Chapter 52: The Wife Slut's Training
The needle went in easy.
Emma pushed the plunger down slow, watching the girl's face as the heroin hit her bloodstream. Emily's eyes—already glassy from the first shot that Emma gave her in Emma’s bedroom before she had Emily fuck her for thr first time —rolled back a little, her mouth going slack, her whole body sinking into the mattress like she'd been filled with warm sand.
"That's it," Emma murmured. She pulled the needle out, pressed her thumb to the tiny bead of blood, held it there until it stopped. "Good girl. You did good."
Emily made a sound. Not words. Just a soft, satisfied hum that vibrated through her chest.
Emma stood. The cocaine Caron had given her in the foyer was still buzzing at the base of her skull—that electric edge, that wired clarity, the feeling that her heart was beating too fast and too loud and she never wanted it to stop. She'd done two lines off the marble while the men were finishing with Emily. Then a third. Then Caron had pressed a small glass vial into her palm and said, later
She walked to the window. The forest was black beyond the glass, the pines swallowed by night, the moon a thin white sliver behind the clouds. Her reflection stared back at her—pupils blown, jaw tight, hair a mess from the men's hands.
She looked like her mother.
She turned away.
Behind her, Emily was still sprawled on the bed, wrists bound to the headboard with silk scarves. Emma had tied them loose enough to keep her comfortable but tight enough that she couldn't move much. The girl's legs were splayed, her cunt still wet and puffy from Diego, her thighs slick with dried come and her own arousal.
Emma climbed onto the bed. Straddled Emily's face. Looked down at those wide, drugged eyes.
"Open your mouth."
Emily opened her mouth.
Emma lowered herself onto it.
The first contact was electric—Emily's tongue, warm and wet, pressing against her clit like she'd been doing this her whole life. Emma braced her hands on the headboard and started to move. Slow at first. Grinding. Finding the rhythm.
"That's it," she breathed. "Right there. Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
Emily didn't stop. Her tongue worked frantically, lapping at Emma's cunt like it was the only thing keeping her alive. She couldn't use her hands—they were tied—but she didn't need them. Her mouth was enough. Her mouth was everything.
Emma's hips bucked. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. The cocaine made everything sharper—every lick, every flick, every wet slide of Emily's tongue against her clit felt amplified through a megaphone.
She looked down. Emily's eyes were open, staring up at her, unfocused but devoted. Tears leaked from the corners, running down her temples into her hair. She was crying. She was crying and she was still licking, still sucking, still doing exactly what she'd been told.
"Fuck," Emma whispered.
She rode Emily's face harder. Faster. She grabbed the headboard and fucked herself on that tongue like it was a cock, grinding her clit against Emily's open mouth, using her like a toy.
The orgasm built low in her belly. Spread outward. She felt it in her fingertips, her toes, the roots of her teeth.
From the doorway, a soft sound. Emma turned her head.
Caron stood there. Arms crossed. Leaning against the frame, that small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She'd been watching. She'd probably been watching the whole time.
"Now you're ready for Hector," Caron said.
Emma came.
It hit her like a fist. She clenched her thighs around Emily's head, her whole body shuddering, a raw moan tearing out of her throat. Emily kept licking through it—good girl, perfect girl—her tongue working through the aftershocks until Emma finally pushed herself off, collapsing onto the mattress beside her.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Emily's chest rose and fell in shallow, drugged flutters. Emma stared at the ceiling, her heart pounding, her mind a blank white screen.
Caron crossed the room. Sat on the edge of the bed. Brushed a strand of hair from Emily's face.
"She's a natural," Caron said. "Hector will be pleased."
Emma didn't answer.
"Are you listening to me?"
"I'm listening."
"Good." Caron stood. Walked to the dresser. Poured herself a glass of water from the silver pitcher and drank it slowly. "He arrives tomorrow. Noon. He'll want to see what you've done with her. He'll want to test her. Test you."
Emma sat up. Wiped her mouth. "What kind of test?"
"Whatever he decides." Caron set the glass down. "That's not the point. The point is you don't flinch. You don't hesitate. You don't show weakness, not even for a second. He'll be looking for it."
