"No," she whimpered, the sound muffled against his pants. She started pushing, her palms shoving against his thigh, trying to create any distance, trying to get away from the monster looming above her. But it was no use. It was like trying to push a brick wall; he didn't budge an inch.
"Save your energy, Naomi," he said, his voice a low, bored rumble that vibrated through his leg and into her hands. He didn't even look down at her struggling form as he reached for his waist. The metallic clink of his belt buckle echoed sharply in the silent office, followed by the harsh hiss of leather as he yanked the belt free from its loops in one forceful pull.
Naomi didn't stop. Panic had taken over, a primal, screaming instinct to survive that blinded her to the futility of her actions. She twisted her torso, she shoved harder against his thigh, desperation lending her a frantic strength that only served to annoy him.
With a sudden, violent motion, Xavier grabbed her shoulder and flipped her. The world spun, the ceiling of the office becoming a blur, until she slammed into the hard floor face down. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs and sent a fresh jolt of agony through her bruised body.
Before she could even think to scramble away, he was on her. He grabbed her flailing wrists and dragged them roughly behind her back. The leather belt wrapped around them, tight and unforgiving, the buckle clicking shut with a sound of finality that sealed her fate. He secured the belt just above the curve of her ass, pinning her arms together in a painful arch that made her shoulders scream in protest.
He grabbed her shoulder again and wrenched her back around, flipping her onto her back once more. She knelt there on the cold, hard floor, bound and helpless, looking up at him through a haze of tears. Sobs wracked her body, loud, ugly cries that she couldn't suppress anymore. The fear, the pain, the humiliation—it all spilled out in a torrent of shaking shoulders and gasping breaths.
Xavier looked down at her, his face completely devoid of emotion. He didn't care. Her tears meant nothing to him; her sobs were just background noise to the task at hand. He reached for his zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet room—a sharp, metallic rasp that made Naomi flinch.
He shoved his pants and boxers down just enough, and his long, hard dick sprang free. It slapped against his stomach, thick and erect, the head already glistening with precum. It loomed over her, a weapon of terror, as he stood over his bound, sobbing wife, ready to take what he believed was his.
His free hand clamped around her jaw, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. She tried to resist, tried to keep her lips pressed together, but his grip was unyielding, his thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw until the pain forced her to comply. Her mouth fell open, a wet, unwilling cavern of humiliation.
His other hand tangled in her hair, gripping the tangled strands, holding her head in place. And then he thrust into her.
His cock filled her mouth in one brutal, unforgiving stroke, the hard, hot cock pushing past her lips and over her tongue, hitting the back of her throat with a force that made her eyes water. She choked, a gagging sound that was muffled by the obstruction in her mouth, her body instinctively trying to reject the invasion. Her throat convulsed around him, the muscles spasming as they tried to accommodate his size, but he didn't pull back. He just pushed deeper.
He fucked her mouth with a rough, relentless rhythm, using her for his pleasure like she was nothing more than a hole, a warm, wet space to bury himself in. His hips snapped forward, driving his cock into her mouth again and again, the head hitting the back of her throat with every thrust, making her gag and choke and whimper around him. The sounds were obscene, wet, sloppy noises that echoed in the quiet office, mixing with her muffled sobs and his low, husky groans of pleasure.
He grabbed the riding crop from the table beside him, his hand leaving her hair for just a second to snatch it up. Then he brought it down on her ass, the flat tip connecting with the thin fabric of her sundress, the impact sharp and stinging even through the material.
She sobbed, the sound vibrating around his cock, her body jerking with the pain, but he didn't stop fucking her mouth. He just spanked her again, and again, each strike timed with his thrusts, a dual assault of degradation that pushed her further and further into oblivion.
Her sobs grew louder, more desperate, muffled cries of agony and humiliation that were swallowed by his cock. Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto her chin and mixing with the saliva that was escaping the corners of her mouth, creating a messy, obscene trail down her neck. Her body was trembling violently, her bound wrists pulling uselessly against the belt, her knees aching from the hard floor. But he didn't relent. He just kept going, his thrusts getting faster, harder, more erratic as he chased his release.
He groaned, a low, primal sound of pleasure that rumbled through his chest. His grip on her hair tightened, holding her head still as he drove himself into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt. And then he came.
His cock pulsed in her mouth, hot, thick ropes of cum filling her throat and coating her tongue. She had no choice but to swallow, her body's natural reflex forcing her to take it, to consume the evidence of his pleasure like the obedient little wife she was supposed to be. The taste of him was salty and bitter, mixing with the taste of her own tears and saliva, a disgusting cocktail that made her want to vomit.
He held himself there for a moment, his cock still in her mouth, letting her feel the last few spasms of his orgasm. Then he pulled out, a wet, obscene sound as his softened dick slipped from between her lips. A string of saliva and cum connected them for a brief second before breaking, falling onto her chin in a thin, humiliating thread.
