Chapter 5: The First Hunt
The private champagne room at the Obsidian Club announced itself with the hush of velvet ropes and the gleam of black crystal. Marcus Webb—billionaire, philanthropist, and the kind of man who collected people the way he collected vintage wines—had barely let the door swing shut before his hands were on her.
"Jesus," he breathed, palms finding the swell of her tits through the tight black dress Vivienne had zipped her into. "You're even prettier up close."
Mitchell's stomach lurched. The revulsion rose sharp and immediate, a spike of panic that tried to pierce through the warm fog settled over her mind. Get off me—I'm not—this isn't—
The collar tightened around her throat, a pulse of sensation that traveled down her spine like syrup. The glass plug shifted inside her with the movement, pressing against that secret spot, and the panic dissolved into a wave of pleasure so intense her knees nearly buckled.
"Pretty girl," Marcus murmured, his breath hot against her neck. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
The words floated up from somewhere deep inside her, carried on the current of Vivienne's voice in her memory. "Daisy," she heard herself say. "My name is Daisy."
The name tasted wrong in her mouth, but the golden ring on her tongue seemed to vibrate with approval, smoothing the edges of her resistance until the wrongness faded into something almost natural.
"Daisy." He rolled the name around like expensive scotch. "Perfect name for a perfect little flower."
His hands traveled lower, gripping her ass through the thin fabric of her dress. He pulled her against him, and Mitchell felt his hardness pressed against her stomach—big, insistent, demanding. A fresh surge of disgust flooded through her, but before it could take root, the plug shifted again. The resulting jolt of pleasure short-circuited her thoughts, leaving only a soft moan in its wake.
"Such a responsive little thing," he observed. "I like that."
He guided her backward, and she felt the edge of the emerald chaise against the backs of her thighs. A gentle push, and she tumbled onto the silk cushions, her dress riding up to expose the smooth expanse of her new thighs.
"Please," she heard herself say, the word sliding out before she could stop it. "Please, I want—"
"You want what, Daisy?" Marcus loomed over her, his tie already loosened, his eyes dark with hunger. "Tell me what you want."
The collar pulsed. The plug throbbed. Vivienne's voice echoed in the hollow spaces of her mind: Make him want you. Make him desperate. His desire is the key to his surrender.
"I want you to fuck me." Mitchell felt the words pour from her lips, dripping with need, her new voice high and breathy and utterly convincing. "I want to feel your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."
Marcus's eyes widened, his cock visibly straining against his trousers. "Christ, where have you been all my life?"
He tore at his belt with clumsy fingers, and Mitchell's body responded on autopilot, her hands moving to help him, unfastening his pants and pulling them down just enough to free his erection. It was thick and flushed, veined along the shaft, and even through her haze of confusion and disgust, she heard the bimbo voice in her head coo, Oh, that's going to feel amazing inside you.
"No," she whispered under her breath, a final spark of resistance. "I don't—this isn't—"
The collar flexed. The plug twisted inside her, catching her prostate with a precision that made her entire body convulse. Pleasure flooded through her like a dam breaking, drowning the resistance in a golden tide.
Marcus pulled her dress down, and her breasts spilled out—full, heavy, with hard pink nipples that ached for attention. He took one in his mouth immediately, sucking greedily, and Mitchell gasped as sensation shot through her, unlike anything she'd ever experienced as a man. His teeth grazed her nipple and her back arched, pressing more of herself into his mouth.
"That's it," he growled against her skin. "Give me those tits."
He moved lower, his mouth tracing a wet path down her stomach while his hands spread her thighs wide. When his fingers found her cunt, slick and hot, he let out a low whistle.
"Jesus, Daisy. You're soaked."
Mitchell wanted to close her legs, wanted to push him away, wanted to scream that this wasn't who she was. But her body betrayed her at every turn. Her hips lifted to meet his fingers. Her mouth fell open in a wanton moan. Her voice—that traitorous, breathy voice—begged him for more.
"Please, don't tease me," she heard herself whimper. "I need you inside me. I need your cock so badly."
He gave her what she asked for. She heard his breath catch, and in the next moment, the blunt head of his dick was pressing against her entrance. Then he was pushing, sliding into her slick channel, and the feeling of being filled transported her.
The plug pressed against her prostate from inside, while his cock stretched her walls from without. For a single, eternal moment, Mitchell hovered on the edge of something vast and terrible and wonderful.
Then he began to move.
"Oh god," she gasped, her fingers finding his shoulders. "Oh god, oh god, oh—"
He fucked her hard and fast, with the practiced rhythm of a man who expected women to respond to him. And Mitchell did respond—her body rising to meet every thrust, her hips rolling in counterpoint, her inner walls clenching around him like they were trying to milk him dry.
But there was a war being waged inside her skull. Every repetition of his thrust sent shivers through her body, but also through the part of her brain that was screaming this isn't consent, this isn't you, a man is using your new body like a piece of meat.
The collar hummed, and she heard Vivienne's voice like it was spoken directly into her ear: "Don't think, sweetheart. Just feel. Let your body take over and be the pretty little cunt I made you to be."
The screaming in her mind began to fade.
"You like that?" Marcus grunted, his hand finding her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, proprietorial. "You like being stuffed full of rich cock?"
"Yes," she heard herself sob. "Yes, I love it. Please don't stop."
Her hands moved without her permission, grabbing her own tits and squeezing them, rolling her nipples between her fingers. When he leaned down to kiss her, she kissed him back, her tongue sliding against his, the golden ring clicking softly against his teeth. She tasted his expensive cologne and the whiskey on his breath and the raw, masculine musk of him.
"Filthy girl," he muttered against her lips. "Such a dirty little slut for daddy."
The word 'daddy' triggered something deep in her mind. For a flicker of a moment, it was her own father's face she saw above her, and the face of her own childhood bedroom ceiling, and she nearly froze. But the collar tightened almost imperceptibly, and the flash of revulsion was crushed beneath another wave of pleasure.
She came unexpectedly, without warning. The orgasm tore through her body with a violence that left no room for thought or resistance. Her back bowed off the chaise. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her inner walls clamped down on Marcus's cock like a fist, and she felt a gush of wetness spill out around him.
"Fuck," he grunted, his rhythm faltering. "You're squeezing me so tight—"
Her orgasm triggered the plug to shift deeper inside her, grinding against her prostate with a relentless pressure, and before she could catch her breath, a second orgasm crashed into her.
"That's it, baby," Marcus groaned, his hips slamming into her. "Cum all over daddy's cock."
Mitchell was lost. Every rational thought had been drowned in a sea of pleasure and surrender. All that remained was Daisy—the pretty bimbo with the golden ring on her tongue and the collar around her neck, who loved being stretched open by a rich man's cock and filling the emptiness inside her with his attention.
She came again as he did, feeling his hot release spurting inside her, and the sensation shattered the last fragment of resistance that still clung to her mind. Afterward, he collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the silk cushions, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
"Fuck, Daisy," he panted. "You're the best piece of ass I've had in years."
She should have felt the degradation of it. She should have been repulsed by his possessive pawing, his careless ownership, the way he'd used her like a disposable thing. All she felt was warmth and satisfaction and that glorious, mindless emptiness.
The collar pulsed. The plug throbbed. And Mitchell was gone.
The thought was so quiet, so thin and fragile. When it faded, there was only Daisy.
"That's my good girl," Vivienne's voice whispered from somewhere deep in her shattered mind. The satisfaction in it was unmistakable. "Now bring him home."