Chapter 10: The Collector
The city glittered beneath them like a spilled circuit board, cold and electric. Clara stood at the floor-to-ceiling window in Harding’s penthouse bedroom, her reflection a ghost over the lights. She’d been told to wait. The silence here was different from the office—deeper, more complete, broken only by the faint whisper of central air. She wore only the white robe he’d left for her, its belt cinched tight enough to bruise.
The door opened. She didn’t turn. She heard his footsteps on the plush, charcoal carpet, the soft clink of a glass being set down.
“On the bed.”
His voice was neutral, a command stripped of heat. She turned. He was already undoing his cufflinks, his eyes on her, assessing. The bed was an expanse of black linen, an abyss.
She walked to it, the robe swishing against her thighs. She climbed onto the cold sheets and sat, back against the headboard, her knees drawn up. He finished with his watch, placing it on the dresser with a deliberate click. He didn’t undress further. He simply walked to the foot of the bed and stood, looking down at her.
“Open the robe.”
Her fingers felt thick, clumsy. She untied the belt. The silk sighed open, revealing a pale slice of her body from throat to navel. She let it fall off her shoulders, pooling around her hips, exposing her breasts to the cool, conditioned air. Her nipples tightened instantly.
“Further.”
She pushed the fabric down her legs, kicking it off the side of the bed. She was naked. Exposed. The plug was still inside her, a constant, intimate presence.
“Lie back. Legs apart. Show me.”
She obeyed, settling back onto the pillows, spreading her knees wide. The vulnerability was absolute. He stared, his gaze a physical touch. He didn’t move for a full minute. The only sound was her own shallow breathing.
“Touch yourself.”
The command, after the silence, was a jolt. She brought a hand to her stomach, fingers skimming down through the coarse thatch of red hair. She found her own wetness, a slick testament to her shame, her anticipation. She circled her clit, a tentative flick.
“Slower,” he said, his voice low. “Tease it. Make it ache.”
She did, letting her fingers drift around the swollen nub, avoiding direct contact. A soft, frustrated sound escaped her.
“You want more,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“Beg.”
“Please… please let me touch myself properly.”
He took a step closer. “No.”
Her hand stilled. Confusion warred with the gnawing need between her legs.
He finally moved, rounding the side of the bed. He sat on the edge, still fully clothed in his tailored trousers and crisp shirt. He reached out, and his thumb, cool and dry, brushed over her lower lip. Then that same thumb trailed down her neck, over the flutter of her pulse, down her sternum. He circled one nipple, then the other, until they were pebbled and aching. His touch was clinical, mapping her.
His hand glided over the plane of her stomach, down to the crest of her hip bone. He watched his own progress, a scientist observing a reaction. His fingers traced the junction of her thigh and torso, a maddening orbit around where she burned for him.
“Please,” she whispered again, her hips shifting involuntarily.
“What do you need?”
“I need to come. I need to feel you.”
“You’ll come when I allow it.” His fingers finally dipped into the wetness gathered at her entrance. He slicked them, then brought them up to circle her clit with a devastating, precise pressure. “Is this what you begged for in the bathroom? This little, desperate button?”
“Yes,” she gasped, arching into his touch.
“And when Martin heard you, did you think of his cock? Did you imagine it was his hand?”
“No.” The denial was instant, true.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s yours,” she choked out. “It’s always yours. He just… overheard.”
A grim satisfaction tightened his features. He increased the pressure, his rhythm becoming ruthless. “Then come for your owner. Not for the eavesdropper. For me.”
The distinction crystallized her pleasure, sharpened it. Her orgasm wasn’t a secret shared with a stranger; it was a ritual performed for a god. It tore through her, a silent, wrenching climax that locked her muscles and stole her breath. She trembled, her cunt clenching rhythmically around nothing but the plug.
As the waves subsided, he withdrew his hand. He stood, looking down at her wrecked form. His own arousal was evident now, a hard line straining against his trousers. He unzipped them, freed himself. His cock was thick, veined, jutting out angrily.
“On your hands and knees.”
She turned over, the sheets rough against her sensitized skin. She presented herself to him, ass in the air, the base of the plug glinting faintly. He ran a hand over the curve of her cheek, a possessive caress.
“This cunt,” he said, his voice a guttural growl, “belongs in my collection.”
He shoved the plug deeper with his thumb, making her cry out, before pulling it out entirely and tossing it aside. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her dripping entrance.
He didn’t enter her slowly. He drove into her with one vicious, deep thrust, filling her completely, stretching her raw. She screamed into the black linen.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each snap of his hips driving her forward on the bed. His hands gripped her waist, holding her in place for his use. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, wet and obscene, filled the silent room.
“You’re a perfect, filthy thing,” he grunted, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing their measured control. “My perfect thing. Letting him hear… letting him want… it only makes you more mine.”
He fucked her with a relentless, punishing intensity. Her earlier orgasm had made her sensitive to the point of pain, but the pain fed the pleasure, a feedback loop of ownership. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, wanting him deeper, wanting to be ruined.
“Come for me again,” he demanded, his voice strained. “I want to feel that cunt milk me dry.”
His words, filthy and absolute, triggered it. A second, sharper climax seized her, her inner muscles clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses. The convulsion of her own pleasure triggered his. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the hilt and roared, his release pumping into her in hot, endless jets. He held himself there, pulsing inside her, as the last shudders of her own orgasm subsided.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot on her neck. They stayed like that, joined, for a long moment. The smell of sex and sweat rose around them, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive air.
He pulled out slowly. A trickle of his cum followed, a warm slide down her inner thigh. He rolled off her, lying beside her on his back, staring at the dark ceiling.
Clara lay on her stomach, her face turned towards him. Her body felt used, heavy, profoundly claimed. The emptiness where he’d been was a new kind of fullness.
“You’ll go home tonight,” he said, his voice once again calm, detached. “You’ll carry my come inside you. You’ll sleep with the memory of my cock stretching you open. And tomorrow, you’ll sit at your desk, and you’ll look at Martin, and you’ll know he’ll never have this. He’ll never have any part of you.”
He turned his head to look at her. In the dim light from the window, his eyes were unreadable pools.
“Because every part of you,” he said, his finger tracing a line down her spine, “is already mine.”