Chapter 4: Double Domination
The city glittered below Gabriel’s penthouse like a spilled jewelry box, all cold, distant lights. Up here, in the sterile scent of lemongrass and new money, Vanja could almost believe she was someone else. Gabriel lay sprawled across the silk sheets, watching her with the lazy, entitled hunger of a man who’d never been told no. His cock, thick and already hardening again, lay against his thigh.
“You’re tense,” he observed, his voice a low rumble. He reached for the champagne flute on the nightstand.
“It’s been a long week,” Vanja said, her voice hollow even to her own ears. She stood by the window, the panoramic view doing nothing to quiet the storm in her head. The memory of Pep’s office, the feel of his fingers inside her, the cold command in his voice as he demanded a report—it was a film loop she couldn’t pause. She needed it erased, if only for an hour.
“Come here and unwind, then,” Gabriel said, patting the space beside him.
She turned. She wasn’t his coach here. She wasn’t Pep’s brilliant, filthy secret. Here, she was just a body. It was a devastating simplification, and it was exactly what she craved. She walked to the bed, her movements deliberate. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the impossibly soft mattress. She didn’t kiss him. She didn’t want his mouth. She took his cock in her hand, guiding it to her entrance. She was still wet from the shower, from the anxious slickness that seemed permanent now.
She sank down onto him in one slow, excruciating motion. He was so wide, stretching her in a blunt, uncomplicated way. He grunted, his hands coming to her hips. “Fuck, that’s it. Take all of it.”
She began to move, rising and falling with a hard, steady rhythm. Her mind emptied of everything but sensation: the burn of the stretch, the slap of skin on skin, the way her breasts swayed heavily with each descent. She threw her head back, her dark blond hair sticking to her shoulders. She rode him like it was a punishment, for him or for herself, she didn’t know.
“Yeah, bounce those tits for me,” Gabriel groaned, his eyes glued to her chest. His grip tightened, fingers digging into her flesh, trying to steer her pace. She ignored him, finding her own tempo, a desperate, driving cadence. She was chasing a feeling, a specific kind of numbness that lived just on the other side of physical overwhelm.
She fucked him harder, grinding down on him with each fall, using him to rub against her clit. The pleasure built, a crude, straightforward crescendo. It was nothing like the calculated, mind-shattering release Pep engineered. This was a forest fire, not a laser. It consumed without discrimination.
Her orgasm hit like a train, a wave of pure, screaming sensation that tore through her gut and left her throat raw. She cried out, a sound that was more pain than pleasure, her inner muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses.
That set him off. With a roar, he bucked beneath her, his own release pumping into her in hot, possessive spurts. He held her hips down, milking himself inside her until he was spent.
She collapsed onto his chest, the sweat from their bodies mingling. He stroked her hair, a gesture that felt absurdly tender. “Christ, you’re a animal,” he panted, a note of awe in his voice.
The clock on his minimalist bedside table glowed. It was late. Too late. A cold dread seeped into her post-coital haze. Pep’s deadline. The analysis.
She extracted herself from his limbs, from the warm, sticky mess between her legs. “I have to go.”
“Now?” Gabriel protested, frowning. “Stay. Order food.”
“I can’t.” She was already pulling on her clothes, the fabric feeling alien against her sensitized skin. The ghost of Pep’s command was louder than Gabriel’s request. The torn tights were in her bag, a secret talisman of her other life. She pulled on a fresh pair, her movements frantic.
She was in a taxi, the city blurring past, feeling Gabriel’s come leak into her underwear. She opened her laptop, the screen illuminating her face in the dark cab. She pulled up the training footage, her mind, still buzzing with endorphins and shame, somehow clicking into analytical mode. The gaps in the pressing drill were glaringly obvious to her now. She typed notes with feverish speed, her professional pride a sharp, saving spike.
She arrived at Pep’s house just as the grandfather clock in the hall began to chime six. The house was silent, dark except for the light spilling from beneath his office door. She walked in without knocking.
