Chapter 34: Possessive Claim
Sunlight, harsh and accusatory, cut through a gap in the crimson drapes, painting a burning stripe across Iris’s closed eyes. She groaned, turning her head into the pillow that smelled of Ben, of sex, of Ruiz. A hand, gentle but insistent, shook her shoulder.
“Iris. Come on. It’s noon.”
Ben’s voice was soft, but it held a thread of something new—a quiet authority that tantalised her. She opened one eye. He was already dressed for going out, leaning over the bed, his expression unreadable.
“What?,” she mumbled, her voice raspy from disuse and the previous night’s exertions.
“I’m taking you out for lunch,” he said, not asking. He straightened up, running a hand through his hair. “You need to eat. And we need to talk.”
“Talk,” she echoed, the word tasting like ash. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the silk sheet pooling around her waist. The memory of the bathroom, of Alan on his knees, of Ben’s calm, possessory voice, flooded back. Her body felt tender, used, a map of their transactions. A dull throb between her legs was a reminder of Ruiz, of the phantom weight of other men who merely looked at her in that museum hall, with their lingering intent getting to her.
Ben was already moving to the ornate desk with his phone in hand. “I need to call Marcus. Update him.”
He dialed, putting it on speaker. Iris watched him, the line of his jaw tense. The phone rang twice before Marcus’s smooth, eager voice filled the room.
“Ben! Christ, I was about to call you. You will not believe this.”
“Try me,” Ben said, his eyes locked on Iris.
“Ruiz phoned me an hour ago. He is… unhinged. Positively fucking besotted. Says last night was a revelation, that our girl is a once-in-a-lifetime symphony. His words, not mine.” Marcus chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “He’s prepared to pay. Whatever it takes. Name a number, he says, for another night. A whole night, Ben. And that’s not all. Others at the Prado reception were apparently ‘completely taken’ with her. My phone has been quietly buzzing with inquiries. We're going to have to draw up a completely new schedule. Whatever you did, whatever she did… it’s changed the game...”
Ben was silent for a moment. Iris saw his throat work as he swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Something’s changed.”
“What?” Marcus pressed, the businessman’s curiosity sharp. “What changed? The dynamic? The situation? What?”
Ben’s gaze drifted from the window, the slit of glaring day, to Iris. “You need to talk to Iris about that.”
A slow smile spread across Iris’s face. The fullness she felt inside her filled her with optimism, and a sudden, perverse energy. She kicked the sheet off entirely and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Naked, she padded across the plush carpet towards Ben, her red hair a tangled curtain down her back.
“Is that Marcus?” she asked, her voice sweetening falsely.
Ben nodded, watching her approach with wary eyes.
“Let me say hello.”
She took the phone from his hand, her fingers brushing his. She put it to her ear and settled herself in an armcahir, presenting herself fully to Ben by spreading her legs wide. She looked at him, her green eyes holding his, and slowly bent forward, placing her free hand on her pussy, and starting to gently slap it.
With the other hand, she held the phone up towards her mouth. “Marcus, darling,” she purred.
Her fingertips traced her slick folds, spreading herself open for Ben’s unwavering stare. A soft, wet sound echoed in the quiet room as she pushed two fingers inside herself, her breath hitching only slightly. “You wanted to know what changed, darling Marcus?”
On the other end, she could hear the faint rustle of papers, the impatient tap of a pen. “I’m all ears, Iris.”
“Ben loves me,” she said, the words simple, brutal, and true. Her gaze never left Ben’s face, searching for a reaction, a flinch, anything. “He’s said it. And he loves me precisely as I am. He loves getting me fucked.” She curled her fingers inside herself, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. “It’s… liberated something. A wildness. I can fuck with complete abandon now, because I know he’ll be there. He’ll love me for it. He wants it.”
She began to slide her fingers in and out with a steady, obscene rhythm, her hips rocking gently in the chair. Ben’s jaw was tight, a muscle flickering, but his eyes were dark pools of consent, of hunger. He didn’t look away.
