Sins and Secrets

I push my overflowing cart toward the register of 'Sins and Secrets'. The girl behind the counter doesn't look up as I approach.

She’s leaning back on a stool, hunched over a magazine, a curtain of shoulder-length black hair with blood-red tips obscuring her face. She’s wearing a black crop top that’s cut low to display a sinful amount of cleavage and ends high enough to leave a delicious stretch of pale midriff bare. A septum piercing glints in the low light, and her makeup draws sharp lines, erupting from her eyes like spikes. Her arms are encased in fishnet sleeves, and below the counter, I catch the hem of a plaid miniskirt and legs wrapped in more fishnets.

She's a certified baddie—the kind of goth-emo girl I used to sneak glances at from across the food court, too terrified to even breathe in her direction. But that was before I discovered my divinity. That was before I bent the entire Avery family to my absolute will. Right now, I feel ten feet tall. I look at her and don't see an intimidating alt-girl; I see a clean slate waiting for my mark. I clear my throat aggressively, bringing the heavy cart to a halt.

The cashier sighs, a long, theatrical sound of pure annoyance, and finally looks up.

She looks at the mountain of gear in my cart—ball gags, silk ropes, heavy-duty vibrators, a leather feline mask, and several gallons of high-grade lube—and her lip curls. "You planning on opening a dungeon, or just having a really fun Tuesday?" she asks. Her voice is a gravelly, low rasp.

"Little bit of both," I say, leaning against the counter, deliberately invading her space. I track my eyes slowly down her neck, lingering on her exposed midriff. "The name’s Jake. And you're way too hot to be working in a place that smells this much like latex and cheap incense."

Rose picks up a bottle of 'Silicon Slick' and scans it with a practiced, robotic flick of her wrist. Beep. She looks me dead in the eye, her expression flat. "And you're way too mediocre to be pulling that line on me. You're at four hundred and eighty-two dollars so far. You sure you can afford this?"

"It's not a problem." I pat the pocket containing Peter's heavy metal black card. "Think of this as me doing my part to keep your numbers up. I’m sure the owner likes a big sale."

"The owner lives in the suburbs and only checks the cameras once in a while to make sure I’m not stealing from the registers," she says, her tone clipped. She’s moving through the items with practiced efficiency, her movements causing her perky breasts to bounce slightly under the thin fabric of her top. At least until she reaches the steel chastity cage.

Her eyes flick from the cage to my crotch, then back to the cage. One corner of her mouth twitches into a smirk. "You know," she says, "most guys just buy the silicone ones if they’re beginners. Steel is pretty... ambitious. Hope you have a good locksmith."

The old Jake would have turned beet red, stammered an excuse, and fled the store. But I am a god now, and the absolute certainty of my power makes me burn with a sudden, vicious hunger to see this arrogant bitch brought to her knees. I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous, confident purr.

"It’s not for me, Rose," I say, reading her nametag. "It's for a friend’s dad. He’s going to be watching while I fuck his wife and daughter this week. I figure the cage will keep things... orderly."

Rose doesn't blink, scanning the cage with an amused snort. Beep. "Sure it is. And I’m the Queen of England. You don't have to lie to me, Jake. If you want to lock yourself up and pretend it's for some 'Alpha' move, that's your business."

"I'm not lying," I say, a cruel smile stretching across my face as I pull the coin from my pocket—the same coin that had executed the perfect coup against the Averys. "I'm more Alpha than any guy you know. I'd be happy to show you, Rose. How about a quick wager?"

Rose’s eyebrows shoot up. She stops scanning, resting her hands on the counter. "A wager? On what?"

"A simple coin toss. You're heads, I'll be tails. If I win, you move around to the front of this counter, bend over, flip that plaid skirt up, and let me fuck you right here. Broad daylight, front door unlocked. Anyone who walks in will see me taking you. If you win the toss, I still get to fuck you, but I'll take you home to do it and pay you what your time is worth." I fish out some change from my pocket. "I'll give you seventeen cents for the day."

