothing but my expensive new jewelry, taking their cocks while my husband sat in a leather chair and orchestrated my ruin ...
A hot, liquid rush of pure electric filth shot straight down into my clit and cunt.
It gave a sharp throb.
My nipples, brushing against the impossibly soft, expensive cashmere of my new sweater, tightened into hard, aching peaks.
I’d play the polished, untouchable trophy wife in public, while secretly dripping wet like a desperate animal at the thought of being passed around by his friends and business partners, shared like a piece of meat.
And Richard saw it. He must have expected it. He saw the shock in my eyes melt, saw the rapid rise and fall of my chest beneath my new sweater.
He didn't need to ask if I understood. He already knew.
I looked out at the glittering city. I thought about Tyler, about my cramped apartment, the terrifying chaos of poverty, the men in the parking garage.
And then I looked at the powerful, brilliant, man in front of me, offering me the world in exchange for my absolute and shameless degradation.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't negotiate.
I dropped to my knees, right there in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, ignoring the billion-dollar skyline entirely. I looked up at the man who had bought me, saved me, and stripped away any last lingering shred of my innocence.
"Yes, Richard," I said, my voice clear, steady, and vibrating with total devotion. "I accept."
And I reached for the zipper of his trousers, desperate for a first taste of my new life.