Amanda
Copyright© 2026 by Aaron56
Chapter 7
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Amanda is 18 and in love with Jenny who is also 18. Both are in a troubled family. Amanda’s mom is dead, and her father owes a lot of money to a bookie. Jenny's Dad is an alcoholic and a pervert. Amanda will do anything to protect them both.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Incest Father Daughter BDSM Humiliation Rough Torture Anal Sex First Water Sports Big Breasts Small Breasts
“Vic.” Her voice carried the careful neutrality of a landmine buried under fresh snow. “We weren’t expecting you until Thursday.”
Lola felt Richard’s cock twitch against her tongue, surprise or irritation, she couldn’t tell, as the man called Vic strolled into her peripheral vision. Black leather gloves creaked as he tugged them off finger by finger. His cufflinks glinted under the recessed lighting: tiny onyx skulls with ruby eyes.
Vic’s cufflinks winked as he tossed his gloves onto the mahogany table, the skulls’ ruby eyes catching the light like drops of fresh blood. He didn’t glance at Lola, not yet, but his shadow stretched across her bare shoulders as he circled the table with the lazy confidence of a man who owned every square inch of the room.
“Stand up, girl.” Vic’s voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the space between them like smoke. Lola stayed perfectly still, her bare feet flat on the cold marble floor. She counted the seconds in her head. Three. Five. Seven.
Lola exhaled through her nose—slow, controlled—as Vic’s polished shoes clicked against the marble. The sound was deliberate, theatrical. She knew this dance.
Vic completed his slow circle around her, his gaze dragging over her exposed skin like a physical weight. Lola remained motionless, her slight frame dwarfed by the high ceilings and his looming presence. She was all sharp angles—narrow shoulders, ribs faintly visible beneath pale skin, small breasts that barely curved—but there was a taut readiness in her posture, like a wire pulled just shy of snapping. The absence of pubic hair made her look strangely unfinished, vulnerable in a way that wasn’t entirely anatomical.
Vic stopped directly in front of her. He reached out, not touching her, but letting his fingers hover just above her collarbone. “You’re like one of those antique dolls. All porcelain and no softness.” Lola didn’t flinch, but her pupils contracted slightly, the only betrayal of her focus.
“I want her for The Club,” Vic announced, tapping one skull-cuff-linked wrist against Richard’s shoulder in a gesture that was half-pat, half-dismissal. His voice carried the rough edges of a South Side accent sanded down by money.
Vic’s fingers drummed against the mahogany tabletop—three slow beats, like a judge’s gavel. “Diana knows what I pay for fresh inventory,” he said, his gaze finally dropping to Lola. His eyes were the color of old whiskey, the kind that left scars on the way down. “But she didn’t tell you the price, did she, kid?”
Lola kept her chin angled down, letting her greasy hair curtain her face. She shook her head once, a tiny, jerky motion that made her look younger than fourteen. Diana’s stiletto clicked against marble as she stepped forward, the leather folio pressed to her chest like armor.
Vic suddenly brings himself eye-level with Lola. “You got a name, kid?”
“Lola,” she whispered, letting her voice hitch like she was fighting tears.
Vic’s hand hovered near Lola’s chin without touching her. His scarred eyebrow arched. “Lola,” he repeated, rolling the name around like a mint on his tongue. “You look like you could blow away in a stiff wind.” His gaze flicked to Richard’s still-exposed cock, then back to her face with deliberate disinterest. “But you’ve got teeth, don’t you?”
The youngest board member snorted into his whiskey glass. Vic didn’t glance his way.
Lola’s pulse throbbed in her throat as Vic’s fingers twitched in her hair and pulled her down.
She stayed frozen on her knees, letting her breath shudder audibly through parted lips.
Vic pushed her head down to Richard’s cock. Richard’s fingers spasmed in Lola’s hair—half-grip, half-caress—as his hips jerked forward unexpectedly. She kept her lips slack, letting the warmth pool against her palate as Richard exhaled sharply through his nose above her.