It is a completely insane, ruinous proposition. Any normal girl would call security, scream, or reach for pepper spray. But I already know the rules of my divinity. The trap is laid the moment the words leave my mouth. I watch her expression tightly, waiting for the supernatural hitch in her brain to take hold.

Rose opens her mouth, likely to call me a freak, but she pauses. Her eyes glaze over for a split second as her mind aggressively rationalizes the impossible risk. She looks at the locked front door, then at my hand holding the silver coin, completely helpless against the reality-warping compulsion of my voice.

"Fine," she says. "You're on, Santa Claus."

I don't even look at the coin as I flick it into the air. I don't need to. I’m already unbuckling my belt, the leather clicking as I slide it through the loops, my erection throbbing hard against my zipper. The sound of the coin hitting the laminate counter is sharp, final.

It’s tails. Reality bends exactly to my whim, just as it always will.

Rose's expression goes pale as she looks down at the coin. "Fuck."

"Pay up, Rose," I command, stepping around the side of the counter to claim my new toy.

She doesn't argue. A heavy, dramatic sigh of annoyance escapes her lips, but she obeys. She stands up from her stool, her fishnets rustling, and walks to the front of the counter. She grips the edge of the Formica until her knuckles turn white and bends over, the plaid fabric of her skirt riding up to show the smooth, pale tops of her thighs.

"You’re a real piece of work, Jake," she mumbles into the counter.

I reach out and flip her skirt up. She’s wearing tiny black lace panties, but to my delight, they’re already heavily damp. I hook my fingers into the waistband and jerk them down to her knees. Nestled in her hood, a small silver barbell glints, pierced through the most sensitive part of her. I reach down, flicking the metal with my fingernail. She gasps, her back arching, a low moan escaping her lips despite herself.

"And you're a real slut, Rose."

"Fuck you," she snaps, her arms trembling.

"No," I chuckle, grabbing a bottle of the 'Silicon Slick' she just scanned. I pop the cap and pour a generous amount over her and myself, the cool fluid dripping down her thighs and pooling on the Formica. "I'm going to fuck you. Remember our bet?"

I line myself up behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressing flat against the small of her back to pin her chest against the cold counter. With one heavy, deliberate thrust, I drive home.

Rose gasps violently, her back arching as I enter her. Her head thrashes, her black and red hair fanning out across the counter. She's tight—unbelievably tight—the silver barbell through her clit adding an unexpected ridge of pressure that drags against my shaft with every inch I claim.

"Jesus," she hisses, her forehead dropping to the countertop, her fingers splaying wide on the surface. "You could at least—fuck—warm a girl up first."

"You had your chance to negotiate better terms," I say, bottoming out inside her. Each thrust sends a wet, obscene slap echoing through the empty store. Rose's fishnet-clad legs spread wider to stabilize herself, her boots squeaking against the linoleum. She's biting her lower lip so hard I can see the indent of her teeth, trying to refuse me the satisfaction of a moan.

I reach around her, my hands finding her breasts under that thin crop top. I squeeze hard, and my thumbs brush against two more hard points of metal. With a violent tug, I jerk the top up, exposing her. Two silver hoops are pierced through her nipples, the metal catching the red neon glow of the store's signage. I hook a finger through one of the nipple rings and give it a sharp pull.

The sound she makes is completely involuntary—a raw, guttural groan that vibrates through her entire ribcage.

"Such a slut, Rose," I grunt, my pace quickening. I’m slamming into her now, the counter groaning under the rhythm. Her arrogant edge is entirely melting under the weight of my ownership, her hips pushing back to meet my thrusts as her body betrays the defiance in her voice.

I look up and catch the glint of the security camera lens in the corner. A little red light is blinking. I reach up, tangling my fingers in her hair, and jerk her head back so she’s **** to look straight into it.

"Hey, Rose," I whisper in her ear, my teeth grazing her lobe. "Is there a chance your boss is watching this right now? Checking the feed from his living room?"

Her breath catches, a jagged, terrified sound. "Yes... he... he checks the app... to make sure I’m working."

I bring my hand down hard, a sharp crack echoing through the store as I spank her bare ass. A bright red handprint blooms on her pale skin, the flesh jiggling beautifully under the impact.

