7. Millie #2
We stay connected for a long moment, both breathing hard. Sweat cooling on our skin. The marble counter is probably covered in our combined fluids, but I can't bring myself to care.
Maxwell finally pulls out. His cum leaks from my pussy onto the expensive marble. He doesn't seem to care either—just lifts me down and carries me to the bathroom.
His master bathroom is ridiculous—massive walk-in shower with multiple shower heads, a steam room, heated floors. He sets me down, turns on the water. Steam fills the space within moments.
We shower together, the hot water sluicing over our bodies. Maxwell washes my hair with expensive shampoo, his touch gentle now. The intimacy of it feels different after the intensity of our argument and sex.
"You can't always fuck me into submission when we argue," I say quietly.
"I don't fuck you into submission. I fuck you because we both need it."
"The control thing... it's still a problem."
His hands move through my hair, rinsing the shampoo. "I know. But I won't apologize for wanting to take care of you."
"There's taking care of someone, and then there's controlling their entire life."
"The line is blurry. For me, they're the same thing."
I turn to face him, water streaming between us. "That's not healthy."
"Probably not. But it's honest."
Later that afternoon, I take an Uber to campus instead of letting Maxwell's driver take me. A small act of independence that feels pathetic even as I do it.
My English Lit class passes in a blur. I'm distracted, mind replaying the morning's argument. The credit card sits heavy in my wallet, a constant reminder.
After class, I decide to buy coffee with my own debit card. Small rebellion. I order a latte at the campus coffee shop, pull out my card.
Transaction declined.
Confused, I try again. Declined.
I check my banking app on my phone. My account balance reads $0.00. There's a transfer out from this morning—all my money moved to a different account.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maxwell.
Your money has been moved to a joint account in both our names. Use the credit card I gave you.
Anger reignites in my chest, hot and fierce. He's literally taken control of my bank account.
I sit in the campus courtyard, staring at my phone. I could march to his office downtown, confront him. But what would that accomplish? He'd just explain it was "for my protection" or some similar rationalization.
I pull out the black credit card from my wallet. It's heavy, premium material that probably costs more than my entire wallet.
Back at the coffee shop, I order again. This time I use Maxwell's card.
The transaction goes through instantly.
The barista's eyes widen when she sees the name on the card. "Graves Industries? Are you related to Maxwell Graves?"
"He's my stepbrother."
"Wow. Must be nice."
I take my coffee and sit outside at one of the metal tables. The afternoon sun is warm, students passing by in groups. Normal college life happening all around me while I use an unlimited credit card.
Is this what I've become? Someone who lives off someone else's money? I'm nineteen. I should be independent, struggling with student loans like everyone else. Instead, I'm using an unlimited credit card and living in a penthouse.
But even as I think it, I know I won't leave. Because Maxwell is right—I do like what he provides. Not just the luxury, but the security. No stress about tuition, no worrying about rent, no anxiety about money. He's removed all those obstacles.
And in doing so, made me dependent on him.
That evening, I return to the penthouse. Maxwell is in his home office, working on his laptop. The room is all dark wood and leather, masculine and expensive like everything else in his life.
I enter, sit in the chair across from his desk. "You took control of my bank account."
Maxwell doesn't look up from his screen. "I consolidated your accounts. It's more efficient."
"It's controlling."
He finally looks at me, setting his laptop aside. "Yes. It is. I won't pretend otherwise."
His honesty is almost refreshing after hours of stewing in anger.
"What if I want out? What if I decide I can't do this?"
"Then you leave. I won't stop you." He leans back in his chair, studies me. "But you'd be leaving everything—the penthouse, the clothes, the financial security."
"That sounds like coercion."
"It's reality. I'm offering you a life most people dream about. But it comes with strings."
"Me being yours."
"Completely. No half measures."
We stare at each other across the desk. The office is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city below.
"I should hate this. I should hate being controlled."
"But you don't."
I shake my head. "No. I don't. And I don't know what that says about me."
Maxwell stands, walks around the desk, pulls me up into his arms. His embrace is warm, solid, possessive.
"It says you trust me. It says you're smart enough to recognize when someone is offering you something valuable."
He kisses my forehead, gentle now. "I'll never hurt you financially. You'll never want for anything. But yes, I want control. I want you dependent on me. I want you to need me."
"I do need you." The admission feels like surrender. "More than I should."
"Good. Because I need you too. In ways that have nothing to do with money."
His arms tighten around me, and I let myself lean into him. Outside the windows, Manhattan glitters with a million lights. Somewhere down there, college students worry about rent and loans and making ends meet.
But I'm not one of them anymore. For better or worse, I'm his now. Completely.