Richard’s fingers tightened in Lola’s hair, but only for a second—just long enough to register the wet heat of her mouth before he let go entirely, stepping back with a rough exhale. His cock slipped free with a slick sound that made Vic chuckle, low and approving.
“You’re right,” Richard muttered, adjusting himself with a flick of his wrist. “She does have teeth.”
Vic’s hand brushed Lola’s shoulder too quickly to be tender, too deliberate to be accidental—before he straightened, his boots scuffing against the marble floor as he turned toward the bar. “Teeth aren’t the problem,” he said to no one in particular. “It’s the bite you don’t see coming.”
Richard wiped his fingers on his thigh, his jaw working silently. The youngest board member—Lola had heard Vic call him “the intern” earlier, though he wore a suit worth more than her car—snickered again, but this time Vic shot him a look that drained the laughter straight out of his face.
Vic’s boots stopped just shy of the bar, his fingers drumming once, twice, against the polished wood before he reached for the decanter without looking. The amber liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim as he poured.
Lola stayed where she was, her knees aching against the marble, but she didn’t shift. She knew better. The silence stretched, thick enough that she could hear the youngest board member—the intern—swallow nervously.
Richard’s fingers twisted in Lola’s hair just as his hips stuttered forward—a sharp, involuntary motion that sent the head of his cock bumping against the back of her throat. She didn’t gag. She’d learned not to. The taste flooded her mouth before she could brace for it, bitter and warm, and she swallowed reflexively, her throat working around him as he groaned above her. His grip tightened, holding her in place as he emptied himself down her throat, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of saliva—or maybe something else—stretched between her lips and his cock before snapping. Lola kept her eyes lowered, her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth to chase the lingering taste. She could feel Vic watching her and could almost hear the slow, deliberate way he was turning his glass in his hands.
“Christ,” he muttered, his thumb swiping absently at the corner of her mouth as he withdrew. His wedding band caught the light when he tucked himself back into tailored slacks with practiced efficiency.
Vic’s hand flicked toward Lola in a dismissive arc. “Get her cleaned up,” he said, the words sharp as a switchblade. “She smells like a bus station dumpster.”
Diana’s stiletto snapped against marble as she stepped forward, her grip on Lola’s elbow more haul than help. “Of course,” she murmured, steering Lola toward the door with the efficiency of a forklift handling fragile cargo. The youngest board member’s whiskey glass clinked against the table as he leaned back, his gaze trailing them with undisguised interest.
Diana paused at the threshold, her fingers digging into Lola’s elbow like steel clamps. “Do you want her dressed?” she asked Vic, her voice smooth as chilled vodka. “In chains, or just a collar?”
Vic didn’t look up. “Dress her like she’s worth something,” he said, flicking a glance at Lola’s bare legs. “But keep the collar tight. I want to see the marks tomorrow.”
The shower water hit Lola’s back hard enough to sting, scalding away the phantom taste of Richard’s skin still clinging to her tongue. Diana’s manicured fingers dug into her shoulders as she scrubbed at Lola’s scalp with hotel-grade shampoo that smelled like industrial lemons. “You did great,” Diana murmured, her lips close enough to Lola’s ear that the words vibrated through the steam. “Vic likes you.” The statement landed with the weight of a judge’s gavel.
Lola kept her eyes shut against the soap, letting the pink-tinged water sluice down the drain—part dirt, part theatrical touch-up from the FBI’s makeup team. Diana’s nails traced the ridge of her spine with clinical precision. “He always picks the skinny ones,” Diana continued, working a lather down Lola’s arms. “Says they’ve got a fight left in them.”
Diana’s hands were still slick with shampoo when she spun Lola around, fingers tightening in her wet hair. The kiss came without warning, Diana’s mouth hot and demanding against hers, tongue pushing past Lola’s lips. The taste of peppermint gum and expensive vodka flooded Lola’s mouth as Diana’s teeth nipped at her lower lip.
