Chapter 71: The Future Wife's Claim
The fire had burned down to embers by the time Hector finally pulled out of her.
Veronica lay face-down on the fur rug, her body a ruin of sweat and semen and bruises. Her thighs were slick with everything he had pumped into her over the past two hours—come leaking from her cunt, her ass, even her mouth where he had finished the last round. She could taste herself on her lips. Could taste him. Could taste the vodka and the coke and the heroin all mixed together in a bitter cocktail that coated her tongue.
She didn't move.
Couldn't move.
Her limbs were lead. Her mind was static. The world had narrowed to the crackling fire and the smell of sex and the distant sound of jazz bleeding through the walls.
Hector stood over her, his cock still half-hard, glistening with her fluids. He reached down and slapped her ass—hard enough to leave a handprint.
"Get up."
She tried.
Her arms shook. Her knees buckled. She made it to her hands and knees before collapsing again, her face pressing into the fur.
"I said get up."
"I can't."
He grabbed her by the hair and hauled her upright.
She swayed on her knees, her head lolling, her eyes struggling to focus. The room was spinning. The fire was too bright. The music was too loud.
"Drink."
He pressed a bottle of vodka to her lips.
She drank.
The liquid burned going down, but it also steadied her. Cleared some of the fog. She took another swallow, then another, until Hector pulled the bottle away.
"Good. Now this."
He held out a mirror with three fat lines of coke already laid out.
She didn't hesitate. She leaned forward and snorted the first line, then the second, then the third. The burn was instant—a sharp, electric jolt that shot through her sinuses and exploded behind her eyes.
"Fuck," she gasped.
"Better?"She nodded. The room was still spinning, but now it was spinning faster. Sharper. She could feel every nerve ending in her body firing at once.
"Good. Because we're not done."
He pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the bed.
The four-poster loomed in front of her, its massive frame draped in velvet and silk. She crawled onto the mattress, her body moving on autopilot, and collapsed onto her back.
Hector followed.
He positioned himself between her legs—not to fuck her, not yet. He just looked at her. His eyes traveled from her face to her tits to her cunt, taking in every bruise, every mark, every trace of what he had done.
"You're a mess."
"I know."
"You're beautiful."
She didn't know what to say to that. So she said nothing.
He reached down and spread her legs wider. His fingers found her cunt—swollen, raw, still dripping—and pushed inside.
She winced.
"Too much?"
"No."
"He smiled."
He curled his fingers, pressing against something inside her that made her gasp. Then he pulled them out and held them up to her face.
"Clean them."
She took his fingers in her mouth and sucked them clean.
"Good girl."
He shifted on the bed, positioning himself at her entrance. She braced herself for the pain—the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness.
But he didn't push in.
Instead, he just held himself there, the head of his cock resting against her cunt, not entering.
"Tell me what you want."
She swallowed.
"I want you to fuck me."
"That's not what I asked." His voice was calm. Patient. "Tell me what you want."
She closed her eyes.
"I want your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can't think. Until I can't breathe. Until I forget my own name."
"That's better."
He pushed in.
It was slow. Deliberate. He entered her inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge, every vein, every fraction of his length. By the time he was fully inside her, she was shaking.
"Open your eyes."
She did.
He was watching her. His face was close to hers, his breath warm on her cheek.
"Look at me while I fuck you."
She looked.
He started to move.
The pace was brutal—hard and fast, each thrust slamming into her with enough force to push her up the bed. She grabbed the sheets, her knuckles white, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"You like that?"
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I love it. I love your cock. I love—"
He kissed her.
It was a rough kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. She kissed him back, matching his intensity, her hands finding his back and digging her nails into his skin.
He fucked her like that for twenty minutes—same position, same pace, same brutal rhythm. She came twice. Maybe three times. She lost count after the second.
When he finally pulled out, she was a quivering wreck.
"Turn over."
She rolled onto her stomach.
"Ass up."
She pushed herself onto her knees, her face still pressed into the mattress.
