Chapter 31: Alma whimpers around Enzo's rapidly hardening length, her tongue swirling obscenely around his thickening shaft as pre-cum beads at the tip. The older man's groan vibrates through the tiny bathroom when she deepthroats him in one smooth motion, her nose buried in his musk-drenched curls as his cock twitches back to full erection against her eager tongue.
She stayed on her knees, the carpet’s pattern imprinting itself on her skin. The taste of him was a stain at the back of her tongue, in the marrow of her bones. She heard the soft rustle of fabric as he tucked himself away, the definitive click of his belt buckle. He didn’t look at her. He walked to the minibar, cracked open a bottle of water, and took a long swallow.
The normality of the sound was more humiliating than anything else.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice flat. “We leave for the airfield in twenty minutes.”
He left the room, closing the door with a soft click. The silence he left behind was deafening. Alma pushed herself up, her legs unsteady. She stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the blindingly bright lights. The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Mascara bled in sooty trails down her cheeks. Her lips were puffy, bruised-looking. There was a vacant horror in her red-rimmed eyes. She turned on the tap and rinsed her mouth over and over, scrubbing at her tongue with her fingers until she gagged again, but the taste was psychological now, permanent.
She changed mechanically, selecting a simple black turtleneck and tailored trousers. Armor. She packed her case with efficient, precise movements. When she wheeled it out into the suite’s main room, Enzo was on the phone, speaking in rapid-fire Italian about endorsements. He glanced at her, his eyes scanning her repaired facade with the indifference of a quality check. He gave a slight, approving nod.
The car to the private airfield was a silent capsule. Sergio was already aboard the jet, she was told, having gone ahead with the lead engineer. Enzo scrolled through messages, the blue light of his phone etching lines on his face. She watched the city lights blur past, feeling hollowed out, a shell moving on remote.
The jet’s interior was warm, smelling of leather and coffee. Sergio’s laughter echoed from the forward lounge. “Alma! You made it. I was about to send a search party.” He appeared, grinning, a controller in his hand from the game system. His smile faltered for a microsecond as he looked at her, a flicker of something—concern? curiosity?—before it was buried under his usual easy charm. “You look tired. The traffic hell?”
“Something like that,” she said, her voice hoarse. She cleared it. “Everything is set for Milan. The hotel confirms the penthouse suite is ready upon our arrival.”
“Perfetto.” Sergio’s eyes darted from her to Enzo, who had settled into a seat and was already barking into his phone again. “Well, make yourself at home. We’ve got a smooth flight ahead.”
She nodded, taking a seat opposite Enzo, pulling out her laptop. The flight attendant offered champagne. Sergio accepted. Enzo waved it away. Alma refused with a tight smile. The engines began their whine, building to a roar that vibrated through the fuselage. As they climbed, pressure built in her raw throat. She stared at the darkening sky, seeing nothing.
An hour into the flight, Sergio retired to the forward bedroom, citing jet lag. The main cabin lights were dimmed. The attendant disappeared into her galley. It was just them, the hum of the engines, and the ghosts of what happened in Montreal.
Enzo closed his eyes, but she knew he wasn’t sleeping. His presence was a physical weight in the space.
Turbulence hit suddenly, a brief, jarring series of bumps that made the crystal glasses tinkle in their cabinets. Enzo’s eyes opened. He looked at her, his gaze landing on her hands, which were clenched white on the arms of her seat.
“Scared?” he asked, no mockery in it, just a cold query.
“No.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, moving with the practiced balance of someone who lived in the sky. “Come with me.”
It wasn’t a request. He turned and walked toward the rear of the jet, to the smaller, more private bathroom suite. After a moment’s paralysis, she unbuckled and followed. The space was compact, sleek marble and polished chrome. He was already inside, the door ajar. She stepped in, and he locked it behind her.
He leaned back against the vanity, studying her. The jet shuddered again, a low groan running through its frame. The light here was softer, kinder. It didn’t help.
“You’re thinking too much,” he stated. “I can hear the gears grinding from here. You’re replaying it. Wondering what it makes you.”
She said nothing. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs.