Then came the sharp pressure between her shoulder blades, Diana shoving her downward with one fluid motion. Lola’s knees hit the shower tiles with a slap that echoed off the porcelain. Steam curled around Diana’s thighs as she spread her legs, the water cascading down her toned stomach in rivulets. “Eat me,” she commanded, her voice stripped of its earlier professionalism. Her fingers twisted tighter in Lola’s hair. “And make it convincing.”
Lola’s breath hitched as Diana’s thighs pressed against her ears, muffling the world to the rhythmic pulse of shower water. Diana’s fingers flexed in her wet hair. “Your file says you’ve done this before. Multiple times. Or was that a lie too?”
Lola swallowed against the phantom taste of Richard still coating her tongue. The FBI’s fabricated backstory burned behind her teeth—foster homes, alleyway handjobs, the works. She let her shoulders slump forward, pressing her cheek against Diana’s inner thigh. “Only ... when they made me,” she whispered, letting her voice crack on the last word. The tile chilled her kneecaps through the thin layer of shower water.
Diana’s laugh vibrated through Lola’s skull. “Made you?” Her fingers carded through damp strands, pausing at a knot near Lola’s nape. “I cannot believe your last foster mother let you keep your hair this long.? Mine used kitchen shears.” The sudden bite of nails against the scalp made Lola gasp. “Tell me you liked it.”
“I like it,” Lola somewhat lied, pressing her lips against Diana’s inner thigh in a way that made her muscles twitch. Diana’s fingers tightened in her hair, pulling just enough to tilt Lola’s face upward. Steam curled between them, obscuring Diana’s expression for a heartbeat.
Diana exhaled through her nose, the sound almost lost under the shower’s roar. “You’re a terrible liar,” she murmured, but her grip slackened slightly. Water sluiced down Lola’s back as Diana traced the curve of her ear with a wet fingertip. “But that’s useful here. Clients like thinking they’re the first to break you.”
Diana’s fingers slackened in Lola’s hair as the shower water turned tepid. “My foster mother made me drink from the toilet,” she murmured, the words curling into the steam like a confession. Her thumb traced the shell of Lola’s ear—too gently for someone who’d just been yanking her head backward. “With piss and shit in it.”
Lola kept her cheek pressed against Diana’s thigh, the tile biting into her knees. The water sluicing down the shower had cooled to lukewarm, but the woman’s skin still burned against her face. She could feel Diana’s pulse thrumming where her lips brushed the inside of her thigh.
Diana’s fingers stilled in Lola’s hair. The water had gone cold now, but neither moved. “Vic bought me when I was fourteen,” Diana said, her voice stripped of inflection. “My foster mom sold me for three grand and a case of vodka.”
Lola held her breath as Diana’s thumb pressed against her lower lip. Diana’s thighs tensed against her ears. “He kept me in a storage room in the basement at The Club for six months,” she continued. “Fed me through a dog door until I learned to crawl when called.”
Lola’s breath caught in her throat as Diana’s confession hung between them in the steam. The tile dug harder into her knees, the cold water now a numb afterthought against her skin. Lola realized with sudden clarity that the woman’s pulse wasn’t racing from arousal but from the adrenaline of shared secrets.
“I did love him so much,” Diana whispered suddenly, the words cracking like thin ice underfoot. Her fingers trembled in Lola’s hair. The shower’s last droplets pattered against their skin like distant applause.
The towel hit Lola’s face with a damp thwap before she could blink. Diana stood silhouetted against the bathroom’s fogged mirrors, her bare skin gleaming under the fluorescent lights as she twisted her hair into a knot. “Dry off,” she ordered, tossing another towel toward the floor where Lola still knelt. The terrycloth landed half on her thigh, half on the wet tile.