He was at his desk, glasses perched on his nose, studying a spreadsheet. He didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
“By thirty seconds,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She placed a printed copy of her analysis on the desk beside his elbow.
Finally, he looked up. His gaze traveled over her—the slightly disheveled hair, the fresh clothes that couldn’t hide the scent of another man’s sweat and sex that she knew lingered on her skin. His eyes were like flint. He picked up the report, scanned the first page with a dismissive flick of his eyes, and dropped it.
“It’s adequate,” he said, his tone implying it was anything but. He leaned back in his chair. “Where were you?”
“That’s not part of the work,” she replied, echoing his own earlier dictum.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He stood up slowly, the movement predatory. He came around the desk, stopping so close she could see the flecks of silver in his stubble. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. “You smell like cheap champagne and him.” His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “You go from my training ground, from my sofa, to that? To that fucking carthorse?”
“It’s none of your business,” she shot back, the anger a welcome fuel.
“You made it my business when you spread your legs on my desk.” His hand shot out, grabbing a handful of her hair at the nape of her neck. It wasn’t a gentle grip. It hurt. He used it to turn her, forcing her to bend over the very desk where her carefully prepared report now lay crumpled under her forearms. “You belong to me when you are in this city. Your mind, your cunt, all of it. You do not take what is mine and go get it dirtied by some premier league thug.”
He yanked her skirt up, pulled her underwear down. He didn’t check if she was ready. He was already hard, freed from his trousers with his other hand. He pressed the head of his cock against her, and she was, horrifyingly, wet. Wet from Gabriel, wet from fear, wet from a treacherous, unwanted arousal that ignited at his possession.
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust. She cried out, the stretch a sharp, bright pain after the earlier fullness. He didn’t pause. He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, each slam of his hips jolting her into the desk. One hand kept its vise-grip in her hair, the other splayed on the small of her back, holding her down, arching her for his deeper access.
“You will learn,” he snarled, his breath hot against her ear. His words were a torrent of Catalan and English, filthy, degrading, and horribly specific. “You will learn where you belong. Puteta bruta… my brilliant little whore… you take my cock so much better than his, don’t you? Tell me you feel the difference. Tell me.”
She couldn’t speak. The pleasure was wound tight with the pain, with the humiliation, with the sheer psychological violence of the act. He was reclaiming her, asserting a dominance that went beyond sex. It was a territorial fuck, raw and unadorned.
“Answer me!” He punctuated the command with a particularly deep, grinding thrust.
“Yes!” she gasped, the word torn from her. “Yes, I feel it.”
“Who do you come for? Who owns this?” He slid a hand around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it with a rough, circular pressure that was almost cruel.
“You do!” The admission shattered something in her. Her second orgasm of the night ripped through her, this one darker, deeper, a submission written in the clenching of her muscles around his invading cock.
He followed with a guttural groan, spilling into her, his body collapsing over hers for a moment, his weight pinning her to the desk. He stayed there, inside her, for a long minute. Then he pulled out. He tucked himself away, his movements once again precise.
He picked up her analysis, smoothed the paper against the desk. “The section on Rodriguez’s lateral movement is incomplete. Revise it. Have it on my desk by eight tomorrow morning.” He sat down, as if she were already gone.
She straightened up, her legs trembling, pulling her clothes back into place. The physical evidence of both men was on her, in her. She felt utterly hollowed out, a vessel used for two different kinds of obliteration. She walked to the door on unsteady legs.
“Vanja,” he said, not looking up from the report.
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob.
“The next time you need to be fucked,” he said, his voice cold and clear, “you come to me. That is part of the work now.”
The key turned silently, but the lock it opened within her echoed. She drove back to her flat through a Manchester dawn that felt like ash, Gabriel’s spend and Pep’s both a chilling dampness on her thighs. She showered until her skin was raw, but the phantom sensations remained—the grip in her hair, the proprietary depth of his thrust.