Emma looked at Emily. The girl was half-asleep, her bound wrists slack against the scarves, her mouth still wet with Emma's come. She looked small. Broken. Perfect.
"I won't flinch," Emma said.
Caron smiled. "I know."
She crossed to the bed. Leaned down. Kissed Emma on the mouth—slow, soft, the kind of kiss that was almost gentle. Emma tasted champagne on her tongue. Felt Caron's hand slide up her thigh. Felt two fingers push inside her, easy and wet, curling against that spot that made her gasp.
"One more thing," Caron murmured against her lips.
"What?"
"Hector likes to share."
Emma's cunt clenched around Caron's fingers. "I know."
"He'll want to watch. And he'll want you to do things you don't want to do." Caron twisted her wrist, slow and deliberate. "You'll do them anyway."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I'll do them anyway."
Caron pulled her fingers out. Lifted them to her mouth. Sucked them clean while Emma watched.
"Good," she said. "Then we're ready."
She left.
Emma sat on the bed for a long time after the door closed. The cocaine was fading, leaving her hollow and tired and strange. She looked at Emily—still tied, still high, still here—and felt something she couldn't name.
Not love. Not even affection.
Ownership.
She untied the scarves. Rubbed Emily's wrists where they'd been bound. Pulled a blanket up to the girl's chin and turned off the lamp on the nightstand.
Emily stirred. "Ma'am?"
"Sleep."
"Are you... are you my mommy now?"
Emma froze. The words hit her somewhere soft and unprotected, somewhere she'd forgotten she had.
"No," she said. "I'm not your mother."
"Then what are you?"
Emma lay down beside her. Stared at the ceiling. The silence stretched out like a road at night.
"I'm the one who owns you and you are my fuck toy," she said finally. "I expect you to be well groomed at all times with sexy makeup and dressed in classy cloths that show off your beautiful body and at the same time says I’m here to be fucked. Many women disconnect from being fucked many times a day but is better to do the opposite and connect and constantly try to give even more pleasure to the men and women fucking you as your body was meant to and at the same time enjoy the pleasure your body is giving you and always try to increase your pleasure as well. Try to increase the number of and duration and intensity of your orgasms. I also want you to smoke. Also drink so you’re always drunk. Do the drugs so you are always high. Always have a bottle of vodkaat your nightstand so you can wash down the Xanax and oxy before you go to sleep and when you first wake up in the morning. Take as many pills in the day to keep you high in between shooting up with heroin. If you do these things you will have a happy comfortable life. Do you understand and accept it?
Emily nodded and said yes. Closed her eyes. Within minutes, her breathing evened out, deep and drugged and trusting.
Emma stayed awake. The vial of coke sat on the nightstand, catching the moonlight. She could do another line. Could stay up. Could plan tomorrow. Could think about Hector and what he'd want and whether there was a single scenario where she walked out of this house alive.
Instead she pulled the blanket up higher. Tucked it around Emily's shoulders. Absurd gesture. Pointless. She did it anyway.
Then she reached for the vial.
The clock on the nightstand ticked forward. The dawn crept closer.
The needle went in clean.
Emma felt the spike of warmth shoot up her arm, spread across her chest, settle into the back of her skull like a hand cradling her brain. She exhaled through her teeth. The room softened at the edges—the marble, the bed, the girl curled on the floor, all of it going gauzy and kind.
Caron pulled the needle out. Pressed a cotton ball to the tiny wound. Kissed Emma's inner elbow like she was sealing something sacred.
"Good," Caron murmured. "Now her."
Emma looked down. Emily was still on the floor, still naked, still floating on the first wave of her very first high. Her eyes tracked nothing. Her mouth hung open. A thin string of drool connected her lips to the marble.
"Emily."
The girl blinked. Slow. Like a cat waking from a dream.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Look at me."
Emily looked up. Or tried to. Her head lolled. Her pupils were enormous—black holes swallowing the blue of her irises. The whites of her eyes were shot through with red.
Emma crouched beside her. Cupped her jaw. The skin was warm and damp from earlier—sweat, saliva, the slick of Emma's own cunt still drying on her chin.