He pushed into her ass without warning.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming—a tearing, burning sensation that made her scream into the pillow. But she didn't try to move away. She took it. Took all of it.
"That's it," he grunted. "Take it. Take my cock."
She did.
He fucked her ass with the same brutal rhythm, his hips slapping against her cheeks, his balls swinging with every thrust. She could feel herself stretching around him, adjusting, accommodating. The pain was fading now, replaced by something else—a deep, full, almost unbearable pleasure.
"Harder—"
He laughed.
"Greedy bitch."
He grabbed her hips and fucked her harder.
The bed slammed against the wall. The jazz music was drowned out by the sounds of flesh on flesh. She could feel the orgasm building again—low and deep and primal.
Then the door opened.
Veronica heard it through the fog of pleasure and pain—the creak of hinges, the soft click of heels on marble. She couldn't turn her head. Couldn't see who it was.
But Hector could.
He didn't stop fucking her.
"Welcome," he said, his voice steady despite the exertion. "You're just in time."
"Am I interrupting?"
Anna's voice.
Veronica felt a fresh wave of heat wash through her. Not embarrassment—she was past embarrassment. Not shame—she was past that too. Just... something else. Something she couldn't name.
"Not at all." Hector pulled out of Veronica with a wet sound. "Come here."
The mattress dipped as Anna climbed onto the bed.
Veronica turned her head.
Anna was wearing a negligee—sheer black lace that barely covered anything. Her nipples were visible through the fabric, hard and dark. Her hair was down, spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were glassy, pupils dilated.
She was drunk. High. Beautiful.
"Come here," Hector said again.
Anna crawled across the bed.
Hector reached out and pulled her into a kiss—deep, passionate, possessive. His hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back. Anna moaned into his mouth.
When he finally pulled away, Anna's lips were swollen.
"You were perfect today," he said. "My perfect little killer. My future wife."
"
"I learned from the best."
Hector smiled.
"You did." He glanced at Veronica, still on her hands and knees, her ass still slick with lube and sweat. "And now I have a gift for you."
Anna's eyes followed his gaze.
"Oh?"
"Veronica belongs to you now."
Anna's eyebrow rose.
"Belongs to me?"
"Completely. Consider her as a wedding present from me. She's yours to use. Yours to play with. Yours to break if you want." Hector's hand slid up Anna's thigh, pushing the negligee higher. "I want to watch you two get acquainted."
Anna looked at Veronica.
Veronica looked at Anna.
Something passed between them—an understanding, a challenge, a promise.
"Get on your back," Anna said.
Veronica obeyed.
Anna straddled her face.
Veronica could smell her—warm and musky and sweet. Could see Anna's silky smooth lasered glistening cunt lips. Her mouth watered.
"Eat," Anna said.
Veronica lifted her head and pressed her mouth to Anna's cunt.
Removed the negligee and tossed it to the floor.
"I'm the one in charge now, pet," Anna said, her voice low and mocking. "You do what I say when I say it. Understand?"
Veronica nodded, tears and satisfaction brimming in her eyes.
"Good." Anna lowered herself back onto Veronica's face. "Now make me come. And don't stop until I tell you to."
Veronica didn't stop.
She licked and sucked and worshipped—her tongue tracing patterns around Anna's clit, her fingers sliding inside her cunt, her whole face glazed with Anna's arousal. Anna rode her face with abandon, her hips grinding, her moans filling the room.
When she came, it was with a scream that echoed off the walls.
Veronica kept licking.
"Don't stop," Anna gasped. "Don't you dare stop."
She didn't.
Anna came three more times after that. By the fourth orgasm, she was shaking, her thighs squeezing Veronica's head, her fingers tangled in Veronica's hair.
"Enough," she finally said. "Enough."
Veronica pulled her mouth away.
Her face was soaked—chin, cheeks, lips all slick with Anna's come. She could barely breathe. Could barely see.
Anna climbed off her face and stretched out beside her.
"You're good at that."
"I know."
