3. #2
Madeline’s hands clamped down on my thighs, holding me open, pinning me in place.
She sucked my clit into her mouth and I groaned in response, my hands gripping her ass.
I tried to force my tongue deeper inside her, trying to find her rhythm, trying to push her over the edge.
But it was useless. Madeline was a fortress.
She was working here, chasing a paycheck.
She had no emotional involvement at all.
I, on the other hand, was deep into my feels. I was buried in the heat of my humiliation. I was an exposed live wire ready to burn the house down.
I was getting close. Far too fucking close. I was going to lose.
I tried to pull back, tried to twist my hips away from her relentless mouth, but she held me down.
"Don't you dare stop, Madeline," Arthur urged from the edge of the bed. He was stroking himself. His cock finally achieved something approaching hardness. "Break the little slut."
Those words could have triggered my final plunge over the edge, but I was still fighting.
Until I realized.
I didn't need to win. I didn't need Arthur’s ten thousand dollars. Richard gave me everything I needed. Ten grand to Madeline might be her everything.
Besides, I knew my role. I was supposed to lose. Losing would mean I was exactly what Arthur said I was—a weak, pathetic slut who couldn't control herself.
And right here, right now, my job was to make Arthur a very happy man.
I stopped fighting.
I let my tongue fall limp against Madeline's thighs. I surrendered to the agonizing, brilliant pleasure of her talented mouth.
"Oh god, please!" I shrieked, my voice muffled against her skin, my pussy spasming against her tongue, my spine cracking backward as I bridged off the mattress. My hands clutched her thighs. My entire body shook with the force of my defeat.
And Madeline didn't stop. Not immediately. She kept licking, dragging out the aftershocks until I was whining in pathetic, overstimulated agony.
But then, finally, she pulled her head up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her breathing close to even. She looked almost completely unaffected by what she had just done.
She turned her head and looked up at Arthur.
Arthur was staring down at me, his chest heaving, his cock standing straight up, fully erect and throbbing. The sight of my complete, humiliating surrender had been exactly the catalyst he needed.
"Well done, Madeline," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "The money will be in your account by the time we land. And there’ll be a little extra for your trouble. You did very well."
Madeline climbed off me, adjusting her lingerie. She walked out of the stateroom without a backward glance.
I lay on the bed, chest heaving, face wet with tears and sweat, utterly destroyed.
Arthur stepped up to the edge of the bed. He loomed over me, a dark silhouette against the plush, wood-paneled walls.
"You really are pathetic, aren't you, Sloane?" He sneered softly, reaching down to grab my ankle. He dragged me across the crisp white sheets toward the edge of the bed until my ass hung over the side. "Couldn't even last five minutes, could you? I guess you just love to come for an audience."
I had never come for an audience before. Unless you counted Tyler, which I never did. But thinking back, Arthur was obviously right. I had loved the way Richard turned me into pornography.
"Yes, sir," I sobbed. “I do. I’m such a fucking slut.”
He grinned down at me. “And Richard wouldn’t want you any other way.”
He stepped back from the edge of the bed. The brief surge of arousal that my humiliation had caused was already beginning to wane. His cock, though thicker and more engorged than it had been in the aisle, was softening slightly, losing that rigid, angry perfection it had held moments ago.
He let out a slow, tired exhale and climbed onto the bed, shifting his weight until he was lying flat on his back against the pillows. He looked at me, a dark silhouette against the white linens.
"Come here, Sloane," he said. A man used to absolute obedience.
I pushed myself up, my arms shaking violently. Every muscle in my body ached, a deep, pervasive soreness that radiated from my overused, overstimulated core. I crawled toward him across the expanse of the bed, feeling like a dog crawling to its master.
"Straddle me."
I positioned myself over his hips, my bare knees sinking into the plush mattress on either side of his legs. I hovered above him, looking down at his semi-erect cock resting against his stomach.
"Put it in," he said.
I reached down, my fingers trembling as I grasped his soft, pliant flesh. It felt entirely different from Richard's aggressive, demanding hardness. It required care.
I guided the blunt, slightly weeping head to my soaking, swollen hole and I slowly lowered my hips.
It was a strange, muted sensation. He didn't stretch me, didn't force his way inside. I had to almost swallow him, coax him into my cunt. I sat fully down on him, taking as much of him as I could.
"Work," he said simply.
It was physical labor.
I had to grip him tightly with my pussy, holding him in, while supporting my own weight on my aching thighs. I began a slow, deliberate grind, rolling my hips in tight circles, pressing my clit against his bone with every rotation.
I closed my eyes, focusing entirely on the mechanics of fucking a man his age with a hard half cock. I was a machine, I told myself. I was a fucking slut.
"Good girl," Arthur said, his hands settling lightly on my hips, guiding my movements. His touch was clinical, detached. "Richard has trained you well."
I didn't answer. I just kept grinding, the sweat beading on my forehead and between my breasts.
"Richard is a genius, you know," Arthur continued. "He didn't just buy himself a pretty girl. Anyone with money can do that. He built you into something worth keeping."
"He found a girl who was desperate," Arthur said, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip bone. "And he stripped away every piece of her until there was nothing left but this. A highly trained, perfectly compliant little hole."
Tears pricked my eyes, hot and humiliating. He wasn't insulting me; he was appraising me. He was evaluating Richard's handiwork, and he was impressed.
"Most women would break," Arthur said, his breathing growing slightly heavier as my work began to coax a firmer response from him. "They'd try to maintain some shred of dignity. But not you, Sloane, no. You really don't have any limits at all, do you?"
Yes, I did, I thought. But I couldn’t think of one.
His hands moved from my hips, sliding up my ribs. I thought he was going to caress me, maybe offer a moment of tenderness.
That would be wrong.
I needed him to be rougher with me. Wanted him to treat me like the cheap slut he thought I was.
I arched my back, pushing my heavy breasts toward him, practically begging for it.
His large, age-spotted hands finally obliged.
He cupped and squeezed my breasts, his fingernails digging, marking me.
I cried out, but my rhythm didn't stutter—my hips bucked harder, a wet, desperate heat flooding my pussy as I embraced the pain.
"Don't stop," Arthur said, his voice losing its polished, cultured edge, dropping into a harsh, cruel sexual rasp. He squeezed harder, his thumbs finding my nipples and pinching them with a vicious, bruising force. "Keep working, you little slut."
The pain shot from my breasts straight down to my clit. It was exactly what I needed. A cold, calculated cruelty. He was hurting me because he enjoyed the sound of my pain.
He liked breaking things.
Out of nowhere, I saw that freshman cheerleader, bouncing on the turf, naive and hungry.
Richard wasn't just scouting for a companion for his ageing mentor.
He was shopping for a permanent victim. Looking for a girl who could endure this.
I felt a brief, nauseating flicker of pity for whatever girl eventually took the bait, knowing the absolute hell waiting for her in Arthur's penthouse.
But the pity was quickly eclipsed by my own needs and my own survival instinct. This bastard wasn’t going to break me. I was built for this.
"Yes, sir," I whimpered, gritting my teeth against the pain, feeling his cock slowly, steadily hardening inside me.
My pain was working for him.