“It makes you mine,” he answered his own question. He reached for her hand, pulled her closer until she stood between his spread legs. With his other hand, he unbuttoned his fly. He was semi-hard, the thick weight of him stirring against the dark fabric of his boxers. “And mine need to learn obedience. Not just in the moment. After.”
He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around him. He was still soft from his last release, but warm, vital. “Show me you understand. Show me you accept your function.”
Her mind screamed. Her body, treacherously, moved. She sank to her knees on the cool marble floor, the turbulence making her sway slightly, gripping his thighs for balance. She nuzzled him through the soft cotton, inhaling his scent, now layered with the memory of her own violation. A low, pathetic sound escaped her. She was disgusted with herself. Aroused by her own disgust.
She pulled the fabric down, freeing him. He was filling rapidly under her attention. She kissed the tip, a chaste, worshipping brush of her swollen lips. Then she took him into her mouth, not deep, just holding him, her tongue softly tracing the prominent vein along his length. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Her own pathetic, eager need was a flood between her legs. She was rewarding him. She was thanking him for the degradation. The realization made her suckle harder, a soft, desperate noise vibrating in her throat.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on her head, not forcing, just possessing. “Eager little thing. Can’t get enough, can you? Even after I made you choke on it.”
She redoubled her efforts, bathing him with her tongue, her lips, trying to convey a submission so complete it would annihilate the smart, capable woman she used to be. Maybe that was the price. Maybe that was the only way through.
He grew fully, dauntingly hard in her mouth. The jet hit another pocket of rough air, a sudden drop that made her lurch forward, taking him deeper. She gagged, eyes watering.
His grip in her hair fisted, tight and painful. He held her there, pinned by the turbulence and his will. “You insatiable little cockslut,” he growled, the words dripping with contemptuous pleasure. “Using the weather to get what you want. You want it rough again? You want to forget you have a brain?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He began to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping, using the tight, wet heat of her to chase his own release. Each thrust was a punishment for her intelligence, for her languages, for her quiet confidence. He was erasing it all, one brutal stroke at a time. The bathroom filled with the wet, slapping sounds of his balls against her chin, her choked, gagging attempts to breathe. Spit coated her chin, his length, the dark curls at his base.
“This is all you are now,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming ruthless, machine-like. “My mouth. My hole. You understand? Nod if you understand.”
Tears poured from her eyes as she managed a jerky nod, his cock battering the back of her throat. The understanding was a cold, clear truth inside the heat of her shame. She did understand.
His climax was a silent, violent tension that released into a series of ragged thrusts. He came with a muted groan, spurting into her throat, and she swallowed it all, dutifully, desperately, a perfect pupil.
When he finally pulled out, he looked down at her wrecked face, at the mess he’d made of her, and he smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who has won a fundamental, terrible victory.
It was the smile of a man who has won a fundamental, terrible victory.
He zipped his trousers, the sound final. Alma remained on the floor, a pool of black fabric and damp, tangled hair. Her muscles refused to obey the command to stand. The taste of him was a greasy film on her teeth, a phantom echo of Montreal’s bitterness mixed with this new, immediate proof of her submission. She watched his hands, those broad, managerial instruments, fasten the belt buckle with a tidy click.
He reached for a hand towel, dampened it at the sink, and tossed it down to her. It landed on her thigh. “Clean your face.”
His voice was casual, drained of the growling intensity from moments before. He was already moving on, the transaction complete. He adjusted his cufflinks, checking his reflection for any flaw. As he turned to leave, he began to tuck his shirt, smoothing the fabric over his hips.
A sound tore from her then, from a place deeper than thought. It was a broken, keening whine, guttural and needy, animal in its pure distress. She surged forward on her knees, her hands scrambling to bat his away from his waistband. She didn’t look at him. She pressed her face into the dark thatch of hair, her mouth seeking the softening, spent flesh.
“No, no, please,” she mumbled against him, the words slurred and wet.
She sucked the pliant weight of him into her mouth, her tongue frantically lapping at the slick head, tasting their mixed fluids. She enveloped him with a ferocious, warm wetness, her nose buried in his skin. She bathed him with a devotion that felt like derangement.
