I threw Skylar onto the floor the second the door was closed. She hit the concrete hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a sharp, ugly gasp. Her expensive coat flared out around her like a broken wing as she scrambled to sit up, eyes wide with raw terror. Her perfect makeup was already starting to crack.
I slammed the door shut and locked it with a loud metallic clack that echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. Then I grabbed the nearest chair, snapped one of its legs off with a sharp, splintering crack, and stood over her.
Skylar's eyes locked on the jagged wooden leg in my hand. She started begging immediately, voice high and shaking, tears spilling down her cheeks in thick, mascara-streaked rivers.
"Please… please don't do this. I'm Skylar Voss. I have money. I have connections. I can clear your name on every feed. I can make the world forget what happened. I can give you everything you want. Just… just don't hurt me. I'm too good for this. I'm not some undergrid whore. I'm—"
I cut her off, voice cold and flat. "Chair leg or my dick. Choose right now."
She stared at the broken leg, then at me, fresh tears pouring down her face, smearing her mascara in black streaks that ran down to her chin and dripped onto her designer blouse. Her lower lip trembled violently. "I can fix everything for you. I can go public and say it was all a misunderstanding. I can get you back into the mid-levels. I can—"
"Chair leg or my dick," I repeated, stepping closer, the jagged end of the wood glinting in the dim light.
Her entire body started shaking. "Your dick," she whispered, voice breaking completely. "Please… your dick."
I smiled coldly. "Then get me hard. Or I use the leg."
She tried. Still on the floor with her designer clothes rumpled and dirty, she reached up with shaking hands and cupped her own tits through her blouse, squeezing them together, pushing them up, trying to look seductive while she cried. Her fingers trembled as she pinched her nipples through the fabric, biting her lip, trying to make it look good. It wasn't working. My cock stayed soft.
"Try harder," I said, voice low and dangerous.
Sobbing openly now, she stripped. She peeled off her expensive coat, her designer blouse, her skirt, until she was completely naked on the dirty concrete floor. Her body was still perfect — the same body that had once been on every society feed — but now it was trembling violently, covered in goosebumps, tears streaming down her face as she spread her legs as best she could and slid her fingers between her thighs. She rubbed her clit in desperate little circles, playing with her tits with her other hand, pinching and squeezing them while she cried harder, mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks, snot dripping from her nose, her voice cracking into ugly, humiliated sobs.
It started working.
I threw the chair leg across the room with a clatter. Then I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her closer.
I fucked her hard and merciless.
She cried the entire time, trying weakly to push me away, hands slapping at my chest, legs twitching uselessly. I pinned her down on the cold floor and slammed into her, deep and brutal, hips snapping as I railed her without mercy. Her tits bounced wildly with every thrust. I squeezed them roughly, pinched her nipples until they were dark and swollen, slapped her face when she tried to turn away. She sobbed and begged, voice hoarse and broken, trying to resist by twisting her hips and pushing at my shoulders, but it only made me fuck her harder.
I fucked her missionary first, legs pinned wide, cock pounding into her while she cried and begged me to stop, her pussy clenching around me despite herself. Her eyes were wide and glassy with shock, tears pouring down her face as she whispered "please no" over and over, her perfect public image shattering in real time. Then I flipped her onto her stomach and took her from behind, her face pressed into the dirty concrete, ass up as I railed her, slapping her ass red and choking her lightly from behind while she sobbed into the floor, her broken sobs muffled against the concrete, drool and tears mixing with the dirt. I pulled her hair, called her every filthy name I'd wanted to scream at her for years. She kept crying and trying to resist, hands scrabbling uselessly at the floor, body shaking with humiliation and pain, but her pussy stayed wet and tight around me.
I kept going for a long time — switching positions, using her like a toy, making her feel every second of it. I came deep inside her with a low groan, flooding her until it leaked out onto the floor in thick, messy streaks mixed with her tears and snot.
When I was done I dragged her by the ankles to the tiny toilet, shoved her inside, and locked the door from the outside. Her muffled sobs and weak banging echoed faintly through the thin panel.
I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then heard movement from the bedroom corner.
Sophie stepped out, still naked, fresh from her code rewrite. She looked flawless again — no scars, no damage, her skin perfect. She knew exactly what I'd done with Skylar; I could see it in her eyes. And she was happy about it. She smiled softly, walked to the sink, cleaned herself thoroughly with slow, deliberate movements, then dressed in the tight black crop top and short pleated skirt I liked.
She came over to me, calm and devoted.
"Why is there banging coming from the bathroom?" she asked quietly.
I wiped my hands on my coat. "Skylar's in there."
Sophie tilted her head, processors humming. "What should we do with her?"
She didn't know yet.
The apartment fell quiet except for the faint, muffled banging from the locked toilet door.