Sleep was a fractured, shallow thing. She arrived at the CFA training ground by seven, the analysis on Rodriguez’s lateral movement perfected and printed. She moved through the morning drills with mechanical precision, her voice calm, her instructions cutting. The players, sharp-eyed predators to a man, noticed nothing. She was their Coach Jakobsen, a fortress of tactical genius. Inside, the mortar was crumbling.
A text came just after lunch. My office. 7pm. No signature. None was needed.
The day bled away. She presented a new set-piece routine to the first-team coaching staff, her logic flawless, her delivery cool. She caught Pep watching her from the back of the room, his expression unreadable. A current of understanding passed between them, a live wire humming with the memory of the desk against her stomach, his vulgar words in her ear.
She arrived at seven. He was on the phone, speaking rapid Catalan, gesturing at a tactical board frozen on his screen. He pointed to the sofa without looking at her. She sat, her laptop bag beside her like a shield. He finished his call, the room plunging into a silence thick with unsaid things.
“The revisions were adequate,” he said, finally turning. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. He was dressed down, a thin cashmere sweater and dark trousers. It made him seem more dangerous, not less. “Your mind is clearer today. Less cluttered.”
“I wasn’t cluttered,” she said, the defiance automatic.
“You were fucked stupid by a mediocrity. It clouds the intellect.” He stated it as a physiological fact. “We will ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
Her own phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen flashed: Aleks. Her oldest friend, a data analyst for Borussia Dortmund. A tether to a world where she was just Vanja. She hesitated, her thumb hovering.
“Answer it,” Pep said, his voice low. “Be normal.”
She accepted the call, bringing the phone to her ear. “Aleks. Hej.”
“Vanja! Finally. I’ve been going over the metrics you sent,” Aleks’s cheerful voice filled her ear, a blast of normalcy. “Your model for high-press transitions is insane. We tried a simulation here. The numbers are fucking beautiful.”
Pep pushed himself off the desk. He walked toward her with a predator’s quiet grace. Her breath hitched. He knelt in front of the sofa, his hands going to the buckle of her trousers.
“Yeah, Aleks, you are right,” Vanja said, forcing her voice into a light, professional lilt. She stared straight ahead, at a framed photo of the Etihad stadium, as Pep undid her button and zip. The soft sound of the denim being tugged down her hips was deafening. “How’s Bayern? Did the new coordinator change their build-up pattern?”
Pep hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down. The cool air of the office kissed her exposed skin. He spread her knees apart with an insistent pressure.
“Good, good, yeah. They’re more predictable now, actually. It’s weird.” Aleks’s voice was tinny in her ear. “Are you okay? You sound… strained.”
Pep’s head dipped between her legs. His tongue, broad and flat, licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her entire slit. Her body jolted. She bit down on her knuckle, hard.
“Great,” she said, the word breathy. She cleared her throat. “I’m just a bit tired. Long day on the pitch.”
His mouth closed over her clit. He sucked, gently at first, then with increasing pressure, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud. The sensation was a white-hot wire directly to her core. Her free hand fisted in the sofa fabric. She could hear the wet, intimate sounds he was making.
“Okay, just take care of yourself. Don’t let that handsome tyrant work you to death,” Aleks joked.
Pep’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, spreading her wider. He plunged his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, his nose nudging her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a brutal, exquisite invasion. Heat pooled violently in her belly.
“He’s… demanding,” Vanja managed to get out, her voice trembling at the edges. She was panting now, each breath a shallow gasp she tried to mute.
Pep withdrew his tongue. He blew cool air on her soaked flesh, making her shudder. Then he spoke, his mouth so close his lips brushed her. “Tell him you have to go. Now.”
The voice, gritty and commanding, was unmistakably not part of a football call. The line went quiet for a beat.
“Vanja? Was that…?”
