Sir, Pt. 1

He is the most powerful man I’ve ever known, and I hate him for it. He stole me from my family, locked me away, and takes what he wants from my body every single day.

But he also calls me kitten and makes me purr against my will. And somehow, I’ve seen what no one else has, the flicker of a soul behind the cruelty. A man who dreams, who wakes up sweating from memories he won’t name. A heart buried under the armor he built from other people’s fear.

He’s my captor. We shouldn’t need each other. We shouldn’t crave each other. But we do. And this…whatever this is, is the story of our undoing.

“I have a surprise for you.”

A surprise. He is the last man on earth who should ever hold that word in his mouth. When he says surprise, it means something will break. Something will hurt. I should run, hide, vanish into the walls of this glass cage. But I don’t.

Not after five days locked inside this penthouse, the city breathing below me like a thing I can’t touch. He’s been gone a week and before that, four days. That’s almost two weeks without his voice, without his hand in my hair, without the kind of pain that reminds me I still exist. Too long.

“Come out.”

I step out of the closet. My bare feet meet marble that’s cold enough to bite.

He hates that I watch him. Hates my eyes, my silence, the way I linger in his bed when he’s finished using me. He hates the way his hands disobey him, how they always find their way back to me.

But what he hates most is the truth neither of us can unlearn, he cares for me. Love, even. And he doesn’t love. Love is weakness. It splits men open from the inside.

She was never meant to matter, only a warning, a beautiful act of revenge meant to humiliate an enemy. She was supposed to break, to beg, to love him until she forgot who she was. But she still fights. She still dreams of escape. And he can’t accept that defiance. So now she is his kept doll, his silent masterpiece, the contradiction he can’t destroy. The thing he wants but can’t possess. The thing he needs but refuses to need.

I am nothing and everything to him, the echo inside his madness. And he is the same to me. He calls himself a man, but I’ve seen the creature underneath. Monsters shouldn’t be allowed to touch what’s pure, but they do. They press their darkness into the light until it stains. I was an angel once and now I wear his darkness like a crown.

“Kneel.” My body obeys before my thoughts do. I hate that he knows this. I hate that he waits for it, smiling when I move the way he expects.

He stands above me, all tattoos and scars, a living threat disguised as beauty. He broke me and I let him. My knees touch the carpet, and a quiet shiver runs through me. I tell myself I won’t give him what he wants, that I’ll make him earn it this time. But defiance is a weak flame; it flickers the moment he steps closer.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. The silence between us stretches until it feels alive. I can hear the steady draw of his breath, the faint click of metal as I loosen his belt. Every sound is deliberate, a test, a reminder of who holds control here. I should hate him for it. I do. But my body has learned too well. Every time I try to rise, instinct pulls me back down. His hand finds my jaw, thumb pressing lightly against the corner of my mouth until my lips part. It isn’t gentle, but it isn’t cruel either.

“You never listen,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to,” I whisper.

He smiles, the kind of smile that burns. “Liar.”

The word catches somewhere deep inside me. I hold his gaze, waiting for the punishment, the touch, the validation I shouldn’t crave. He loves that I'm his dirty girl. His perfect whore. His willing captive.

He waits silently until the space between us becomes unbearable. My defiance folds in on itself, not from fear, but from the gravity of him.

I move before I can stop myself. My body remembers what my mind denies. I reach for him, not out of obedience, but out of something darker…something that feels like hunger dressed as surrender.

His breath catches, a sound rougher than words hissing as I take him in my mouth. He tastes of control, expensive whiskey, and the kind of power that leaves scars. He groans, low and guttural. The sound travels through me like fire. I shouldn’t want this. But God, I do. I want him to lose the careful control that holds him together. I want him to break. My hands curl into fists at my sides as I take him deeper, harder, pushing past the gag reflex until my eyes water. His fingers thread through my hair, tightening just enough to remind me who owns me.

"When I get home, all I can think about is you. When I close my eyes, I see your face. All I want is to fuck you and make you scream my name. Make you mine. Make you love me."

And for a second, he looks at me like I’m not the thing he captured, but something he found. Something he didn’t expect to want this much.