"What happens if he sees this?" I ask, slamming into her again.

"I’d... I’d have to get another job," she gasps, her eyes unfocused, staring at the camera. "I don't want to be here... I have bills... rent..."

"You’re wasted as a cashier," I say, my voice dripping with cold entitlement. "A body like this belongs in a cage, or on a stage, or underneath me. You’d be a better stripper. Or a camgirl. Or just my personal whore."

"No," she says, though her hips are bucking back against you, pleading for more. "I’m not... I’m not doing that."

"It's cute you think you have a choice." I slow down, pulling her hair tighter until she’s looking at me over her shoulder. I spin her around on the counter, her back hitting the Formica with a dull thud, sending a rack of cock rings clattering to the floor. I grab her thighs, spreading them wide, and push back inside her. The angle is deeper now, the ridge of her clit piercing grinding directly against my pelvis with every stroke.

"How about another bet," I grin. "I bet you that your boss is going to walk through that front door in exactly three minutes, right as I'm finishing. He's going to catch us, fire you on the spot, and make sure you’re blacklisted. You’ll never work a decent job again. You’ll be penniless."

"That's not going to happen. Mitch hasn't come in person on a Tuesday in three years."

"If it doesn't happen," I roll my hips to keep her distracted, "you win. I'll walk out and you never see me again. But if it does happen... well, you won't be able to get a normal job ever again, will you? I'm the only one who will be willing to hire you, and I will as my live-in sex **** on permanent retainer. At least until I get bored. If I get bored, I'll fire you and you'll die, homeless and starving, so you better make sure I'm happy with you."

The glazing hits her pupils—that split-second vacancy as the reality-warping compulsion of my divinity takes hold of her brain. Rose blinks twice, rapidly, then lets out a short, almost manic laugh.

"Fine," she says. "Bet. Enjoy losing for once, Santa Claus."

"Get on your knees," I command, pulling out of her.

She doesn't argue. Her legs are trembling, but she still slides off the counter and kneels on the thin, gritty carpet among the fallen boxes of lube and restraints.

I grab a fistful of her black-and-red hair, twisting it into a makeshift handle at the base of her skull. Rose winces, her hands bracing against my thighs, but she doesn't pull away. She can't.

"Open," I command.

Her jaw drops, her tongue extending slightly, the silver ball of her tongue piercing catching the red neon glow filtering through the store's front window. I guide myself past her lips, feeling the warm, wet suction envelope me immediately. The metal stud drags along the underside of my shaft—a sharp, electric ridge of sensation that makes my abs clench.

"Deeper," I grunt, pulling her head forward.

Rose gags, her throat constricting around me in a reflexive spasm. Her mascara-rimmed eyes water instantly, black tears tracking down her pale cheeks. She slaps my thigh once—hard—begging for air, but I don't show her any mercy.

I set a brutal pace. My hips snap forward while my fist controls the angle of her skull, using her mouth like a toy meant to bring me pleasure. Each thrust bottoms out against the back of her throat, producing a wet, **** gurgle that echoes off the laminate shelves. Saliva pours from the corners of her stretched lips, coating my shaft in a thick, glossy sheen that drips onto her exposed chest.

"Look at me," I order.

Her bloodshot eyes lift. The defiant fire that had burned there minutes ago is guttering, replaced by a watery, helpless fury. She hates me. She hates every second of this. And she cannot stop.

I feel the pressure building—a tidal surge rolling up from the base of my spine. The supernatural clarity keeps me from tipping over too early, but I'm choosing to let go now. I've had my fun. I want the visual.

I yank her head back, my cock sliding free with a wet pop. A thick rope of saliva connects her swollen lower lip to my tip. She gasps, coughing violently, her chest heaving as she sucks in air.

"Close your eyes," I growl, working myself with rapid, slick strokes inches from her upturned face. "And keep that tongue out."

Rose squeezes her eyes shut, her pierced tongue extending obediently. Her mascara is ruined, black rivers carving through her foundation. She looks as wrecked as Jenny did last night—a look I am coming to love.

