Chapter 1: The Taste of Humiliation
The air in the penthouse bedroom was heavy with the scent of Olivia’s perfume and something darker, muskier. Dimmed chandeliers cast pools of amber light across the dark wood floors, leaving the corners of the vast room in deep shadow. Frank’s knees ached against the hard floor, a dull, persistent throb that anchored him to the moment. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug, listening.
The bed groaned, a rhythmic protest of polished wood and taut linen. Olivia’s voice, usually so sharp and commanding, was a string of breathless, pleading sounds. “Please, Damian. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Frank’s fingers clenched on his thighs. He didn’t need to look to see Damian’s powerful back moving, the play of muscle under sweat-slicked skin, or the way Olivia’s nails would be digging into his shoulders. He knew. He could hear it in the wet slap of skin, in Damian’s low, grunted curses.
“Look at him,” Damian’s voice cut through the haze, deep and controlled despite his exertion. It wasn’t a request.
Frank’s head lifted slowly, obediently. His eyes stung.
Olivia was arched like a bow, a masterpiece of tension. Her long red hair was fanned across the black silk sheets, a violent spill of color. Damian’s hand was tangled in it, holding her head back. Her green eyes, glazed with pleasure, found Frank’s. A slow, cruel smile touched her swollen lips. She reveled in this, in having an audience. Especially this audience.
“See how he watches you, Liv?” Damian murmured, his pace never faltering. “Pathetic. He’d trade his soul to be where I am.”
“He wouldn’t know what to do with me,” Olivia gasped, her eyes locked on Frank’s shattered expression. Her words were for him, arrows aimed with precision. “Would you, Frank? You’d just… worship. Like you are now.”
A low whimper escaped Frank’s throat before he could choke it back. He hated the sound. Hated himself for making it. The pain in his knees was nothing compared to the vise around his heart. Yet, he couldn’t look away. This was his penance and his paradise—being allowed to be here, to see her, even like this.
Damian’s movements became harder, faster, final. He let out a rough, guttural sound, collapsing onto her for a moment before pushing himself up onto his elbows. He turned his head, his dark eyes finding Frank with predatory satisfaction.
“Come here,” Damian said, his voice casual, as if calling a dog.
Frank shuffled forward on his knees, the carpet burning his skin. He stopped at the edge of the bed, the heat from their bodies washing over him. The smell was overwhelming.
Olivia pushed Damian off her gently, sitting up. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, facing Frank. Her skin was flushed, glowing. She was the most beautiful, terrifying thing he had ever seen. Damian sat beside her, a king on his throne, one arm draped possessively around her shoulders. He ran his other hand through his dark hair.
“Open,” Olivia said, her voice soft but iron-clad.
Frank’s mouth fell open instinctively. His heart hammered against his ribs.
She leaned forward, holding Frank’s gaze. Her expression was one of pure, amused malice. She gathered the taste of Damian from her mouth, letting Frank see, letting him anticipate. Her lips parted.
She spat.
The warmth hit his tongue. The salt, the bitterness, the profound intimacy of their violation. His eyes watered, but he closed his mouth, swallowing convulsively. Shame burned through him, white-hot and cleansing. A tear tracked silently down his cheek.
Olivia laughed, a light, musical sound. She wiped her thumb across his wet cheekbone. “Good boy.”
Damian stretched, the muscles in his arms corded. “Now the feet. Mine first. Then clean hers.” He nodded toward Olivia, who was already extending a slender, pale foot, her toes brushing Frank’s lower lip.
Frank bent his head. The leather of Damian’s boot was cool and tasted of city streets and privilege. He heard Damian speaking to Olivia over his head, their conversation drifting to dinner plans for tomorrow, a gallery opening, the mundane details of a life he would never be part of. He was furniture. A useful, emotional appliance.
He moved to Olivia’s foot. His movements were reverent. He placed a soft kiss on her arch. She flexed her toes, pressing them against his mouth.
“Use your tongue, Frank,” she sighed, leaning back on her hands. “Show me how grateful you are to be here.”
He did. He lost himself in the servitude, in the sharp, clean scent of her skin. This was the closest he would ever get. This was his belonging. The humiliation was the price, and in a twisted, dark corner of his soul, it was also the reward. Their attention, however brutal, was the only thing that made him feel real.
He didn’t see Damian move until the hard toe of the boot connected with his ribs.
The air left Frank’s lungs in a pained rush. He folded sideways, gasping on the floor.
“Enough,” Damian said, standing. He looked down at Frank, a faint smile on his face. “You’re dismissed. The bathroom tiles need scrubbing. Use the toothbrush. You know the one.”
Frank coughed, nodding, struggling to get back to his knees. “Yes, Damian.”
Olivia watched him crawl towards the bedroom door, her green eyes alight with a quiet, satisfied fire. As he reached the threshold, her voice stopped him.
“Frank?”
He paused, looking back over his shoulder, hope—that vile, stubborn weed—sprouting in his chest.
“Don’t forget to clean your teeth after,” she said sweetly. “You know I hate poor hygiene.”
The door closed softly behind him, leaving him in the cool, silent darkness of the hallway. He rested his forehead against the wall, his body throbbing in a dozen different places. From the other side of the door, he heard the low rumble of Damian’s laugh, and the sharp, answering peal of Olivia’s.
He pushed himself upright. He walked, stiffly, toward the guest bathroom. Toward the toothbrush. He would scrub every grout line until it was pristine. He would do anything they asked.
Because tomorrow, he would get to see her again.