He takes her

Chapter 7

The Breaking Point

Marc had intended to ask her about the wrist implants, about what happened to older women, about whether she ever thought about escape. But as Kitten knelt there on the bed, her bra discarded, her full breasts exposed and nipples already tightening under his gaze, he found his mouth had gone dry and his thoughts scattered like leaves in a windstorm.

"Sir," she whispered, and the word had never sounded so filthy, so loaded with promise. "You're so tense. Let me help you relax."

She slid off the bed and crawled across the carpet toward him, her movements liquid and practiced. Marc told himself he should stop her, that he should stand up, walk away, maintain the moral high ground that had defined his entire life. But his body betrayed him, remaining rooted to the chair as she positioned herself between his knees.

"Just let me take care of you," she cooed, her hands moving to his thighs. "That's all I want. That's all I've ever wanted."

Her fingers found his belt buckle, and still he didn't stop her. The leather hissed as she pulled it free, then worked on the button and zipper of his trousers. When she freed his cock, already hard and straining against his underwear, she let out a small gasp of delight that sounded completely genuine.

"Oh, sir," she breathed, looking up at him with those wide, worshipful eyes. "You're so big. I've been thinking about this since you walked in."

Marc's last coherent thought was that he was going to hell. And then her mouth closed around him, hot and wet and impossibly skilled, and he stopped thinking entirely.

Kitten worked him with her tongue and throat in ways that Caroline had never attempted, ways that seemed designed to destroy his resistance completely. She moaned around his shaft, the vibrations traveling straight to his spine, and he found his hands moving of their own accord, burying themselves in her dark hair.

"That's it," he heard himself say, and his voice sounded different—rougher, crueler. "Take it all."

She responded to his words with renewed enthusiasm, taking him deeper, her nose pressing against his abdomen. When she pulled back to catch her breath, strings of saliva connected her lips to his cock, and she looked up at him with something like adoration.

"Use me, sir," she begged. "Please. I've been so good. I've waited so long."

Something snapped inside him then—a lifetime of Canadian politeness, of egalitarian values, of seeing women as equals rather than possessions. The animal that Chad Maxwell's America had awakened in him roared to life, and he found himself standing, pulling her up by her hair, shoving her face-down onto the bed.

"Is this what you want?" he growled, tearing her panties down her legs. The lace ripped easily, exposing her glistening pussy, already soaked with her arousal. "You want to be used like a fucking toy?"

"Yes," she gasped, arching her back to present herself to him. "Please, sir. Use me like a ****. I'm yours. I exist for your pleasure."

The words should have horrified him. Instead, they drove him into a frenzy. He mounted her roughly, not bothering with pretense or gentleness, and drove himself into her in one brutal thrust. Kitten screamed into the mattress, not in pain but in ecstatic triumph, and pushed back against him.

"Thank you, sir," she sobbed as he began to pound into her. "Thank you for using me. Thank you for fucking your ****."

Marc had never been this person before. He had always been careful, considerate, asking permission at every step. Now he found himself grabbing her hips hard enough to leave bruises, pulling her hair to arch her neck back, spanking her ass until it glowed red. And with every act of degradation, she only grew more wild beneath him, her pussy clenching around him, her cries growing more ****.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, the words coming from somewhere primal and dark.

"You, sir," she wailed. "Only you. I'm your ****, your fucktoy, your property."

"Damn right you are."

He flipped her over without pulling out, wanting to see her face as he used her. Her mascara had run down her cheeks in black streaks, her lips were swollen and red, and she looked at him with absolute surrender in her eyes. He grabbed her throat—not ****, just holding, asserting his dominance—and she came instantly, her body convulsing around him, her eyes rolling back.

The sight of her orgasming from his possession pushed him over the edge. With a roar he couldn't recognize as his own voice, he emptied himself into her, thrusting hard and deep, marking her as his in the most primitive way possible.

When he finally came back to himself, he was still inside her, both of them panting and sweating. The horror of what he'd done began to creep in—the ****, the cruelty, the way he'd treated her like an object. But before he could apologize, before he could retreat back into his Canadian guilt, Kitten was moving.

She slid off the bed and knelt before him again, her eyes fixed on his cock, still slick with their combined fluids. Without a word, she took him into her mouth and began to clean him, her tongue gentle now, worshipful, lapping up every trace of their coupling. She moaned softly as she did it, as if savoring the taste, and when she finished, she looked up at him with a satisfied smile.

"Did I please you, sir?" she asked, and there was no trace of resentment or trauma in her voice—only hope, only desire to have done well.

Marc stared down at her, at this woman who had been trained from childhood to crave exactly what he had just given her, and felt something shift permanently in his understanding of the world. The guilt was still there, but it was smaller now, overwhelmed by the power rushing through his veins.

"You pleased me," he said, and the words felt right.

Kitten beamed as if he'd given her the greatest gift in the world. She rested her head against his thigh, nuzzling him like a contented pet. They stayed like that for a moment, the room quiet except for their breathing.

Then she looked up at him again, her expression turning playful, conspiratorial.

"Sir," she purred, "now that you've had a taste... do you want to fuck me again? Or would you like me to get you some fresh pussy?"

The question hung in the air, obscene and tantalizing. Marc thought of his wife back in Ottawa, lecturing students about feminist theory. He thought of the trade negotiations, of his duty to his country, of everything he had been before he stepped off that plane.

Then he looked down at Kitten, at her ruined makeup and her bruised hips and her eager, willing smile, and he made his choice.

"Tell me about the fresh pussy," he said.