Samson turned to her, expression unreadable. "You don't have to stay, Sarah," he said. "You can go right now, no hard feelings. I'll still send you home with something. But if you do stay... there's no going back."
She looked up at him, her chest rising and falling. For a brief second, she thought of her mother's cough, the twins' old shoes, and the empty fridge.
She nodded. "I'll stay."
His lips twitched into a smile. "Good."
He didn't rush her. They drank wine first—real wine, not the bitter boxed ones from corner shops. She sipped slowly, listening to the low hum of music that filled the space. There was something hypnotic about the moment. It was happening.
'Have you ever let a man do godless things to you? He asked her
She shakes her head vehemently. 'No, no one has touched
me.'
'Good.' That's very, very good. She is as unsullied as she looks, her
body a virgin canvas, her skin a blanket of fresh snow for his fingerprints
and his teeth.
'You are mine tonight. My property. Do you understand?'
'Y-yes.' Her eyes are astonishing, her pupils huge. She's shivering, her
body bracing for impact. He can wait no longer.
'That means I can do this to you, and you will let me.' he reached up and
pinched her nipples lightly, fleetingly. It's a threat and a promise and a tease,
and he watches in something approaching awe as her eyelids flutter closed and
her lips part as though he've turned a key in a lock. She lets out a faint,
shuddering moan that he decides he likes very much indeed.
'Any pleasure you feel tonight is for me. Understand?'
She nods, opening her eyes and fixing them back on him. They're almost
all pupil.
He pinched her nipples again, rolling them between his fingers. They're
impossibly hard—whether from cold or anticipation, he's unsure. 'Mine.'
'Argh—yours. He takes a moment to knead her breasts, to weigh them, to toy with her
nipples. She sways a little, breathing fast, as a flush of arousal builds on her
cheeks. He releases one breast and grabs a fistful of silken tresses so he can
angle her face up to him. Then he bends his mouth to hers so he can kiss her.
The kiss is harsh, invasive. It's far less a sign of affection than a
foreshadowing of how thoroughly he intends to explore her holes tonight. He
fuck her mouth with his tongue as he holds her in place by her hair. Her arms
flutter at her sides as she lets him, but he doesn't miss the low moan she makes
into his mouth.
He releases her and trails the back of his hand down between her breasts,
His knuckles gliding over the impossibly soft skin of her stomach as he revels
in the view of her blown-out pupils and laboured breathing. 'Mine.'
She nods her agreement.
'Widen your legs.'
She does. Such a good girl—so eager to please.
He pause. It's the headiest moment. He's suspended in the most captivating
A form of anticipation before he touches her.
By the looks of things, so is she.
He moved his hand lower and slid his fingers through her slippery
wetness. This space between her legs is astonishing: warm and drenched; the most hospitable of terrains for a man.
'This is mine,' he reminded her. 'It's for my pleasure.' he stroked her there
lightly, enjoying the slipperiness of her flesh as much as the way her face
contorted in sheer delight at his touch. Still, their eyes are locked, and he muses
that there may be no greater pleasure than stroking a beautiful, naked
woman at leisure and watching her arousal build. Her mouth is working, her
jaw tensing, her legs shaking.
'Hold onto me,' he commands her, and she grips the wide sleeves of his
doublet to steady herself. 'Do not look away while I explore my new pretty
little plaything.'
She nods again, biting down on her lip as if to hold in her whimpers. "Now I can enjoy you properly.' he said, smoothing her hair with my other hand.
'Get on the bed and spread your legs for me like a good, brave girl.'
Her face contorts a little, as though his suggestion that she'll need
courage is less of a threat than a very alluring promise, but she nods and
turns, clambering up onto his enormous bed and arranging herself on it. She
fans her hair out before lying back fully, arms out to the sides, legs parted,
knees drawn up a little.
The very picture of surrender. Her mother warned her only
that it would hurt the first time.
She did not tell her that a man would pin her like a butterfly and use his
Hand on the most private, most sacred part of her and make her cry out.
She did not tell her about the heat. The need.
He braces above her on one elbow and lifts her leg over his shoulder, his
muscles bunching beneath her calf. She feels half-crazy with some mysterious need. He's pushing against her
entrance now, pushing in, and the force of his blunt instrument as he
breaches her is so intense and so shocking and painful but feels good and so invasive that yes, she might die from the pleasure of it she thought.