Lola caught the scent of bleach as she rubbed the towel over her arms—the kind of industrial cleaner hotels use when they really want to erase evidence.
Diana’s reflection watched her from the mirror, fingers pausing mid-twist in her damp hair. “You’re so sweet and little to have all these scars on your back. You are just like me.”
Diana turned around to show her scarred back. “Vic and his friends did most of those scars, but my foster mother did some too.”
The dress slid over Lola’s skin like melted wax, too smooth, too cold against her freshly scrubbed flesh. Black silk whispered against her thighs as Diana fastened the hooks with practiced efficiency, her breath warm against Lola’s neck. “Arms up,” Diana murmured, and the fabric tightened across Lola’s ribs like a second skin. The hem stopped precisely three inches above her knees, short enough to make clients look twice, long enough to pretend it wasn’t deliberate.
Diana’s fingers lingered at the nape of Lola’s neck, tracing the damp hairline where stage dirt had once crusted. The collar’s leather was warmer than expected when it clicked shut. Diana adjusted the fit with two fingers’ worth of space, her thumbnail catching on the engraved nameplate: Lola in delicate script above Eclipse Enterprises’ logo.
The elevator doors slid open to a hallway lined with crimson carpet so thick it swallowed Diana’s stilettos whole. Lola’s borrowed heels, black patent leather with kittenish two-inch heels, sank into the pile like she was walking on fresh grass.
Diana’s grip on her elbow didn’t loosen as they passed door after unmarked door, the only sound the whisper of silk against Lola’s thighs and the faint hum of hidden cameras swiveling to track their progress.
Vic’s office door was different, polished ebony with a brass handle shaped like a roaring lion’s head. Diana didn’t knock. The door swung inward to reveal Vic lounging behind a desk carved from a single slab of black marble.
Vic didn’t look up when they entered, the rag moving in slow circles over the onyx like he was petting a favorite cat. “You did well, Diana,” he said, finally flicking his gaze toward them. Dark beard, as he smirked. “Christ, look at her. Could pass for twelve in that getup.”
Diana’s fingers flexed against Lola’s elbow, a quick squeeze that might’ve been reassurance or warning. The collar pressed against Lola’s throat when she swallowed, the nameplate cool against her clavicle.
“Thank you, Master,” Diana murmured, dipping her chin just enough to make her damp hair slide forward.
Vic’s smirk deepened as he tossed the polishing rag aside; he spread his hands on the marble desk.
“Come here,” he said, crooking a finger at Diana. Diana moved with the fluid grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times before, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. Lola stayed rooted by the door, the collar’s edge digging into her windpipe with each shallow breath.
Vic’s gaze flicked past Diana to Lola, lingering on the way the black silk dress clung to her hips. “You too,” he said. “Unless you’d rather go back to Richard.”
Lola’s knees nearly buckled as she stepped forward, the borrowed heels sinking into the plush carpet. Vic’s gaze tracked her progress like a sniper sight settling on a target.
“Master,” Diana murmured as Vic’s hand caught her wrist mid-step, yanking her sideways onto his lap with a grunt. The desk’s edge bit into Lola’s thigh as Vic’s free hand snagged her collar, dragging her close. His beard scraped her cheek when he turned his head to murmur against Diana’s neck, but his whiskey-dark eyes stayed locked on Lola’s face.
“You smell like bleach,” Vic observed, his thumb pressing into the hollow behind Lola’s jaw. His other hand slid up Diana’s thigh beneath her skirt with the ease of long practice, fingertips tracing the scar.
The desk’s cold marble bit into the backs of Lola’s thighs as Vic shoved her backward, her elbows scraping against polished stone. The dress rode up her hips with a single rough tug, exposing the pale skin of her stomach where Diana’s scrubbing had left it pink and raw. Vic’s thumb hooked in the waistband of her underwear—black lace, another of Diana’s choices—and tore them sideways with a sound like ripping paper.
