Chapter 2: Devon Calls While She Rides
The penthouse smelled like whiskey and sex and something else—something metallic, like blood, though Gwen couldn't tell if it was hers or someone else's. The black marble floors stretched out beneath her like a frozen lake, reflecting the neon glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The leather couch creaked beneath her knees, still warm from bodies that had twisted into it before hers.
She didn't know how long she'd been here.
Hours, maybe. Days. Time had stopped meaning anything the moment she'd crawled through Flash Thompson's door and let him strip the suit from her body for the second time. The first time had been an accident—a moment of weakness she'd told herself would never happen again. The second time had been a choice. The third time—and the fourth, and the fifth—had been something else entirely.
Something she didn't have words for.
Flash's hands were on her hips. His cock was buried so deep inside her she could feel it in her throat, a fullness that bordered on pain and tipped over into something her brain couldn't categorize. Twelve inches. She'd measured it once, in the haze of a whiskey-soaked night, and the number had stuck in her head like a curse. Devon was maybe four on a good day. Maybe.
The thought of Devon made her stomach clench. Not with guilt—not anymore. Guilt had been the first thing to go, burned away in the heat of Flash's body against hers. What was left was something closer to dread. The knowledge that she'd have to go home eventually. That she'd have to look into those warm brown eyes and lie.
She was so tired of lying.
"Where'd you go?"
Flash's voice was a rumble against her throat. He hadn't stopped moving—slow, deep thrusts that made her whole body shudder with every stroke—but his eyes were on her face, sharp and knowing.
"Nowhere," she managed.
"Liar."
He said it without malice. Just a fact. His thumb traced a circle on her hip bone, and Gwen's breath caught in her throat.
"You're thinking about him."
"I'm not."
"I can tell." Flash's hips rolled up, hitting something inside her that made stars burst behind her eyes. "You get this look. Like you're somewhere else. Like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I don't want to be anywhere else."
"Then say his name."
Gwen's jaw tightened. "No."
"Say it."
"I said no—"
He thrust up hard. Brutal. The kind of thrust that knocked the air from her lungs and left her gasping. Gwen's fingers dug into his shoulders, nails breaking skin, and she hated the sound that came out of her mouth—a high, desperate whine that sounded nothing like the woman she used to be.
"Say it," Flash repeated. "Say his name while I'm inside you. I want to hear it."
"Devon." The word came out like a curse. Like something dirty. "Devon. Devon. Devon."
"Good girl."
Gwen wanted to hit him. Wanted to claw his eyes out. Wanted to crawl off his lap and walk out the door and never look back. But her body wouldn't listen. Her body was a traitor, a thing that belonged to him now, and it kept moving, kept riding him, kept taking every inch he gave her like it was the only thing that mattered.
Wanda appeared at the edge of the couch. She was wearing nothing but a silk robe that hung open at the front, revealing the pale curve of her breasts and the dark thatch of hair between her legs. In one hand, she held a glass of whiskey. In the other, Gwen's phone.
"It's been buzzing," Wanda said. She didn't look at Gwen. She looked at Flash, waiting for instruction. "Four times. Same name."
Flash's smile was slow and cruel. "Well, aren't you popular."
"Give it to me."
"I don't think so." He took the phone from Wanda's hand without looking at it, his eyes still fixed on Gwen's face. "I think you should answer it."
"No."
"I think you should answer it right now. While I'm still inside you."
Gwen's blood went cold. "Flash, please—"
"Ah-ah." He pressed a finger to her lips. "What do you call me?"
The word stuck in her throat like a splinter. She hated it. Hated the way it tasted. Hated the way her body responded to it, a flutter low in her belly that she couldn't control.
"Master," she whispered.
"There she is." Flash's smile widened. He held the phone up, thumb hovering over the screen. "Now. You're going to answer this call. You're going to sound normal. You're going to tell him you're fine. And the whole time I'm going to be right here." He shifted his hips, driving deeper, and Gwen bit down on her lip hard enough to taste copper. "Inside you."
"Please don't—"
"Answer it."
He pressed the button.
Devon's voice filled her ear, warm and soft and completely oblivious. "Hey, babe. I was getting worried. You didn't text."
Gwen's throat closed. She could feel Flash's cock twitch inside her, feel the heat of his body against her skin, feel Wanda's eyes on her face like a physical weight. She could hear Devon breathing on the other end of the line, patient and trusting, and she wanted to die.
"I'm fine," she managed. The words came out strangled. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I'm fine. Sorry. Patrol ran long."
"You okay? You sound off."