“So here are the new terms,” Iris continued, her voice gaining a hard, metallic edge over the quiet, wet noises. “For Esteban Ruiz, and for any other man who thinks he can claim that final intimacy... the rate is ten times. You want to dispense with a condom? You want to plant your seed deep inside my cunt? That privilege costs ten times our normal rate.”
Marcus whistled low on the other end of the line. “Christ, Iris. Ten times? He might balk.”
“He won’t,” she said, her rhythm becoming faster, more urgent. “They never do. They see what’s being offered, what I’ll let them do, what I’ll let them turn me into, and they pay. We’re not just selling my time, Marcus. We’re selling my orifices. My used, available holes. Market them accordingly.”
Ben moved then. He crossed the room silently, drawn like a magnet to her display. He knelt on the plush carpet between her spread legs, watching her hand work herself. The scent of her, musky and potent, filled the space between them.
“And Ben,” Iris gasped, her fingers sliding out, glistening. She reached down and smeared her wetness across his lips. “Ben is my keeper. My manager. You handle the money, the transfers, the dirty laundering. But every client, every request, every filthy fantasy they want to enact on this body… it gets arranged through Ben. He approves. He schedules. He gets a commission. A big one. Tell him, Ben.”
Ben’s tongue darted out, licking her essence from his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. “Whatever she says, Marcus,” he said into the phone, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through Iris’s core. “She's wild... She's wonderful... It's going to be quite a ride....”
“Understood,” Marcus said after a beat, the sound of a lighter clicking, a long exhale. “Completely understood. I’ll draw up the new agreements. Ruiz first.”
“Good,” Iris moaned, her head falling back. Her need was a frantic, climbing thing now, coiling in her belly. The talking, the transaction, had lit a fuse. “Now get off the phone, Marcus. Ben has to fuck me before lunch.”
She tossed the phone onto the bed, not waiting for a reply. Her hands gripped the sides of the chair, knuckles white. “Do it,” she commanded, her voice shredding. “Fuck me like you own me. Because you do.”
Ben didn’t need telling twice. He shoved the ottoman away with his foot, the legs scraping harshly on the floor. His hands, rougher now, gripped her thighs and yanked her to the very edge of the chair, her ass hanging off, open and exposed. He fumbled with his belt and zipper, the sounds sharp and urgent in the silent room.
His cock sprang free, already thick and hard. He leaned down and roughly ran the bulbous head through her soaking folds, gathering her wetness before positioning himself. “You are mine,” he growled, a feral note in his voice she hadn’t heard before. “Every part of this wrecked, perfect pussy is mine to sell...”
Then he drove into her, a single, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. The chair legs rocked back with the force. Iris screamed, a raw, gratified sound torn from her throat. It was a claiming, devoid of the performative artistry she gave to men like Ruiz. This was blunt, possessive, and it filled the hollow ache his love had carved in her.
“Yes! God, yes, fucking use it!” she chanted, her nails digging into his shoulders as he set a punishing pace. Each withdrawal was agonising, each savage re-entry a relief. The slap of his hips against her thighs was a rapid, wet tattoo. “It’s yours, it’s all yours, they just pay to borrow it!”
Ben’s breath was hot and ragged against her neck. He pistoned into her, the angle deep and ruthless, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. “Tell me,” he grunted, his control fraying. “Tell me who this cunt belongs to.”
“You!” she shrieked, her body coiling impossibly tight. The orgasm slammed into her without warning, a convulsive, violent wave that clenched around his invading length, milking him. “Only you, Ben, only you!”
Her climax triggered his. With a final, ragged groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and came. She felt the hot, pulsing jet of his release flooding her, marking the territory he had just verbally and physically claimed. They stayed locked like that for a long moment, joined and trembling, the only sound their ragged breaths and the distant, endless jazz from the record player.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of their combined spend leaked onto the chair’s fine fabric. Iris looked down at the mess, then up at his sweat-sheened face.
“Lunch?” Ben asked, his voice returning to that unsettling calm, as if he hadn’t just ravaged her soul through her body.
Iris leaned forward, licked a bead of sweat from his collarbone, and smiled a fractured, real smile. “I’m starving.”