Chapter 28: Digital Dominance
The departmental reception was a blur of clinking glasses, perfunctory smiles, and murmured congratulations. Julian’s hand rarely left the small of my back—a permanent, burning brand through the silk of my cocktail dress. He guided me through the crowd with the effortless grace of a conqueror, introducing me as “my wife” with a pride that felt both performative and terrifyingly genuine. I smiled until my face ached, accepting handshakes and hollow well-wishes, acutely aware of the slow, sticky trickle of him still drying on my inner thigh beneath my dress.
Every so often, his lips would brush my ear. “You’re flushed,” he murmured once, fingers splayed possessively over my hip. “They all think it’s the champagne. Only I know it’s the smell of my come on your skin.”
By the time we extracted ourselves, the false cheer felt like a lead weight in my chest. We didn’t speak in the elevator up to the hotel’s penthouse suite. He had booked it for the night, a “convenience” given the late hour and the event. The silence was thick, charged with the aftermath of the ultrasound room.
The suite was a study in muted luxury. A wall of windows framed the city’s midnight glitter. The air was scented with lavender from a discreet diffuser. A king-sized bed, swathed in charcoal silk, dominated the space. My small overnight bag sat by the door, already delivered.
Julian shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over a chair. He loosened his tie, his eyes on me as I stood unsure in the center of the room, still hugging myself.
“You left the reception early,” he stated, unknotting the silk tie completely. “You made an excuse about fatigue and retreated to the powder room for twelve minutes. Without my permission.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was a recitation of facts.
“I needed a moment.”
“I decide what you need.” He poured two fingers of amber whiskey from a decanter, not offering me any. “You took that moment for yourself. That’s disobedience.”
He took a slow sip, watching me over the rim of the glass. Then he set it down, pulled his phone from his pocket, and began to type.
My clutch buzzed on the console table.
A text. Then another. A series.
I didn’t want to look. I had to.
Unknown Number: The first rule is you don’t walk away from me. Ever.
Unknown Number: You left my side. Your pretty cunt might still be full of me, but your head wandered.
Unknown Number: I’m going to fix that.
Unknown Number: I’m going to tie you to that bed and fuck the defiance out of you. I’m going to make you scream into the pillow until you forget your own name. Until all you remember is my cock splitting you open.
Unknown Number: You’ll beg me to finish, and I’ll tell you it’s just beginning.
My breath came in short, shallow hitches. He watched the color drain from my face, a dark satisfaction lighting his eyes.
He typed one more message.
Unknown Number: Look at me.
I forced my head up. He had opened his dress pants. He held his cock in his hand, already half-hard, a thick, ruddy weight against his palm. He gave himself a slow, rough stroke.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Now answer the call.
The video request flashed on my screen. His name. HRH_JULIAN. The casual arrogance of it sent a jolt through me. My thumb hovered, trembling.
“Answer it.” His voice, from across the room, was soft. Deadly.
I accepted.
His face filled the screen, the angle sharp from where his phone was propped. Behind him, I could see the hotel room, myself small and pale in the distance. His focus was entirely on me, through the lens.
“Better,” he said, his voice quiet and distorted slightly by the speaker. He began to stroke himself in earnest, his fist moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Put me on the bed. Prop me up. I want to watch you undress.”
I did as I was told, setting the phone against the pillows so the camera captured the expanse of silk and the city lights behind me. My hands felt clumsy as I reached for the zipper at the side of my dress.
“Slowly. You’re not rushing to surgery. You’re presenting yourself for inspection.”
I peeled the dark blue silk down my body, letting it pool at my feet. I stood in only my heels, my collar, and the simple lace underwear I’d put on after cleaning up in the hospital washroom. The swell of my stomach was more pronounced without the dress’s tailoring.
“The underwear. Off.”
I hooked my thumbs into the sides and pushed them down, stepping out. The air in the suite was cool on my bare skin. I was exposed, completely, to the unblinking eye of his phone.
On the screen, his strokes had accelerated. His breath was slightly audible, a harsh rhythm counterpoint to the soft hum of the suite. He was fully hard now, the head of his cock leaking a shiny pearl of pre-come.
“Touch yourself.” The order was flat. “Show me how wet you are from my texts. From remembering what I just did to you in that ultrasound room.”
I brought my hand between my legs. I was slick, swollen. The evidence of his earlier possession was gone, but the sensitivity remained. A soft gasp escaped me as my fingers brushed my clit.
“Look at the screen while you do it. Look at my cock. That’s what you belong to. That’s what you’ll be taking tomorrow, and the next day, and every day until I decide otherwise.”
I fixed my eyes on his image—on the purposeful, ruthless motion of his hand, the dense muscle of his thighs, the flat plane of his stomach taut with tension. I slid two fingers inside myself, a shallow imitation of his possession.
“Deeper.” His voice was a rough scrape. “Fuck yourself with them. Pretend it’s me. Pretend I’m bending you over that bed right now and teaching you your place.”
I obeyed, thrusting my fingers in and out, the wet, obscene sound loud in the quiet room. My own breath joined his over the speaker, a ragged duet. Pleasure coiled, tight and frantic, low in my belly.
“You want to come, don’t you?” he whispered, his fist a blur on the screen. “You’re trying to get yourself off before I can stop you. You’re still trying to steal a moment for yourself.”
He stopped stroking. Just held himself, thick and veined and aching, in a tight fist.
“Stop. Take your hand away.”
The denial was a physical ache. I whimpered, pulling my glistening fingers free.
“Now get on the bed. On your back. Legs spread. Let me see.”
I climbed onto the cold silk, the material whispering under my skin. I arranged myself as he dictated, a living display. The camera captured everything—the vulnerable arc of my body, the dark thatch of hair, the glistening, needy flesh between my spread thighs.
“You see this?” he said, his voice dropping to an intimate, furious growl. He resumed stroking, faster now, his knuckles white. “This is the consequence of leaving my side. This is the price. You don’t get to come until I’m buried inside you. You don’t get relief until I give it to you. Every pulse of that pretty cunt belongs to me. Every thought in that brilliant head is mine to direct.”
His breathing hitched. On the screen, his hips began to jerk involuntarily.
“You’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathed, the words torn from me.
“Again.”
“I’m yours!” Louder, a sob catching in my throat.
A low, guttural sound ripped from him. His body stiffened. I watched, hypnotized, as his release striped his abdomen in thick, white ropes, some splattering against the camera lens, blurring his image for a second.
He slumped, catching his breath, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He picked up the phone, wiping the lens with his thumb. His face filled the screen again, flushed, satiated, and utterly in control.
“I’ll be there in ninety seconds,” he said, his voice hoarse but calm. “Don’t move. Don’t touch yourself. Keep your legs exactly as they are. I want to see how patient you can be. I want to see how well you obey when I’m not in the room.”
The call ended.
The screen went black.
I was left in the deafening silence, sprawled on the silk, throbbing with unmet need, the faint scent of lavender and my own arousal thick in the air. The city lights twinkled, indifferent. I fought the desperate urge to clamp my thighs together, to seek even a fraction of relief. Every second stretched into an agony.
The electronic lock of the suite door beeped.
A soft click.
A long, quiet pause.
Then, the sound of his footsteps, deliberate and steady, crossing the polished floor toward the bed.