"Just tired." Flash's hips moved. Slow. Deliberate. A long, dragging thrust that made Gwen's eyes roll back in her head. She bit her lip harder, drawing more blood, and forced her voice to stay steady. "It was a busy night."
"I bet. Listen, I made dinner. That pasta you like. It's in the fridge if you want it when you get home."
Home. The word hit her like a punch to the chest. She thought about their apartment—small, messy, filled with books and plants and photographs of them on the beach last summer. She thought about Devon waiting for her at the kitchen table, a plate of pasta going cold in front of him, his face lighting up every time she walked through the door.
She thought about how she was going to destroy him.
"That sounds nice," she said.
Flash leaned forward and pressed his lips to her throat. Not a kiss. A bite. His teeth scraped against her pulse point, and Gwen's hips jerked involuntarily, grinding down against him. He groaned—low, dirty—and thrust up into her in retaliation.
Gwen's hand flew to her mouth. She caught the moan just in time, muffling it against her palm.
"You still there?" Devon asked.
"Yeah." Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard and tried again. "Yeah, I'm here. Just—tired."
"You should come home. Get some rest."
"I will. Soon."
Flash's hand found her breast. He squeezed, hard, his thumb and forefinger pinching her nipple until she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from screaming. Wanda was watching with dark, hungry eyes, her hand moving between her own legs in slow circles.
"I love you," Devon said.
Three words. Simple. True. A knife to the heart.
"I love you too," Gwen whispered.
She meant it. That was the worst part. She meant every syllable, and she was still here, still riding another man's cock, still letting him use her body like a toy.
Flash pulled the phone away from her ear. His eyes were dark and glittering, and he was smiling that same cruel smile, and Gwen knew what was coming before it happened.
"Good girl," he said.
Then he hung up.
The phone clattered to the floor. Flash's hands closed around Gwen's waist, and before she could draw a breath, he'd flipped her onto her stomach. She landed hard, face pressed into the leather cushions, and he was on her before she could move—one hand on the back of her neck, the other guiding his cock back to her entrance.
"You told him you loved him," he said. "While I was inside you. While you were dripping down my cock."
"I—"
"Say it again."
Gwen whimpered. "Master—"
"No. The other thing."
She knew what he wanted. Hated herself for knowing. The words sat on her tongue like poison, and she tried to swallow them back, tried to keep them inside where they belonged.
But Flash thrust into her, and all the fight went out of her body.
"I love you," she sobbed. "Master, I love you. I love your cock. I love the way you fuck me. I don't want anyone else. I don't want Devon. I never want his pathetic two inches inside me again."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Gwen could hear herself—could hear the desperation in her voice, the raw need, the way she was begging for something she didn't even understand. She wanted to take it back. Wanted to claw the words out of her own throat.
Flash didn't give her time.
He fucked her through the cushions, hard and fast and brutal, and the couch scraped across the marble floor with every thrust. Gwen's hands scrambled for purchase, found nothing, and she just took it—took every inch, every brutal stroke, every grunt of satisfaction that fell from Flash's lips.
"You're mine," he growled. "Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Say it."
"I'm yours, Master. I'm yours. I'm yours."
"Your pussy belongs to me."
"Yes."
"Your mouth belongs to me."
"Yes."
"Your ass belongs to me."
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
"Your heart belongs to me."
Gwen hesitated. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Flash to feel it, to slow his rhythm, to lean down and press his mouth to her ear.
"Say it," he whispered.
"My heart belongs to you," she said.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. Devon had her heart—would always have her heart—but the words came out anyway, and Flash's laugh was a knife in her back.
"Good girl."
He came with a roar, emptying himself inside her, and Gwen felt every pulse, every throb, every drop of him claiming her from the inside out.
When he finally pulled out, she collapsed onto the couch, shaking, crying, hating herself more than she'd ever hated anyone in her life.
Wanda appeared beside her. Her fingers were wet, glistening with her own pleasure, and she reached out to stroke Gwen's hair like a mother comforting a child.
"He's right, you know," Wanda murmured. "You are good. The best he's ever had."
Gwen didn't answer. She couldn't.
She just lay there, surrounded by the smell of whiskey and sex, and wondered how many more pieces of herself she had left to lose.
The leather was slick beneath her cheek. Sweat and something else—she didn't want to name it—pooled in the creases of the cushion, and she could smell the musk of her own arousal mixed with the sharp bite of Flash's release still leaking down her thigh. Her legs wouldn't stop shaking. Small tremors that started in her calves and radiated upward, like her body was trying to expel something it couldn't reach.
Wanda's fingers were still in her hair. Gentle. Almost tender. The kind of touch that might have been comforting if it wasn't coming from a woman who'd just watched her get fucked into oblivion without blinking.
