Chapter 103: The Morning Ritual
The sippy cup was empty. Elise stared at the bottom of it, her mind a warm, blurry blank. The world was soft at the edges. She was aware of the cool marble of the kitchen counter under her bare thighs, the damp patch there from where Julian had cleaned her with a warm cloth. She was aware of the heavy, contented ache between her legs, a dull echo of the frantic humping against his leg. Mostly, she was aware of him.
Julian moved around the sleek kitchen, putting away the pan, wiping down the granite. He was dressed now in dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He moved with an efficient grace that held her mesmerized. Every so often, he’d glance at her, and a small, private smile would touch his lips. Her pacifier bobbed softly between her own.
“Dada,” she mumbled around the silicone nipple. It was the only word that felt right.
“I’m right here, baby,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her chest. He came to stand before her, sliding his hands up her thighs. “Did you have a good breakfast?”
She nodded, her hazel eyes wide and unblinking. He’d fed her scrambled eggs and avocado from his fingers, bite by bite, praising her for each obedient mouthful.
“Good girl.” His thumbs rubbed circles on her inner thighs. “So perfect for me. Letting everyone see my good girl yesterday. Letting me have your tight little ass.” His fingers drifted higher, brushing the swollen lips of her cunt. She was still sensitive, and she whimpered, pushing against his touch. “Still sore?”
Another nod.
“Mm. That’s my doing.” There was no apology in his tone, only possession. “I like you sore. I like you remembering me with every little step.” He hooked a finger inside her, just the tip, and her back arched. “So wet, still. Always wet for Daddy.”
He withdrew his finger, slick and shining, and pressed it to her lips. She suckled it clean, the taste of herself familiar now, a baseline flavor. He watched her, his green eyes dark with pleasure.
“I think,” he said slowly, “my good girl needs a nap. You wore yourself out.”
Before she could process it, he had lifted her from the counter. She clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist, pressing her face into the hollow of his throat. He carried her through the penthouse, not to the living room, but down a hallway she hadn’t seen before. He shouldered open a door.
His bedroom.
It was a chamber of shadows and light. Deep velvet drapes were partially drawn, but the afternoon sun pierced through in molten shafts, catching dust motes that danced like gold flakes. The bed was enormous, a landscape of charcoal silk sheets and a mountain of pillows. The air smelled different here—lavender, clean cotton, and underneath it, him. His scent was embedded in the very walls.
He laid her in the center of the bed. The silk was shockingly cool against her feverish skin. He stood at the foot, looking down at her sprawled, naked form.
“This is where I sleep,” he said, as if imparting a sacred truth. “This is where you belong now.”
He undid his jeans, pushed them down his hips. His cock was already hard, jutting out thick and heavy. He joined her on the bed, crawling over her with a predatory slowness that made her breath catch. He plucked the pacifier from her mouth and set it on the nightstand.
“We’re going to try something new, little one.” He kissed her jaw, her neck. “You’re going to lie very still. You’re not going to move unless I tell you to. You’re just going to take it. Can you do that for Daddy?”
Her “yes” was a breathy sigh.
He positioned himself between her legs, his weight settling on her in the most delicious way. He nudged her thighs wider with his knees. The head of his cock, slick with pre-cum, nudged at her entrance. He didn’t push in. He just rubbed it back and forth, coating her in his wetness, teasing her swollen clit with each pass.
“So pretty,” he murmured, his eyes on where they were almost joined. “This sweet, ruined cunt. All mine.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “I own this. Say it.”
“You own it, Daddy.”
“I own this.” His hand slid down to pinch a nipple, rolling it roughly. She gasped. “And these.” His other hand gripped her throat, not choking, but claiming. “And this.” He finally, slowly, pushed inside her.
It was a smooth, full glide. Her body, well-used and pliant, accepted him with a silken ease that drew a groan from them both. He buried himself to the hilt and stopped, his pelvis grinding against her clit. He was so deep she felt him in her womb.
“Now,” he whispered, his breath hot against her lips. “Be still.”
He began to fuck her. Not with the brutal, driving pace of the night before, but with a slow, rolling rhythm that was somehow more intense. Deep, withdrawing strokes that made her feel empty and cold, followed by even deeper thrusts that punched the air from her lungs. He was a piston, relentless and measured, setting a pace that was entirely for his own pleasure. She lay beneath him, her fingers tangling in the sheets, obeying his command. She was a vessel, a warm, wet sleeve for his cock. The passivity of it was its own kind of arousal. Her pleasure was irrelevant; it was his use of her that made her cunt clench and flutter.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his control showing in the corded muscles of his neck. “Just a hole. My perfect, obedient hole. Taking every inch. Letting Daddy use you.”
His words coiled in her belly, hot and shameful. She was. She was just a hole for him. The realization should have shattered her. Instead, it cemented something. It simplified the universe. Her purpose was here, under him, being filled.
He shifted his angle, and the next thrust hit a spot that made stars explode behind her eyelids. A broken sound escaped her.
“Did you like that?” he demanded, hitting the same spot again, and again.
“Yes, Daddy!”
“You can come,” he growled, his rhythm fracturing, becoming harder, faster. “Come on my cock. Milk it. Do it now.”
Permission granted, her body convulsed. The orgasm ripped through her with a silent, seismic force, her cunt gripping him in frantic, fluttering pulses. She cried out, a sound without words, her back bowing off the bed.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, brutal slam, he buried himself and held, his own shout muffled against her shoulder. She felt the hot, urgent surge of his release, jet after jet filling her, marking her insides once more. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a crushing, comforting anchor.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. Finally, he shifted, sliding out of her. A gush of warm fluid followed, soaking the sheets beneath them. He didn’t move to clean it.
He rolled onto his side, pulling her against him, her back to his chest. His arm was a heavy band across her ribs. His lips found the shell of her ear.
“You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said. It wasn’t an offer. “Every night. This is your place now. In my bed.”
She nodded, her eyelids already heavy. The soreness was a full-body truth. The smell of sex and him was a blanket. She was drifting, sinking into the silk and the safety of his possession, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He reached for it, his arm leaving her. She made a soft, distressed noise at the loss of contact.
“Shh,” he soothed, but his attention was on the screen. His body, which had been loose and sated, went very still. She felt the change like a drop in temperature.
He typed a quick reply, then set the phone down face-up. He didn’t lie back down. Instead, he sat up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair.
“Daddy?” Her voice was small, childlike again.
He looked back at her. The tender, predatory possessiveness was still in his eyes, but it was now overlaid with something else. Something colder, more calculating.
“Change of plans, baby,” he said, his tone shifting into a smoother, more clinical register. It was the ghost of Dr. Blackwood’s voice. “We have guests coming. You need to get up. You need to get dressed.”
The words were like a bucket of ice water. The warm, blurred world of the last day shattered. Guests. Dressed. The outside world, with its rules and its eyes, was intruding.
He stood, suddenly all brisk efficiency. “Put on the robe from the bathroom. The blue silk one. Then come to the living room. Quickly now.”
He left the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a soft, definitive click.
Elise lay alone in the vast, rumpled bed, the smell of their sex thick in the air. The soreness between her legs was a stark, physical brand. The empty, used feeling inside her was a void.
Guests.
A tremor, one that had nothing to do with pleasure, began deep in her core. She crawled from the bed, her legs unsteady. The blue silk robe hung from a hook, cool and alien in her hands. She put it on, the fabric whispering over her skin, hiding the marks, the evidence.
She was his. He owned her cunt, her ass, her mouth, her mind.
But as she tied the belt and looked at the closed door, a new, chilling thought whispered.
Who were the guests? And what part of her would he own for them?