Hook #2
Not just aching in the usual way—throbbing, pulsing, skin pulled tight around the need to break her worse than I already have, to take her further.
I left her there earlier, flushed and ruined, drenched and desperate with no release granted, because I wanted her to remember what happens when she disobeys.
What happens when she thinks she owns her own body, when she forgets that I purchased that right.
I warned her clearly.
I told her not to touch herself, made the rule explicit and she did it anyway.
She reached for me like I was hers to claim.
Like she had the right to touch without permission.
Maybe I should’ve let her have what she wanted—maybe I should’ve fucked her into the mattress until she passed out from the combined pain and pleasure and powerlessness—but that would’ve been mercy, a kindness.
I’m done with mercy.
Mercy is for men who fall in love.
I don’t fall.
I collect things, catalogue them.
Possess them completely.
Break them until they’re remade.
And she—Tahlia—is breaking so beautifully now, fracturing in exactly the ways I’ve orchestrated.
It wasn’t the moans that confirmed it. It wasn’t the way she begged with increasing desperation. It was the moment she looked up at me with eyes wide and glassy and wanted me anyway despite everything.
The moment she pressed her thighs together seeking friction because I wouldn’t give her more stimulation. The moment she whispered, please, like the word might save her from what’s coming.
It didn’t save her.
It never will.
I pass the monitor room again, footsteps echoing on marble.
I don’t stop to review the footage. I’ve already memorised the angles—her on her knees, her mouth parted in supplication, fingers twitching like they’re still begging to be punished for their transgression.
I’ve already carved that moment into my brain with photographic precision.
And yet I still can’t stop seeing it playing on repeat behind my eyes.
I tug at my collar, breath coming faster than it should, because I shouldn’t be this undone by one girl. I’ve owned dozens before her. Trained them. Bent them into silence, obedience, perfection.
She’s different somehow.
She bites back instead of submitting.
She curses me instead of thanking me.
She resists when others would have folded.
And worse—she makes me feel it, makes me vulnerable.
The arousal isn’t clean or simple. It’s not slick and smooth and transactional like it’s supposed to be. It’s filthy. Sick. Obsessive. It scrapes against my ribs like knives dragging and throbs like punishment in my spine.
I want to bite her hard enough to leave permanent marks. Chain her so she can never leave. Mark her until my name is the only sound she knows how to make.
I want to hear her scream for it with genuine need and then beg for more when I’m done.
I stop at my bedroom door, palm pressed flat to the wood, and I know if I open it and go to her now, I’ll lose control completely.
I’ll drag her back in here and make her finish what she started—on her back, crying, ruined on my cock with nowhere else to run and no escape possible.
I wait, forcing discipline because there’s something worse than immediate punishment.
There’s hope and I want her to hope again—just enough to think she’s survived me, that the worst is over.
Before I take her apart all over again tomorrow.
I don’t sleep.
I don’t fucking blink for hours.
I stand at the foot of my bed and let the hours drag themselves across my skin like razors because I don’t know how to be still anymore, haven’t known in years.
Not when she’s still out there in that room.
Not when she’s still aching, soaked, denied what she needs.
Not when I can still taste her desperation in the back of my throat like a drug I didn’t realise I was becoming addicted to.
I should be done with her by now.
That’s how it always works in the past. Take. Break. Move on to the next.
Tahlia is different from the others in ways I’m still cataloguing. Her defiance doesn’t shrink when she’s punished—it festers, evolves, transforms into something more dangerous.
She’s a storm wearing lip gloss and scraped knees, and the more I try to tame her, the more I realise I want her wild. Want her clawing at me. Want her ruined and biting and begging and still trying to run even when she knows it’s pointless.
I pace the room because if I don’t keep moving, I’ll go back there.
To her.
To that room that still smells like shame and sweat and everything I didn’t let her have.
I could watch the footage again on the monitors.
I could rewind to the moment she moaned so loud it broke something fundamental in me.
Or the part where her hand disobeyed her brain and reached for me anyway.
Or the end—when she collapsed onto the sheets like she wasn’t a person anymore. Just a pulse. Just a body. Just a thing I made and broke and withheld release from.
My cock’s still hard, has been for hours.
Still fucking angry with unmet need.
I wrap my hand around it through the fabric, not to stroke, not to soothe—just to feel the rage of it, the weight of control I haven’t yet unleashed. I squeeze until it hurts and press my forehead to the cool wall, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, because this isn’t about release for myself.
It’s about ownership of her and she doesn’t even know the full truth yet.
Not yet, not all of it.
Not the deal that put her in that room.
Not the reason I picked her specifically from all the others.
Not what I’m going to make her do for me, piece by piece, until she forgets what it felt like to be untouched by me.
She thinks I want sex from her.
She thinks I want obedience and submission.
What I want is deeper than that.
Worse than she can imagine.
I want her mind—splintered and shaped until it no longer remembers what life felt like before I carved myself into it, before I became the centre of her universe.
And if she’s going to be mine completely…
She needs to learn what it cost to get her here, what was paid.