Alone?

Pauline barely spared the beggar another thought as she stepped into her London flat. The stink of rain, piss, and rot clung to him, while she was already moving through the hush of wealth, polished marble floors, glass that gleamed, air perfumed with imported oils and money. He would sit out there in the drizzle, dreaming of coins. She would strip silk from her skin and drink wine older than his children.

Her victory still lived in her veins like a ****. Hughes’ face rose before her again, pale, sagging, his mouth shaking as he tried to form pleas the judge would never hear. Tears had spilled, real tears, humiliating, delicious. Pauline had gutted him with words, carved him apart. Then she had bent the judge himself, coaxing lust from his jowls until he spat down a verdict Hughes would **** on for the rest of his life.

Two men broken in a single day.

Pauline had walked free, scarlet mouth curved in triumph, heels striking the marble floor like gunfire. She was more than woman, more than barrister. She was cruelty wrapped in silk and stockings.

And tonight, she wanted to taste herself.

She sat in a silk robe, her body naked underneath and uncorked a Burgundy, worth more than Hughes’ made in a month and poured deep into crystal. The wine clung to the glass like blood, rich and sticky. She drank slow, savouring every mouthful as though she were swallowing victory itself.

Food followed, venison gone cold but tender, truffle shaved thin over it. She ate slowly, never hurried, never gluttonous, every bite an act of ownership. Pauline did not eat to survive. She consumed, just as she consumed men.

By the time she drained the bottle, she glowed.

The bath was next, steaming with amber oil and rose, water that kissed her skin like worship. She pulled the robe off in front of the tall mirror: breasts high and pale, nipples pink and sharp, stomach flat, hips full, thighs strong under the sheer sheen of her stockings. Her reflection looked back at her with contempt for the world. Her golden hair, tied cruelly into its habitual bun, gleamed. She stepped into the water, breasts floating, her body gleaming under the light as though carved from ivory.

Narcissism? Hardly. Pauline told herself the truth. She was a goddess, and worship began with her own reflection.

She soaked, sipping more wine, eyes closing as she pictured Hughes in his damp flat, cupboards empty, the only image of his children in his cheep cracked mobile phone screen. His misery slid through her veins like heat in the bath. She shifted, thighs pressing together beneath the water.

Later, she rose dripping, wrapped in a towel, and padded barefoot into her temple.

The bedroom.

The bed was vast, black satin sheets stretched tight. At the foot stood her gilt-framed mirror, angled perfectly to capture her body in worship. Above, the discreet camera glinted, wired to a sleek console and screen. Pauline had designed it so she could watch herself, doubled and magnified, she didn't need anyone else, she was her own pornography

She flicked it on. The screen lit, her own body, pale and proud, lips scarlet, eyes cold.

She opened the drawer of her nightstand and drew out her prize.

The ivory dildo gleamed bone-white, smooth and obscene. Carved from the tusk of a near-extinct animal, it was a relic of cruelty, of domination, of waste made sacred by money. Pauline’s breath caught as her fingers closed around it. Silicone could buzz and flicker, but nothing else carried this. This weight. This crime. This superiority. Every thrust was conquest. It was illegal in almost every civilised country, but when Pauline used it she felt the sole of the animal deep in her cunt.

She lay back, adjusted the camera, parted her thighs. On the screen, she watched herself open like a flower of cruelty. Her bun had loosened, strands of gold spilling. Her lips were painted blood-red, parted in a cruel smile. She looked divine. Invincible.

She dragged the ivory between her folds, slick already, smearing herself across the pale shaft. She pressed it inside, she didn't need lube, the sight of herself naked was enough to get her wet, she started slow at first, then deeper, harder, watching herself on the screen as her breasts bounced, nipples tightening into sharp pink peaks.

The fantasy built. She saw Hughes crying. She saw her toy begging, strapped to the machine, drowning in his own seed. She saw herself on the screen.

The ivory glided, filled, split her open, and she arched against the sheets. Her body twisted, mouth opening in a gasp. The mirror fractured her image into a dozen, her own face multiplied, her own body caught in angles of pale skin and red mouth.

Her orgasm tore through her like lightning, brutal, shaking her to pieces. She screamed, a queen writhing, hair falling, nails clawing her own skin. The screen caught every arch of her back, every spasm of her thighs, every obscene plunge of ivory into her dripping cunt.

At last she collapsed, chest heaving, the relic slick with her own mess in her trembling hand.

Sleep dragged her under like a tide.

The dream began with footsteps.

Pauline was running, heels on cobblestones, breath ragged, blouse torn, skirt splitting up her thighs. Behind her came the scrape of claws on stone. A growl.

She glanced back, he was there. Cloaked in black, hands ending in talons, glinting and sharp. His face shadowed, but the hunger in him was unmistakable. He chased her like prey.

She ran harder, breasts straining against torn silk, thighs aching, her body slick with fear and something darker. Heat gathered in her belly even as terror pounded through her.

The claws caught her shoulder, spinning her, slamming her into a wall. His grip crushed her. He leaned close, breath hot on her face, and seized her breasts in his clawed hands. His talons dragged across her nipples, pulling them until she screamed. Pain burst white, but beneath it, shameful, treacherous arousal burned. Her body betrayed her with every gasp.

Then she saw it, his cock, impossibly large, grotesque, rigid, slick and dripping. He lifted her as though she weighed nothing, positioning her to be impaled. To be split apart, stretched and ruined forever.

Her scream shattered the night—

And she woke.

The satin clung wet to her skin. Her nipples ached, puffy and sore, bruised as though his claws had truly dragged across them. She gasped, clutching herself, eyes darting to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—hair wild, lips parted, chest rising and falling too fast.

She was alone.

Her phone buzzed.

Still trembling, she reached for it. A message. Unknown number.

Thank you for the video.

Her heart froze. She tapped it open.

The file loaded. Her own recording. Her own body sprawled on the bed, legs wide, ivory pumping into her cunt, breasts bouncing, mouth crying out in orgasm. Every detail. Every filthy moment.

But how? The camera had no link, no Wi-Fi, no connection. It was locked, private. She had ensured it.

Her stomach turned. A chill crawled up her spine.

The sender’s name blinked again.

His Lordship. The Judge.

Pauline dropped the phone as if it burned. Her lips parted in horror, scarlet and trembling.

She was immaculate. Untouchable. Power itself.

And yet, someone had stolen her. Made her filth their own. Turned her cruelty back against her.

In the silence, she thought she heard it, laughter. Low. Cruel. Curling through the corners of the room.

But the bed was empty. The mirror only showed her. The flat was silent.

Alone.