"You feel that?" Emma asked.
There was a long pause. Emily's tongue dragged across her bottom lip. "Feel what?"
"The warm. Inside you. Like honey in your bones."
Emily's brow furrowed. She was trying to think, and the effort was visible. A muscle twitched in her cheek. Then her face went slack again, and she smiled—a dopey, drugged, utterly disarmed smile.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Yeah, I feel it."
"Good. That's yours now. As long as you're good. As long as you do what I say."
"What if I'm not good?"
Emma let go of her jaw. Stood. Looked down at the girl—the collar, the trembling thighs, the empty, trusting face.
"Then it goes away. And it never comes back."
Emily nodded. Her head bobbed like it was too heavy for her neck. "I'll be good. I'll be so good. I swear."
Emma believed her.
Caron had moved to the window. She stood with her back to them, smoking, the afternoon light turning her silhouette into something sharp and unknowable. The smoke curled around her head like a halo made of poison.
Emma looked at her cunt. It was still slick from earlier. Still open. Still hungry.
"Get on the bed," she told Emily.
The girl crawled. Slow. Ungainly. Her knees kept slipping on the marble, and once she stopped entirely, staring at her own hands like she'd never seen them before.
"C'mon," Emma said. "You can do it."
Emily made it to the bed. Collapsed onto the silk sheets. Rolled onto her back, her legs falling open without being told.
Emma climbed on top of her.
She looked down at the girl—the smooth cheeks, the wide eyes, the collar so tight it left red marks on her throat. Emily looked back up at her with something that wasn't quite love and wasn't quite fear. It was devotion. Pure and uncomplicated and pathetic.
Emma kissed her.
Emily's mouth tasted like cigarettes and cunt and the faint chemical bitterness of the heroin. Her tongue was clumsy but eager. She didn't know how to kiss—not really—but she was learning fast, following Emma's lead, mimicking the rhythm, the pressure, the way Emma's teeth caught her bottom lip and pulled.
Emma reached between them. Slid her fingers through Emily's folds. The girl was wet—soaking, actually, her thighs slick with it, the smell rising up thick and sweet and raw.
"You like this," Emma said.
"Uh-huh."
"You like being used."
"Uh-huh."
"Say it."
Emily's eyes fluttered open. She looked up at Emma with that empty, trusting face and said, "I like being used. I like being yours. I want—I want—"
She didn't finish. Emma pushed two fingers inside her, and the words dissolved into a moan.
Emily's cunt was tight. Hot. Clenching around her fingers like a fist. Emma fucked her slowly, deliberately, curling her fingers on every stroke, watching Emily's face contort with pleasure she didn't have words for.
"That feel good?"
"Yes—yes—"
"You want more?"
"Please."
Emma pulled her fingers out. Emily whimpered. But Emma was already moving—straddling her face, lowering her cunt to Emily's mouth.
"Use your tongue. Same as before."
Emily obeyed. She was better this time. More confident. Her tongue found Emma's clit and worried it in circles, quick and light, like she'd been doing this for years.
From the window, Caron said, "She's a natural."
Emma didn't answer. Just rocked her hips, slow, grinding her cunt against that eager mouth. The heroin was singing in her veins. Her whole body felt like liquid gold.
She looked at the mirror on the far wall and saw herself—pale and arched and terrible, a girl with track marks and dead eyes and a mouth that had learned to say yes. She looked like Caron. She looked like Moreau. She looked like every ghost that had ever touched her.
She looked away.
The second orgasm came quickly. Sharp. Almost violent. She clenched her teeth and rode it out, her thighs squeezing Emily's head, her fingers twisted in the girl's hair.
Emily didn't stop. Not until Emma's body went slack. Not until Emma pushed herself away and sprawled on the sheets beside her.
The three of them stayed like that for a long time.
Caron in the chair. Emma on the bed. Emily between them, curled on her side, her lips swollen and her eyes closed.
The sun moved across the floor. The shadows lengthened.
Then the doorbell rang.
Not the soft chime of the city house, but the deep, sonorous buzzer of the forest estate—the one that echoed through every room, every corridor, every hollow place.