"You're crying," Wanda observed.
Gwen hadn't noticed. She reached up and touched her cheek, found it wet, and laughed—a broken, ugly sound that scraped against her own ears.
"So?"
"So nothing." Wanda's hand slid down to cup Gwen's jaw, tilting her face up. "It's beautiful, that's all. The way you break."
Flash was already across the room. He'd pulled on a pair of black sweats that hung low on his hips, and he stood at the window with his back to them, phone in hand, scrolling through something Gwen couldn't see. The city lights painted his silhouette in neon and shadow. He looked like a god. Looked like something carved from marble and spite.
Gwen hated how much she wanted him to turn around.
"Get up," he said without looking.
She tried. Her arms gave out halfway, and she collapsed back onto the couch with a grunt. Everything ached. Her thighs burned. There was a tenderness deep in her core that pulsed with every heartbeat, a reminder of exactly how deep he'd been, how hard he'd pushed, how completely he'd rearranged her insides.
"I said get up."
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder."
Wanda helped her. Of course she did. The woman was always there, always ready to guide Gwen's trembling body into whatever position Flash wanted her in. She pulled Gwen to her feet, steadied her when she swayed, and then—because she was Wanda, because cruelty and kindness were the same thing in her hands—she pressed a soft kiss to Gwen's forehead.
"He's not done with you yet," she whispered.
Gwen's stomach dropped. "What?"
"You'll see."
Flash turned from the window. His eyes swept over her—naked, wrecked, still dripping—and something flickered in his expression. Not warmth. Not affection. Possession. The look a man gives a car he's just bought, or a house he's just signed the deed for.
"Wanda," he said. "Helen."
Gwen's blood went cold. She'd forgotten. God, she'd actually forgotten her mother was here. But Wanda was already moving toward the far end of the penthouse, toward the massive bed that dominated the loft's upper level, and Gwen heard the soft rustle of sheets, a sleepy murmur, and then Helen's voice—rough and half-awake—floating down from above.
"What time is it?"
"Time for you to earn your keep," Flash called back.
Helen appeared at the railing. Naked. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, her lips were swollen, and there were marks on her breasts—bite marks, Gwen realized with a lurch—that hadn't been there before. Her mother looked debauched. Looked ruined. And when her eyes found Gwen standing naked in the middle of the room, still trembling, still leaking, she didn't look surprised.
She looked hungry.
"Both of you," Flash said. "On the bed. I want to watch."
Wanda took Helen's hand. Led her back to the mattress. Gwen watched her mother stretch out on the silk sheets like she belonged there, like she'd always belonged there, and felt something crack open in her chest.
"Don't just stand there," Flash said. "You're part of this too."
Gwen's legs carried her forward before her brain could argue. She climbed onto the bed on autopilot, settling beside her mother, and tried not to flinch when Helen reached out to stroke her hair.
"You did so well," Helen murmured. "I heard you. Through the phone. You were perfect."
"Mom—"
"Shh." Helen's finger pressed to Gwen's lips. "No talking. Just feeling."
Across the bed, Wanda had already begun. Her hands were on Helen's thighs, spreading them, her mouth trailing wet kisses down the older woman's stomach. Helen's breath hitched. Her back arched. And Gwen—driven by something she refused to name—leaned in and pressed her lips to her mother's throat.
Helen moaned.
It was a sound Gwen had heard before, just hours ago, but hearing it this close, feeling it vibrate against her own mouth—it was different. It was worse. It was better. Her tongue traced the line of Helen's jaw, and Helen's fingers tangled in Gwen's hair, pulling her closer, and then they were kissing—really kissing—mouths open, tongues sliding, tasting of whiskey and each other.
"I knew it," Wanda breathed against Helen's hip. "I knew you'd be like this."
Gwen wanted to stop. She wanted to pull away and run and never look back. But her mother's mouth was soft and insistent, and Wanda's fingers had found her again—sliding between her legs from behind, pressing into the wet heat that Flash had left behind—and all thoughts of running dissolved into static.
"Don't stop," Helen gasped. "Please, baby, don't stop—"
Gwen didn't.
She kissed her way down her mother's body. Past the hollow of her throat, past the swell of her breasts, past the soft curve of her stomach. Wanda met her there, lips glossy, eyes bright, and together they descended on Helen like something out of a fever dream.
Wanda's tongue found Helen's clit first. Gwen watched—fascinated, horrified—as her mother's hips bucked off the mattress, as her hands fisted in Wanda's hair, as a string of filthy words poured from her lips. Then Wanda pulled back, grabbed Gwen by the back of the head, and guided her down.
"Your turn," she said.