He tucked his dick back into his pants, zipping them up with a casual, unhurried motion, as if he had just finished a business meeting rather than assaulting his wife. He retrieved the belt from her wrists, the leather coming away with a soft click as he unbuckled it, leaving her wrists red and raw. She collapsed immediately, her body giving out completely, crumpling to the floor in a heap of yellow fabric and tangled hair, her face buried in her arms as she sobbed uncontrollably.
He put the belt back on, threading it through the loops of his pants with the same methodical precision he did everything else. The riding crop was placed back in its drawer, returned to its rightful place like a tool that had served its purpose.
And then his laptop chimed.
The soft, electronic sound cut through the heavy silence of the room, a sharp contrast to the wet, ragged sounds of Naomi's crying. He glanced at the screen, his eyes scanning the message, and his brow furrowed into a frown. His expression hardened, the mask of satisfied cruelty shifting into something colder, more focused.
He fixed his sleeves, rolling them back down and fastening the cuffs with quick, efficient movements. Then he picked up his suit jacket, shrugging it on with the same casual ease, adjusting the collar, smoothing the lapels. He looked down at the sobbing girl on the floor, his expression one of complete indifference, as if she were nothing more than a piece of furniture he had to step around on his way out.
And then he turned and walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Naomi alone on the floor, a broken, used, humiliated mess, her mouth still tasting of him, her body still aching from the abuse, her soul shattered into a thousand pieces that she didn't know how to put back together.
Xavier
Fuck.
I stepped out of the office, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click, and the first thought that hit me was not satisfaction. It was regret. A bitter, irritating regret that I hadn't gone further. I should have thrown her over that fucking desk, shoved her face into the wood, and fucked her into oblivion right there among the files and the laptop. I should have taken what I wanted, all of it, without holding back.
But I didn't. And I hated myself for it.
I walked down the hallway, my stride fast and aggressive, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. What the hell was wrong with me? I don't go soft. I don't show mercy. I don't feel anything for the people I use and break and discard. That's the rule. That's the law of this world I've built. And yet, yesterday, in that fucking boutique, I had broken my own law.
The pink lingerie. That was the problem. That stupid, innocent, pink lace that had made her look like the fucking virgin bride I got, instead of a disobedient wife who needed to be punished. When she had stepped out from behind that curtain, all soft, submissive and sweet, something inside me had... shifted. I didn't want to hurt her. Not at first. I wanted to be gentle, to touch her like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
And then she had moaned.
That sound, that soft, involuntary moan that had slipped from her lips when I was caressing her, it had driven me fucking crazy. Not in the way I usually got crazy, not in the way that made me want to hurt and dominate and break. It had made me want something else, something I didn't have a name for, something that scared the shit out of me because I didn't understand it.
I cannot go soft on her. I repeated the thought like a mantra. She needs to learn her place. She needs to understand that disobedience, in my eyes, has its own consequences. There is no middle ground. There is no grey area. There is only obedience and punishment. And if I start blurring those lines, if I start feeling things for her, I lose control. And losing control is not an option.
I reached the bottom of the staircase, and there was a maid, one of the newer ones, a small, mousy woman with her head already bowed in deference. I stopped in front of her, my shadow falling over her like a threat.
"My wife is in my study," I said, my voice flat and commanding, leaving no room for questions or hesitation. "Take her upstairs to my room. Get her some water and painkillers. And make sure she gets her lunch delivered to the room."
The maid nodded frantically, her head bobbing up and down. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."
I wasn't done. I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl that made her flinch. "You will not talk to her. You will not look at her. You will not acknowledge her existence outside of the tasks I have assigned you. And if I come back and she has even a single scratch or bruise that was not made by me, it will be your head. Understood?"
The maid's face went pale, the colour draining from her cheeks like water from a sink. She nodded again, faster this time, her whole body trembling with fear. "Y-yes, sir. Understood, sir."
I straightened up, my expression hardening. "Good."
I didn't wait for her to move. I didn't even look back as I walked towards the front door. The maid's scurrying footsteps behind me were a distant, irrelevant sound. My mind was already moving on, shifting from the mess of my wife to the other matters that required my attention. The message on my laptop had needed my presence, attention.
I pushed through the front door, the bright afternoon light hitting my face like a slap. The car was waiting, the driver already standing at attention beside the sleek black sedan. I climbed into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind me, and pulled out my phone.
The image of Naomi's face flashed in my mind unbidden. The tears, the sobs, the way she had collapsed on the floor like a broken doll. I shoved the thought away, locking it in a box deep in the back of my mind where I kept all the inconvenient feelings I couldn't afford to have.
"Drive," I said to the driver, my voice cold and flat. The car pulled away, and I stared out the window at the city scrolling by, my jaw still clenched, my hands still itching with the frustrated need to do more, to break more, to prove to myself that I was still in control.
Because if I wasn't in control of her, then what the fuck was I?