Emma opened her eyes.
Caron was already standing. Her cigarette was dead in the ashtray. Her face had shifted—the mask sliding back into place, the warmth drained out of it.
"That'll be Hector," she said.
Emma sat up. The heroin was still in her blood, but the world had gone sharp and cold again.
That'll be Hector.
Emily didn't move. She was asleep. Or something like sleep. Her breathing was slow and even, her body limp, her collar glinting in the dying light.
Emma looked at her.
Then she looked at Caron.
"What do we do with her?"
Caron smiled. That slow, knowing, terrible smile.
"We show her to him. That's what we do."
She crossed to the bed. Knelt beside Emily. Brushed the hair back from her face with a tenderness that made Emma's stomach turn.
"He gave her to us," Caron said. "He'll want to see how we've used her."
Emma stood. Her legs were unsteady. Her cunt was still wet. Her veins were still warm.
She walked to the wardrobe and pulled out a dress—black, simple, sleeveless. Stepped into it. Zipped it up. Ran her fingers through her hair.
"Five minutes," Caron said. "Then bring her down."
She left.
Emma stood in the middle of the room. The mirror showed her everything—the dress, the face, the girl asleep on the bed.
She thought about Vancouver. The gunshot. The blood on the wall.
She thought about running.
Then she leaned down and shook Emily awake.
"Get up," she said. "We have company."
Emily's eyes opened. Glassy. Confused. Then they found Emma's face, and the confusion melted into that same pathetic, trusting devotion.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
Emma pulled her to her feet. Found a robe. Wrapped it around her. Tied the belt at her waist.
"Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Don't look at him unless he asks. Don't move unless I tell you."
"Yes, ma'am."
Emma took her hand. Led her out of the penthouse. Down the stairs. Through the corridors.
The buzzer rang again—longer this time, more impatient.
They reached the top of the grand staircase.
Below, the foyer was lit up like a stage. Caron stood by the door, her back straight, her hands clasped. And through the frosted glass, a silhouette—tall, broad, patient.
Hector Lopez had arrived.
The sun had climbed past the eucalyptus tops by the time the helicopter's rotors faded from earshot. Emma heard it first—the thrum cutting through the morning quiet, then the silence that followed.
She was still naked on the marble, Emily curled against her side like a cat, Caron sprawled across the bed with one arm draped over her eyes. The third syringe lay empty on the tray.
Boots on the stairs.
Caron was on her feet before Emma could blink. She pulled her skirt down, smoothed her hair, and walked to the top of the staircase with the fluid grace of someone who'd been waiting.
Emma heard the front door open. Heard the heavy tread across the marble foyer. Then Caron's voice, warm and low, carrying down the corridor.
"Hector. It's so good to have you back."
Emma pulled her robe on. Crossed to the doorway. Looked down the stairs.
Hector Lopez stood in the foyer, travel-worn and dark-eyed, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder and a duffel bag at his feet. He was older than she'd imagined—fifty, maybe fifty-five—with silver threading his black hair and a face that had seen everything and forgiven nothing.
Caron descended the stairs. She didn't stop until she was pressed against him, her hands on his chest, her mouth finding his.
The kiss was deep. Slow. The kind of kiss that said I've been waiting and you're mine and don't ever leave again all at once. Hector's hands slid down her back. Grabbed her ass. Pulled her closer.
When they broke apart, Caron was breathing hard.
"Miss me?" she asked.
Hector didn't answer. He slid his hand between her legs instead.
Caron gasped. Her head fell back. Emma watched from the top of the stairs as Hector's fingers disappeared under her skirt—two of them, maybe three, moving in a rhythm that made Caron's knees buckle.
"Right there," Caron breathed. "Don't stop."
Hector didn't stop. His thumb found her clit. His fingers curled inside her. Caron's hips bucked against his hand, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that echoed off the marble walls.
The first orgasm hit fast. Caron's mouth opened. Her eyes squeezed shut. She came with a low moan, her body shuddering against Hector's chest.
He didn't give her time to recover. His fingers kept moving, relentless, drawing a second orgasm out of her before the first had fully faded. Caron sobbed. Clung to him. Came again.