The words scrape against my chest, sharp and intoxicating. I want to pretend they don’t matter, that I don’t care. But I can’t because I do. I care too much. And he knows it.

"You're mine, kitten."

I slowly slip him out of my mouth and look at him, “And you’re mine, Soul.”

His eyes flash. I've said too much. He hardens again, his mask snapping back into place. He pushes his dick deep into my throat. I gag and choke. But, I never pull away. I can't. I don’t want to.

"Tell me you're mine."

"Tell me!" he orders, holding me tighter. I moan louder. 

"Fuck," he groans. "Say it."

I suck harder, letting him know I'll never say it. Never.

"Bitch," he snarls. He fucks my mouth until I'm crying. Until my lips are swollen and bruised. Until I'm a wet, shivering, pathetic mess at his feet. I get up to walk away. I know what will happen next and I’m aching for it.

“On the bed,” he orders. I moved quickly to get out of his reach. But not quick enough. He grabs my wrist. I fight him. He pushes me against the wall. I hit him. He growls and slaps me. I’m dazed as he pins my arms above my head.

"Tell me you're mine, kitten."

"Fuck you."

He picks me up. He throws me on the bed. He’s on me in a second. He’s ripping the thin silk nightgown I’m wearing. He forces my legs open with his knee. I want to fight, I do, but the truth is, I want this. I want the hurt, the punishment, the sharp edge of control.

He’s inside me before I can take a breath. No warning. No mercy. Just the raw, invasive stretch of him taking what he believes belongs to him. The pain is immediate, a blinding flash that blurs into something darker, something hotter.

“You’re still so fucking tight,” he grits out, his teeth grazing my neck.  I arch against him, a silent invitation. My hands find his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. It’s not about escape anymore. It’s about meeting him in the wreckage. About breaking him as much as he breaks me. He moves deeper, each thrust a demand, each groan a confession. The space between pleasure and pain dissolves until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

His hands bruise my hips, his breath hot against my ear as he mutters things I can’t hear but feel in my bones.

“You were made for me,” he says. “For this.” For a moment, I believe him.  He shifts slightly, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. My body betrays me, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

His rhythm falters, a flicker of  something unfamiliar in his eyes.  He flips us over, and suddenly I’m on top, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. The shift is disorienting. I hover above him, my thighs trembling. He watches me, his expression unreadable, his hands resting on my hips as if waiting to see what I’ll next.

I could end it. Lean down, press my lips to his, and whisper the words he so desperately needs to hear. I could give him the submission he craves and walk away unscathed. But that’s not who we are. Instead, I roll my hips, slow and deliberate. I take him inch by inch, my body a tight, slick sheath around him. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening on my skin. He’s trying to hold on, to keep the upper hand, but his body is begging for release.

“Ride me,” he orders, his voice low and rough.

I don’t move.

“Ride me, kitten,” he repeats, the command softer this time. A request.

I lean forward, my hair brushing against his chest. “Make me.”

The world tilts. He sits up, wrapping an arm around my waist as he drives up into me. The force of it steals my breath. I cling to him, my nails scoring his back, my face buried in the crook of his neck. It’s the scent of my downfall, and I breathe it in like it’s the last thing I’ll ever know.

“Look at me,” he says.

I don’t.

“Look at me,” he repeats, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to make my head tilt back. “I want to see your eyes when you cum.”

He bites my neck forcing my lids open. His gaze is dark, intense, burning with a hunger that both terrifies and thrills me. He’s watching me, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses my face. He wants to see me break. He wants to be the one who breaks me.

I won’t let him.

I meet his thrusts, our bodies moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. The room fades away, the city outside a distant hum. There’s only the sound of our skin slapping together, our ragged breaths, the frantic beat of our hearts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear. “So perfect.”

The words are a weapon. They disarm me, slipping past my defenses and lodging themselves in the soft, vulnerable parts of me I try so hard to protect. I feel the familiar tightening in my stomach, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter.

“No,” I gasp, trying to fight it, trying to hold on to the last shred of my control.

“Yes,” he growls, his hand moving between us, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. “Cum for me.”

The pressure is too much. The pleasure is too intense. I shatter, my body convulsing around him, a scream tearing from my throat. It’s a sound of agony and ecstasy, of defeat and victory.