Gwen's mouth met her mother's cunt.
The taste was sharp and musky and familiar, and she hated how natural it felt—how her tongue knew where to press, how her lips knew how to circle, how her whole being seemed to hum with purpose the moment she started. Helen screamed. Actually screamed. Her thighs clamped around Gwen's head, and her hips ground upward, and she chanted Gwen's name like a prayer.
"Fuck, baby, right there. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop—"
Wanda slid lower. Her fingers found Gwen's ass, still slick with lube from earlier, and pressed inside. Gwen groaned against her mother's flesh, the vibration making Helen gasp, and Wanda laughed—low and dirty—and added another finger.
"Two of us at once," Wanda murmured. "How does it feel?"
"Good," Gwen heard herself say. "So good—"
"Good girl."
The phrase hit her like a slap. She looked up, mouth still buried in her mother's cunt, and found Flash standing at the foot of the bed. His sweats were gone. His cock was hard. And he was watching them—all three of them—with that same possessive hunger that made Gwen's stomach flip and her thighs clench.
"Don't stop," he said. "I'm just enjoying the view."
Wanda's fingers curled inside her. Gwen's hips jerked. Her tongue stuttered against her mother's clit, and Helen cried out—high and desperate—and then she was coming, flooding Gwen's mouth with wet heat, shaking so hard the whole bed trembled.
Gwen pulled back, gasping, her face slick and her chest heaving. Wanda was right there, kissing her before she could catch her breath—tasting Helen on Gwen's lips, moaning like it was the sweetest thing she'd ever had.
"My turn," Wanda said.
She climbed over Gwen's body, positioning herself above Gwen's face, and lowered herself down without waiting for permission. Gwen's tongue found her clit by instinct. Wanda's hips rolled in slow circles, grinding against Gwen's mouth, and she reached back to grab Helen's hand.
"Together," Wanda panted. "Both of you."
Helen understood. She crawled between Gwen's legs, spread her wide, and buried her face in Gwen's cunt. Gwen screamed against Wanda's flesh. Her hips bucked. Her hands scrambled for something to hold onto—found Wanda's thighs, found her mother's hair, found nothing at all.
Flash's hand closed around his cock. He stroked himself slowly, watching them, and Gwen could feel his eyes on her like a physical weight—like he was already inside her, even though he was feet away.
"Look at you," he said. "Three women. All of you mine. All of you so fucking desperate for each other."
Wanda came first—a shuddering, gasping climax that left her slumped forward, her forehead pressed to the headboard. Helen followed, her tongue still working against Gwen's clit, her hips grinding against the sheets. And Gwen—caught between them, filled by them, consumed by them—came last.
It ripped through her like a storm. Her back arched. Her vision whited out. She screamed something—a name, a word, she didn't know—and then she was falling, floating, drowning in the heat of her own release.
When she came back to herself, Flash was on the bed.
He'd positioned himself between her legs. His cock was pressing against her entrance—still slick, still ready—and his face was inches from hers.
"One more," he said. "For me."
"I can't—"
"You can."
"I can't, Flash, please—"
His hand closed around her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. The weight of it was enough to make her go still.
"What do you call me?"
Gwen's eyes burned. Her body screamed. But her mouth—her traitorous, broken, desperate mouth—opened and gave him exactly what he wanted.
"Master."
"Good girl."
He thrust inside her. One long, brutal stroke that filled her to the hilt, and Gwen screamed—not from pain, not from pleasure, but from the impossible collision of both. Her body was raw. Her nerves were shot. Every stroke felt like lightning, like fire, like something that should have killed her and didn't.
"Say it," he grunted.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, Master. I love your cock. I love the way you fuck me. I love being yours."
"Whose are you?"
"Yours. Only yours. Forever yours."
"Who do you belong to?"
"You. Only you. No one else. Not Devon. Not anyone. Just you."
He fucked her faster. Harder. The headboard slammed against the wall, and Gwen heard something crack—the wood, the plaster, she didn't know—but she didn't care. She couldn't care. All she could do was take it and say the words and mean them, even though she knew she shouldn't, even though she knew she'd hate herself tomorrow.
"I'm yours," she sobbed. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours—"
He came with a roar. Hot and deep, filling her again, and Gwen felt every pulse like a brand. When he pulled out, she collapsed onto the sheets, utterly spent, utterly broken, and stared at the ceiling while her mother and Wanda curled up on either side of her like devoted pets.
Flash stood. Walked to the window. Lit a cigarette and blew smoke against the glass.
"You'll stay here tonight," he said. It wasn't a question.
Gwen closed her eyes.
"Yes, Master."
The words didn't hurt anymore.
That was the worst part.