The third one took longer. Hector worked her slowly this time—his fingers deep, his thumb circling, his mouth on her throat. Caron's legs gave out. He caught her. Held her up. Made her take it.
When she finally came, she screamed.
The sound bounced off the chandelier. Emma felt it in her teeth. Emily stirred beside her, still high, still dreamy, still oblivious.
Hector pulled his hand out. Lifted his fingers to Caron's mouth. She sucked them clean without being told.
"Good girl," he said.
Caron smiled. That slow, knowing smile.
"I have something for you," she said.
"I know. I heard." Hector looked up—past Caron, past the stairs, straight at Emma. "The pet. I want to see her."
Emma's stomach flipped.
"Bring her to the den," Hector said. "I'll be waiting."
He picked up his duffel bag and walked past Caron, past the stairs, into the east wing. The door to the den clicked shut behind him.
Caron turned. Looked up at Emma with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"You heard him."
Emma nodded.
"Bring the girl. Both of you come."
Emma helped Emily to her feet. The girl swayed. Her pupils were still blown, her mouth still slack, her skin still flushed from the heroin and the orgasms and the strange, terrifying newness of everything.
Emma wrapped her in a silk throw from the bed. Led her down the stairs. Caron walked ahead, her heels clicking on the marble, her skirt still damp with her own come.
The den was at the end of the east corridor—a long, low room lined with bookshelves and leather chairs, a fire burning in the grate despite the morning warmth, a bearskin rug spread across the floor. Hector stood by the window, looking out at the pines.
He turned when they entered.
Emily shrank against Emma's side. Emma held her steady. Caron crossed to a leather armchair and sat, crossing her legs, watching.
"Come here," Hector said.
Emma led Emily forward. Stopped three feet from him. He looked at the girl—really looked at her, the way a man looks at a horse he's thinking of buying. His eyes moved from her face to her neck to her breasts to the silk throw draped over her hips.
"Drop it," he said.
Emma pulled the silk away. Emily stood naked on the bearskin. Her skin was pale. Her thighs were still smeared with her own juices. Her cunt was bare and pink and still swollen from the earlier attention.
Hector walked around her. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers trailed across her shoulder, down her spine, over the curve of her ass.
Emily shivered.
"Turn around," Hector said.
She turned. Faced him. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, but her body obeyed like it had been trained for years instead of hours.
Hector knelt. Spread her legs with his hands. Looked at her cunt like it was a puzzle he was solving.
"Virgin?" he asked.
"No," Emma said. "But close."
Hector smiled. It wasn't a warm smile.
He stood. Unbuckled his belt. The sound of leather sliding through loops made Emily flinch.
"On your knees," he said.
Emily obeyed. Her knees hit the bearskin. Hector stepped out of his trousers and underwear, his cock already hard—thick, uncut, the kind of cock that would stretch anyone.
He grabbed Emily by the hair. Pulled her face to his shaft.
"Suck it."
Emily opened her mouth. Took him in. Her eyes watered. She gagged once, twice, then found a rhythm—clumsy but eager, her tongue working the underside, her lips sealed around his girth.
Emma stood beside Caron, her cunt already wet again, her pulse hammering in her throat.
"Not bad," Hector said. "She learns fast."
"She's motivated," Caron said.
Hector pulled Emily off his cock by the hair. She gasped. Drool ran down her chin.
"On the rug," he said. "Ass up."
Emily crawled onto the bearskin. Pressed her face into the fur. Raised her ass in the air. Her cunt was exposed, glistening, her asshole a tiny pink knot between her cheeks.
Hector knelt behind her. Slid two fingers into her cunt, testing. Emily moaned.
"Wet," he said. "Good."
He pulled his fingers out. Spat on his palm. Stroked his cock twice, three times. Then he pressed the head against Emily's entrance.
"Remember what I told you," Emma said.
Emily turned her head. Looked at Emma with those drugged, devoted eyes.
"Give him everything," she whispered.
Hector pushed in.
Emily's mouth opened in a silent scream. Her fingers clawed the bearskin. Hector didn't stop—just kept pushing, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against her ass.