Anna laughed—a real laugh, not the cold, calculated thing she usually did.
"Cocky bitch."
"So I've been told."
Anna turned to Hector, who had been watching from the edge of the bed, his hand slowly stroking his cock.
"Now what?"
Hector smiled.
"Now you fuck her."
Anna's eyes lit up.
"With what?"
"Whatever you want." He gestured to a cabinet against the wall—one Veronica hadn't noticed before. "Take your pick."
Anna climbed off the bed and walked to the cabinet. She opened it and looked inside.
Veronica couldn't see what was in there. Couldn't see what Anna selected. But she heard her rummaging, heard the clink of something hard, the buzz of something electric.
When Anna turned around, she was holding two things: a strap-on harness with a thick black dildo, and a small silver vibrator.
"Turn over," Anna said.
Veronica turned onto her stomach.
Anna climbed back onto the bed and positioned herself behind her. Veronica heard the harness clicking into place, felt Anna's hands on her hips, pulling her onto her knees.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
Anna pushed in.
The dildo was thick—thicker than Hector, thicker than anything Veronica had ever taken. It stretched her slow and deep, filling her in ways that made her gasp.
"Good girl," Anna murmured. "Take it."
Veronica took it.
Anna fucked her with the strap-on—the same brutal rhythm Hector had used, but somehow softer. More deliberate. She reached around and pressed the vibrator to Veronica's clit, and the dual sensations nearly made Veronica black out.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please don't stop."
"I won't."
She didn't.
They fucked for two hours—Hector watching from the edge of the bed, stroking himself, occasionally offering instructions. Anna didn't need any. She knew exactly what to do. Exactly how to make Veronica scream.
By the end, Veronica was nothing but a quivering, wet mess.
Anna pulled out.
Hector climbed onto the bed and positioned himself behind Anna.
"You did good," he said, his hands on her hips. "Now it's my turn."
She was already wet—already ready.
Hector pushed his cock into Anna's ass.
She moaned—a deep, guttural sound—and pushed back against him. Her fingers found Veronica's cunt, still swollen and dripping, and pushed inside.
They shared a hard, brutal grinding that made all three of them sweat, Anna's ass milking Hector's cock, Veronica's arms wrapped around Anna's neck, her lips on her shoulder, biting, licking, desperate for release. The angle was hard, punishing, perfect.
When Hector came, he came with a roar that rivaled the jazz music.
They collapsed into a pile of limbs, the sheets tangled around them, the fire crackling in the hearth, the music still playing.
She could feel Anna's heartbeat against her cheek. Still could feel Anna's fingers twitching inside her cunt.
Hector draped an arm over them both.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We plan the attack. Tonight, we sleep."
Anna was already half-conscious, her eyes closed, her breathing evening out.
Veronica should have been exhausted. She was exhausted. But her mind was still spinning.
She had survived.
She had learned.
She had become.
And now she belonged to Anna.
She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.
When she woke, the fire had died. The room was cold. The jazz had stopped.
But they were still tangled together—Anna's back against Hector's chest, his cock still buried in her ass, soft now but still inside. Anna's arm was around Veronica, her fingers still lodged in Veronica's cunt, limp and sticky.
Veronica lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, the slow rhythm of their breathing.
She thought about Emma. Emily. The video. The blood.
She thought about her own blood—the blood she would have spilled if things had gone differently. The life she would have lost if she hadn't learned to survive.
She didn't feel sorry for what happened to those people. She didn't feel scared, and she didn't feel pity, it was more like a rough sense of calm. It was done. Over. In the past.
The drug was wearing off. The ecstasy, the clarity, the hunger—they had faded to a low hum. But there was one thing that remained: a deep, unwelcome thought she had been avoiding all night.
Ian.
Would he even recognize her now? He'd fucked her, used her, and then sent her away. And she had learned a brutal lesson—there was no use in thinking too much about it. She was Hector's now. And Anna's. And maybe that was enough.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow would come. It always did.
And she would be ready.