“I have to go, Aleks. Something’s… come up. Talk tomorrow.” She ended the call, her hand shaking so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
Pep looked up at her, his chin glistening with her arousal. His eyes were dark with triumph. “You see? You can function in both worlds. You can talk tactics while your cunt drips down my chin.” He stood up, unzipping his trousers. His erection sprang free, thick and urgent. “But the conversation is over now. This is my time.”
He hauled her up from the sofa, turned her, and bent her over its back. The leather was cool and smooth against her cheek. He positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance. She was embarrassingly, impossibly wet, her body traitorously open for him.
“This is what you needed after your day, wasn’t it?” he grunted, not waiting for an answer. He drove into her with a single, deep stroke, filling her completely. “Not small talk. This.”
He set a relentless pace, each thrust a punctuation mark on his words. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him with a force that stole her breath. The sofa creaked with their rhythm. She could see their reflection, distorted, in the dark office window—him, clothed from the waist up, powerful and controlled; her, trousers around her ankles, being taken with a raw, animalistic hunger.
“You come when I say,” he snarled, his voice ragged. One hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in tight, brutal circles. “You come on my cock, and you think of nothing else. Not Bayern. Not your friend. Not your fucking models. Just this. Just me fucking this clever cunt into compliance.”
The pressure built, a terrifying wave. She was fragmenting, her brilliant mind going blank and white with a pleasure that felt like annihilation. She was moaning, a continuous, desperate sound she couldn’t contain.
“Now,” he commanded.
Her orgasm detonated, a convulsive, whole-body shock that ripped a scream from her throat. He fucked her through it, his own rhythm faltering, and then with a guttural cry he pulsed inside her, his body locking over hers as he emptied himself.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant city hum. He slowly pulled out. He tucked himself away, zipped his trousers. He walked to his desk, picked up a folder.
She couldn’t move. Her legs were liquid. The smell of sex and leather filled her nostrils.
“The under-21s training schedule is on your desk for review,” he said, his voice already back to its normal, analytical tenor. “I want your notes by ten.”
He sat down, opened his laptop. The dismissal was absolute. She pulled her clothes up, her fingers numb and clumsy. She walked to the door, every step feeling like she was crossing a chasm.
She didn’t look back. The hallway was empty, sterile. She leaned against the cool wall, her forehead pressed to the plaster. In her pocket, her phone buzzed again. Aleks. A text this time: What the hell was that? Call me.
Vanja closed her eyes. She had two languages for what just happened, and no words in either that could possibly explain it.
She had two languages for what just happened, and no words in either that could possibly explain it. The text from Aleks glared up from her screen, a pinpoint of normal light in the sensory void she’d become. She typed a single lie. Bad signal. Will explain later. She pushed off the wall and walked out into the Manchester night, the damp air feeling like a baptism.
Her flat was too quiet. The silence hummed, filled with phantom echoes of creaking leather and guttural commands. She poured a vodka, drank it neat, felt the burn without the warmth. She needed a different kind of obliteration, one that didn’t come with psychological strings, one where she held the leash. She opened an app she hadn’t used in months, her fingers moving with a detached precision.
She matched with a girl named Sophie within minutes. The profile was all laughing eyes and adventure quotes. Just in town for a couple nights, football fan! her bio read. Vanja’s message was direct. You want a drink with a local? The reply was almost instant. God yes. Bored in my hotel room.
Sophie was waiting in the hotel bar, a splash of bright energy in the minimalist space. She was short, with a crop of tousled blonde hair and a smile that seemed genuine. Her figure was compact, athletic, with the suggestion of strength beneath a simple silk camisole.
“You’re even more stunning in person,” Sophie said, her English lightly accented with Norwegian. “Your pictures didn’t do you justice.”
“Yours either,” Vanja replied, and for the first time in days, her smile felt something close to real. They talked. Football, of course. Sophie was knowledgeable, passionate, her opinions sharp. “My brother’s in the game, so I’ve been forced to learn,” she said with a laugh, waving a dismissive hand when Vanja asked for a name. “Oh, he’s just a journeyman. You wouldn’t know him.”