He went utterly still. For three heartbeats, there was only the jet’s hum and her desperate, slurping noises. Then, a low chuckle vibrated in his chest. “Christ. You’re truly gone, aren’t you?”
Beneath her frantic ministrations, she felt a familiar thickening. A twitch. The slow, relentless swell as he began to harden again, filling her mouth, stretching her bruised lips. A sharp, high squeal of pleasure escaped her, muffled by his flesh. The proof of her power—this vile, sacred power to resurrect his desire—electrified her shame.
“You love this fucking thing more than your own dignity,” he observed, his hand settling on the back of her head, not forcing, just guiding. “You’re a goddamn miracle of degradation.”
He was fully erect, impossibly so soon after climax. She mewled around him, her hips grinding uselessly against the empty air, her own need a throbbing, untreated wound.
“Stand up,” he ordered, his voice rough. “Turn around. Bend over the sink.”
She obeyed, scrambling so quickly she slipped on the marble. She caught herself on the cool porcelain. Her reflection was a blurred mess of want. He didn’t give her time to focus. He pushed her turtleneck up her back, yanked her trousers and underwear down to her knees in one brutal pull. The cold air hit her skin, followed by the hotter, more shocking press of his body crowding behind her.
“You’re slick,” he grunted, a finger sliding through her folds with a crude, probing stroke. “Soaking for it. You really are just a set of holes waiting to be used.”
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her. He didn’t enter her. He slapped his length against her swollen flesh, once, twice, a taunt that made her sob. “Beg for it. Properly.”
“Please,” she gasped, pushing back against nothing. “Please, Enzo. I need it. Fuck me. Please.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
He drove into her with one deep, splitting thrust. She cried out, her back arching. He was huge, stretching her brutally, the fullness a shocking relief. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each powerful snap of his hips slamming her pelvis into the sink’s edge. The metal dug into her bone. She knew it would bruise.
“Take it, you desperate whore,” he grunted, his fingers biting into the flesh of her hips. “This is your purpose. This is your fucking value.”
Her mind fragmented. There was only the pounding pistoning of his body into hers, the slap of skin, the creak of the jet’s structure syncing with their movement. He fucked her with a focused, almost industrial rhythm, chasing a third release with a ferocity that felt like hatred. Or possession. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“Mine,” he snarled, as if hearing her thought. He hooked a hand in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine into a painful curve. The new angle let him plunge deeper. “Every fucking part of you. That clever mouth. This tight, greedy cunt. Mine to use whenever I want. However I want.”
She was babbling, a stream of multilingual praise and filth, her words splintering into French, into Arabic, into a sobbing, wordless plea. His pace became erratic, jagged. A sharp, final thrust buried him to the hilt and he held there, a raw shout torn from him as he emptied himself inside her with pulsing jets.
He collapsed over her, his weight pinning her to the vanity, both of them shuddering, slick with sweat. He stayed lodged within her for a long minute, his breath hot on her neck. Finally, he pulled out. A hot trickle of his release immediately trailed down her inner thigh.
He stepped back, adjusting his clothes with practiced ease. He ran a hand through his hair, glanced at himself in the mirror, and straightened his tie. He looked like he’d just finished a moderately taxing conference call.
Alma couldn’t move. She stared at the drain.
“Get dressed,” he said, his tone devoid of everything. “Sergio will be wondering where his assistant is. You have work to do.” He unlocked the door and left without looking back.
She listened to his footsteps recede. Slowly, she pushed herself upright. Her legs shook. She cleaned herself with cold, trembling hands, avoiding the wreckage in the mirror. The raw, used feeling between her legs was now a permanent part of her geography. She pulled her clothes on, the fabric clinging unpleasantly to damp skin. When she opened the door, the main cabin was quiet. Sergio’s door was still closed. Enzo was in his seat, typing on his phone, a glass of whiskey now in his hand.
She sat down, fastened her seatbelt, and opened her laptop. The screen glowed, awaiting her input. Her body hummed with the echoes of him. Her mind was a still, blank plain. She began typing the agenda for the Milan meetings, her fingers steady, her prose flawless.