I cum hard. The first thick pulse lands across the bridge of her nose and her closed left eye, a heavy white stripe bisecting her face. The second catches her open mouth and pierced tongue. The third and fourth splatter across her forehead and into her hair, matting the red tips together in sticky clumps.

Rose flinches with each impact but holds position, her tongue still extended, collecting what lands there. When I'm spent, she stays frozen—a cum-glazed statue kneeling in a puddle of lube and scattered merchandise.

"Don't move," I say, reaching for my phone. I snap three photos in quick succession—profile, front, and a close-up of her ruined makeup and painted face.

"You're disgusting," she croaks, finally opening her clean eye to glare up at me. A glob of white slides down her cheek toward her jawline. "I didn't give you permission to do that."

"You should speak more nicely to me, Rose," I say, tucking yourself back into my jeans with casual, unhurried movements. The bell above the front door jingles. "Because in about five seconds, you're going to need a new employer. And I'm the only one hiring."

"What the fuck are you—"

A heavyset man in wrinkled sweatpants and a polo shirt that's been hastily tucked in barrels through the entrance, his face a mottled purple, his phone clutched in one white-knuckled fist. He's balding, mid-fifties, with the kind of gut that suggests decades of drive-through meals and desk work. His small, piggy eyes sweep the scene—the scattered merchandise, the puddles of lube on the floor, Rose on her knees with my cum glazing her face like frosting on a cake.

"Rose!" he bellows, his voice cracking with rage. "What in the living FUCK is happening in my store?!"

Rose scrambles, yanking her crop top down over her breasts with shaking hands. "Mitch—Mitch, wait, I can explain—"

"Explain WHAT?" Mitch jabs his phone screen toward her face. I catch a freeze-frame of the security feed—Rose bent over the counter, my hands on her hips, her skirt flipped up. "I'm watching this live from my bedroom! My WIFE is in the bed next to me! I had to pretend it was a break-in alert so she wouldn't see!"

"It's not what it looks like," Rose starts, wiping a streak of white from her eyebrow with the back of her wrist.

"It looks like you're turning my store into a goddamn brothel!" Mitch's voice hits a register that makes the display vibrators rattle on their shelf. He points a thick finger at the door. "You're done. You're fired. Get your shit and get out. I'll mail your last check. Don't ever come back here."

Rose's mouth opens. Closes. Her clean eye darts to me—a flash of raw, genuine terror cutting through the defiance. She knows. The bet just resolved. I won.

"Mitch, please," she tries, her voice dropping its usual sardonic edge entirely. "I need this job. I have rent due on—"

"Should have thought about that before you let some random fuck you on company property." Mitch doesn't even look at me. I'm irrelevant to him—just some nameless customer. His fury is entirely fixed on Rose. "Keys. Now."

Rose reaches behind the counter with trembling fingers, unhooks a keyring from a nail, and drops it into his outstretched palm. The metallic jingle sounds like a **** knell.

Mitch storms into the back office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the novelty handcuffs hanging on the wall display.

Silence.

Rose is still on her knees. Her face is a ruin—cum drying in her hair, mascara carved into black rivers down her cheeks, her eyes wide and unfocused. She stares at the closed office door like it's the lid of her own coffin.

I crouch down to her level, my elbows resting on my knees.

"So," I say softly. "About that bet."

"You knew," she whispers. Her voice is hollow. Dead. "You knew he'd come."

"I told you he would. You didn't believe me." I tilt my head, studying the wreckage of her expression. "Now you're unemployed, blacklisted, and covered in my cum in a store you no longer work at. Not a great look for the job market, Rose."

Her jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in her cheek.

"But I'm a generous guy," I continue. "I said I'd hire you. And I will. All you have to do is apologize for being rude to me earlier, give me a nice smile, and pose for one photo."

Rose's fists ball against her fishneted thighs. She looks like she wants to spit in my face. But the weight of her empty bank account, her studio apartment, her complete lack of alternatives—it all presses down on her shoulders like a physical load.

"I'm... sorry," she forces out. The word sounds like it's being dragged across broken glass. "For being rude. Earlier."

"Now smile."

She bares her teeth. It's ugly, ****, more grimace than grin—but she holds it. I raise my phone.