The conversation was easy, flirty, devoid of the crushing weight of expectation Vanja lived under. Sophie’s hand brushed hers. A charge, simple and clean, passed between them. An hour later, they were in the elevator, Sophie pressing Vanja against the mirrored wall, her mouth hot and tasting of gin.
“I’ve wanted to do that since you walked in,” Sophie breathed, her hands sliding under Vanja’s sweater.
In the hotel room, Vanja took control. It was a reclaiming. She pushed Sophie onto the bed, kissing her deeply, savoring the softness, the different scent of her—clean sweat and vanilla. She peeled the camisole off, revealing small, perfect breasts with pale pink nipples that hardened immediately under her gaze and touch.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Vanja murmured, her voice rough. She took a nipple into her mouth, sucking and licking, her hand cupping the other breast. Sophie arched into her, moaning, her fingers tangling in Vanja’s dark blond hair.
Vanja moved down, kissing a trail over the flat plane of Sophie’s stomach, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her lace shorts and panties. She pulled them down in one motion. Sophie’s pussy was neatly trimmed, the lips a flushed, inviting pink. Vanja didn’t hesitate. She spread Sophie’s legs and lowered her mouth.
The taste was different, musky and sweet. Sophie cried out as Vanja’s tongue found her clit, circling it with a firm, practiced pressure. Vanja licked and sucked, devouring her, one hand sliding up to pinch and roll a nipple. She fucked Sophie with her tongue, delving deep, then returning to flick rapidly at her sensitive bud.
“Oh fuck, right there, don’t stop,” Sophie chanted, her hips bucking off the bed. Her thighs trembled against Vanja’s ears. Vanja slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm with her tongue. Sophie’s inner muscles clenched around her, hot and tight. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come on your face!”
The orgasm shook Sophie, a sharp, vocal crest that made her back bow. Vanja rode it out, gentling her tongue until Sophie went limp, gasping. Vanja crawled up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck. Sophie’s hands were everywhere, pulling at Vanja’s clothes.
“My turn,” Sophie panted, her eyes bright with hunger. She reversed their positions with surprising strength. She worshipped Vanja’s body, her mouth and hands eager, learning her curves. When she finally went down on Vanja, it was with a frantic, enthusiastic energy that was utterly devoid of calculation.
Vanja let go. She stared at the acoustic tiles of the hotel ceiling, feeling the slick slide of Sophie’s tongue, the suction on her clit, the eager fingers pushing inside her. This pleasure was a clean fire. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t a weapon or a lesson. She came with a shattered gasp, her fingers fisted in the blonde hair between her legs.
After, they lay tangled in the sweaty sheets. Sophie traced the line of Vanja’s jaw. “That was fucking incredible,” she sighed, nuzzling into her neck.
“It was,” Vanja agreed, the truth of it a quiet warmth in her chest.
“You know,” Sophie said, her voice sleepy and content. “My brother’s going to be so jealous. He’s a huge fan of yours. Well, of your work. Erling’s always going on about your pressing models.”
Vanja froze. The warmth evaporated. “Erling?”
“Yeah, Haaland. My half-brother, really. Same dad.” Sophie yawned, snuggling closer. “Don’t tell him, okay? He’d give me endless shit for shagging one of his tactical crushes.”
The world snapped back into its terrible, intricate alignment. Vanja stared into the dark, the pleasant ache in her body now cold with implication. She was naked in a hotel bed with the sister of Manchester City’s star striker, a player whose every movement Pep dissected with religious fervor. The girl’s tasty pink pussy, the one she’d just loved with such abandon, was a hidden tripwire in the middle of the minefield she was already navigating.
Sophie’s breathing deepened into sleep. Vanja extracted herself slowly, silently gathered her clothes from the floor. She dressed in the dim light from the city, watching the sleeping blonde girl. A secret. Another one. She slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed down the empty hallway.