Every part of her body is screaming. She's delirious with overwhelm as
he stretches her and stretches her, huge and endless, until he pushes so deep
inside her body with a grunt that she's sure he will split her in two.
'This is what it means to be with a man, Sarah,' he tells her, looking
into her eyes. In this dim light in this Huge bed, his eyes are diabolical
black pupils with the loveliest rings of purple-blue that recall dusk on a
clear night. 'This is what it means to give yourself to a man in every way,
and I will be the first, He begins to move in great, greedy shunts. Every time he drags himself
out of her, she wants to die, and every time he pushes deep, so deep, inside her,
that silent screaming begins anew. With her leg over his shoulder,
his body is rubbing at that same place that his hand teased so mercilessly,
and with every rub, the heat grows more insistent. She kept thinking
she did not think I could overpower it.
She does not think I can survive it.
'That's it,' he croons, his mouth so close to hers, his breath hot on her face. It's only when he says this that she understands how her sounds have turned from kitten-like mewls to full cries, and she's powerless to stop them.
Trapped like this beneath him, impaled by his very body, they are the only
outlet she have for this strange, animalistic need building inside me.
'You can't fight this,' he grits out, and I understand that he is a mind
reader, too. 'You can't outrun it. Surrender to it. Give it to me. It's mine, do
you understand? Every single piece of you is mine tonight, so give it to me.' His thrusts grow more frenzied, and that friction of her flesh against his
body grows more frenzied, too, and his moans grow deeper, more
pained. He grips her thigh to anchor her as he drives and drives and drives,
and the strange, molten heat inside her builds so impossibly that it feels as
though a cannon will explode inside her body.
All she can think is this and him and yes and more. This is a terrifying
alchemy, her body its vessel.
The cannon is released. She is a ball of iron and metal, soaring through
the air into realms so distant she could not have imagined them.
It seems her flames ignite his, because he goes rigid and curses before
thrusting into her, over and over, with cries that would terrify her if she did not
understand that they come from the same place as her cries.
He was correct.
She could not outrun it.
In surrendering everything to him, she set herself free to soar.
When he kissed her, it was slow and commanding. She stiffened, then slowly gave in. The tension melted into need. Every gesture was deliberate—his hands, his voice, the way he peeled her layers like secrets. It wasn't love. It was a transaction sealed with skin. Her first time. Gentle at first... until it wasn't.
He was patient. Then controlling. His voice gave instructions she followed, shaky but willing. By the end, she was breathless, aching, sore, and covered in sweat and shame.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling. His sheets were soft, yet she felt every bruise of the moment. Her mother's voice echoed faintly in her head—words about dignity, about waiting, about worth.
But the shame was overpowered by the cold, hard truth: they needed money. And she had it now.
Samson leaned over her, brushing her shoulder with his fingers. "You taste sweet," he whispered. "Like sin dressed in silk. I'm not done with you, Sarah. I'll never be."
She didn't reply.
He walked away and returned with a black envelope. He tossed it gently on the bed beside her.
"Three thousand," he said. "You earned it."
Her breath hitched. She stared at the envelope. That was more money than she'd seen in one place in her entire life.
He reached for her again, clearly wanting another round. She winced slightly.
"I need to go," she whispered. "It's late. My mum... she'll worry."
Samson exhaled and leaned back. "Let me drop you."
"No," she said quickly. "The bus stop. Just the bus stop."
He didn't argue.
Ten minutes later, she stepped out of his car at a quiet bus station. Her body throbbed. Her legs ached. But the money was clutched tightly in her small purse like a promise. Then she walked to the old building she had kept her clothes to change then walked home.
She got home just after midnight. The house was silent. Her mother was asleep. She tiptoed to the bathroom, ran the water hot, and stepped in.
The tears came harder than the water.
She let herself cry, sobbing into the steam. Then she whispered to herself, over and over: It's for them. It's for them. It's for them.
And when her skin was red and her eyes sore, she wore her worn-out pyjamas, crawled into the mattress with her other siblings, and let exhaustion swallow her whole.