The minibar yields a sad packet of shortbread, half a bottle of still water, and a tiny bottle of prosecco she doesn’t touch. She perches on the edge of the bed to eat, legs pressed together like she’s trying to hold everything inside her.
Every small movement makes her wince—soft, private reminders of the last sixteen hours.
I watch from the armchair across the room, legs crossed, phone in hand. The group chat is alive again. New names popping up, coordinates being shared, arrival times whispered like contraband.
1:03 p.m. — “On my way from Liverpool St, 20 min.”
1:07 p.m. — “Mate said she takes it raw if you ask nice?”
1:09 p.m. — “Already hard thinking about the state she’s in.”
She glances at me once, catches me reading. Her cheeks flush fresh despite everything. She looks away fast, nibbles another crumb.
At 1:12 I stand. Walk over. Tilt her chin up with two fingers.
“Time.”
She nods, stands on shaky legs. The black dress is wrinkled, rides high on her thighs when she moves. No knickers means every step is a quiet risk. I like that.
I guide her to the bed, position her exactly: knees wide, palms flat on the mattress, forehead down near the headboard so her back arches deep. Arse presented like an offering. Face hidden in the crook of her arm. She’s breathing through her mouth already.
I flip the security latch again, leave the door ajar the same three inches. Then I sit back in the chair, legs spread, and wait.
The first knock comes at 1:17.
No words. Just the door easing wider, a tall silhouette stepping in, pausing to take in the view. He’s in a suit—late lunch break, probably. Doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t need to. We’ve all read the same rules.
He drops his jacket on the desk, unzips, steps up behind her. One hand on her hip, the other guiding. She gasps sharp when he pushes in—no preamble, no warm-up. Her fingers curl into the sheet.
He’s efficient. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. Grunts low, finishes on her lower back, wipes himself on the discarded towel from earlier, zips up, nods once at me, and leaves without a word.
She stays exactly where she is. Doesn’t move a muscle.
Next one arrives at 1:32. This one’s younger, nervous energy, hands shaking a little when he touches her. Talks too much—“Fuck, you’re soaked… been like this all morning?”—but she doesn’t answer. Just takes it. He doesn’t last long.
By 2:05 there have been four more. The bed’s a swamp again. Her thighs shine. Every time someone new enters she makes that same small, broken sound—half relief, half overload.
I don’t touch her. Not yet. I just watch. Scroll the incoming photos. Sip the lukewarm coffee I made from the pod machine.
At 2:40 the stream slows. Only stragglers now. One guy stays longer—takes his time, makes her come twice before he does. She’s louder for him, voice cracking. When he leaves she collapses forward onto her elbows, trembling.
I stand then. Finally.
Door latches properly behind the last one at 3:05.
Room quiet except for her ragged breathing.
I cross to the bed, kneel behind her. Run one hand slow down her spine, feeling every shiver. She’s burning up.
“Still with me, Vixen?”
A nod. Weak, but there.
I slide into her easy—too easy, after all of them. She’s loose, slick, sensitive. The contrast makes her moan long and low. I don’t rush. Just deep, deliberate strokes while I lean over her back, lips at her ear.
“You took twenty-three today. Counting the eleven from last night.”
She whimpers.
“Proud of you.”
I pull out before either of us finishes. Flip her onto her back. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, beautiful. I hook her legs over my shoulders, enter again, slower this time. Kiss her while I move—deep, claiming. She tastes like salt and surrender.
When she starts to tighten around me I reach down, thumb on her clit, steady pressure. She comes hard, back arching off the ruined sheets, crying my name like a prayer.
I follow a few thrusts later, burying deep, marking what’s mine on top of everyone else’s.
After, I don’t move right away. Stay inside her while her breathing evens out. Stroke her hair back from her face.
Eventually I pull out, clean her gently with another warm flannel from the bathroom. Wrap her in the clean duvet from the wardrobe. Carry her—dress and all—to the armchair while I strip the bed and remake it quick.
She curls into my lap when I sit, head under my chin.
“Home soon,” I murmur. “Long bath. My bed. No one else for at least forty-eight hours.”
She exhales, soft and content.
“Unless you beg otherwise.”
A tiny laugh against my throat.
“Yes, Sir.”
I kiss the top of her head.
Checkout was hours ago. No one’s coming to kick us out.
We’ve got all afternoon.
And night.
And tomorrow.
Plenty of time to remind her exactly who she belongs to. |