"Tight," he breathed. "Fuck."
He started to move. Slow at first. Then harder. Emily's whole body rocked with each thrust. Her tits bounced. Her ass jiggled. She made sounds that weren't quite words—high and desperate and hungry.
Emma watched. Her hand found her own cunt through the robe. Caron watched too, her fingers moving under her skirt.
"You taught her well," Caron said.
"I taught her to want it," Emma said.
Hector fucked Emily like she was a piece of equipment. Relentless. Precise. He reached around her hip. Found her clit with his thumb. Emily jerked.
"Don't fight it," Emma said. "Let it build."
Emily's response was a sob. She pushed back against him—meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper, her whole body straining toward something she didn't have words for.
Hector's thumb worked her clit in tight circles. His other hand grabbed her hip. Emily's breath came faster. Her thighs started to shake.
"That's it," Emma said. "Let go."
Emily came. Loud. Messy. Her cunt clenched around Hector's cock, and he growled, low in his throat, but he didn't come. He pulled out and watched her collapse onto the rug, panting, her ass still in the air.
"Now the other hole," he said.
Emily's eyes went wide.
Emma crossed to her. Knelt beside her. Stroked her hair.
"Remember what I said? Take everything he gives you. Make him feel good. And let yourself feel good too."
Emily nodded. Her breath was still ragged.
Hector spat on his fingers. Massaged her asshole. Pushed one finger in.
Emily whimpered. But didn't pull away.
"That's it," Emma said. "Relax."
Two fingers. Three. Then Hector withdrew, slicked his cock with more spit, and pressed it against her asshole.
Emily screamed when he pushed in.
But she didn't try to escape. She pushed back. Took him deeper. Her asshole stretched around his cock like it had been made for this.
Hector fucked her slowly at first. Letting her adjust. Then faster. Then harder. Emily's screams turned to moans. Her cunt dripped onto the bearskin.
Emma turned to Caron. Caron was already on her feet, her skirt on the floor, nothing underneath. She walked over to Emma. Pulled the robe off her shoulders. Pressed their bodies together.
"You like watching?" Caron whispered.
Emma couldn't answer. Her throat was too dry.
Caron pushed her back onto the leather armchair. Spread her legs. Knelt between them. Her mouth found Emma's cunt, and Emma arched off the chair.
Hector fucked Emily's ass. Caron ate Emma's cunt. The fire crackled. The bearskin was soaked.
Emily came again. Her whole body convulsed. Hector kept going—slamming into her, using her, until finally he pulled out and stroked himself twice and came across her back. Hot ropes of it, dripping down her spine, pooling in the small of her back.
Caron barely noticed. Her tongue was deep inside Emma's cunt. Her fingers were on Emma's clit.
Emma came with a scream. Then again. Then a third time, shaking, sobbing, her whole body wrung out.
When she opened her eyes, Hector was standing over her. His cock was soft. His chest was heaving. Emily lay on the bearskin, covered in come and sweat, her eyes closed.
"Not bad," Hector said. "You trained her well."
Emma couldn't speak. Caron pulled away, licked her lips. Stood.
"I told you," Caron said. "She's special."
Hector crossed to the minibar. Poured four shots of vodka. Lined them up on the table. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bag of pills—white, oval-shaped, prescription.
"Oxy," he said. "Xanax. Wash it down."
He gave each of them two pills. Emma swallowed hers with the vodka. Caron did the same. Emily—barely conscious—swallowed when Emma held the glass to her lips.
Then Hector pulled out a syringe kit. The good stuff. The kind of China White that killed people who didn't know their limits.
He shot Emily first. Then Caron. Then Emma.
The rush hit as the sun finally broke through the windows. Warm. Soft. The whole world gone quiet.
Hector stood. Buttoned his shirt. Looked at the three women sprawled across the rug and the chair and the floor.
"I'm going to bed," he said. "I've been traveling for eighteen hours. Don't wake me."
He left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Caron laughed. A low, wrecked sound.
"Welcome to the family," she said.
Emma closed her eyes. Emily curled against her side. The fire cracked. The drugs sang in her veins.
She smiled.