Lola gasped when his palm smacked against her bare ass, the sting reverberating through her pelvis. He pinned her to the desk, his other hand already working his belt buckle open with practiced ease. The leather hissed through belt loops, followed by the metallic clink of his zipper.
The desk’s marble chilled Lola’s bare back as Vic flipped her onto her stomach with one rough hand. His belt buckle clattered against the desk edge, the sound as sharp as a gunshot in the thick silence of the office. Diana hadn’t moved—still perched on Vic’s thigh, her skirt rucked up around her hips, watching Lola with eyes that betrayed nothing.
Vic’s breath hit the nape of Lola’s neck, hot and whiskey-soured. His palm pressed between her shoulder blades, flattening her against the stone. “Stay,” he murmured, the word curling around her ear like smoke. His free hand slid down her spine, fingertips catching on the raised scars on her back.
Vic’s fingers traced the scars with an odd reverence, mapping each ridge with the same care he’d shown polishing the desk. The contrast made Lola’s skin prickle—gentle touch after the sting of his palm. His breath hitched when he reached the jagged one near her ribs, the one shaped like a question mark.
“Who gave you this?” His voice was low, almost conversational, but his grip on her hip tightened enough to bruise. Diana shifted slightly on his lap, her thigh brushing Lola’s elbow. A warning or a nudge—difficult to tell.
Lola said, “Men who paid—” before Vic’s hand clamped over her mouth. His thumb pressed hard against her cheekbone, forcing her teeth into the soft flesh of her inner lip. Vic leaned down, his breath hot against her ear.
“Men who paid,” he echoed, his voice dropping to a whisper that raised the hair on her arms. His fingers flexed, digging into the hinge of her jaw. “They take what’s given. And right now?” His other hand slid between her thighs, fingers blunt and demanding. “You’re giving me this.”
The marble desk radiated cold through Lola’s stomach as Vic’s fingers pushed into her without preamble. She bit down on her tongue—a trick Vicki had taught her—to keep from crying out. The pain was sharp, grounding, but Vic’s chuckle vibrated against her spine like he’d heard her thoughts. Her face was sideways against the polished stone until Diana’s bare thigh filled her blurred vision.
Diana wasn’t watching. Her head tilted back against Vic’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded as Vic’s other hand worked between her legs with practiced indifference. The contrast was grotesque—Diana’s soft sighs while Lola’s muscles trembled under Vic’s rough handling.
Vic’s fingers stilled inside her, knuckles pressing uncomfortably against her inner thigh. His breath was hot and uneven against the back of her neck. “You thought you were going to get paid?” he murmured, lips brushing her earlobe. “Is that what Diana told you?” His chuckle vibrated through her spine as he withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, holding them up to the light like he was inspecting a rare gem. “You are lucky if we feed you scraps off the floor.”
Lola’s cheek stung where the marble desk pressed into it, the cold seeping into her bones. She could see Diana out of the corner of her eye—still perched on Vic’s thigh, her skirt a rumpled mess, her expression unreadable. Vic’s fingers, glistening and slick, traced a slow line down Lola’s spine before he wiped them carelessly on the hem of her dress.
Vic’s fingers tightened in Lola’s hair, yanking her head back with a sharp jerk that sent pain lancing down her neck. “Diana,” he said, voice low and rough, “get her wet for me.”
Diana moved instantly, sliding off Vic’s lap with practiced grace. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet.
Diana’s knees hit the carpet beside the desk with a soft thump, her hands already pushing Lola’s thighs apart. Her breath was warm against Lola’s skin, too warm, too close—then her mouth was on her, tongue pressing in with a practiced efficiency that made Lola’s stomach twist. It wasn’t rough; it wasn’t violent. That was the worst part. Diana worked her over with clinical precision, like she was following a manual, pausing only to adjust the angle of Lola’s hips when Vic grunted in approval.
Lola squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the sting of her nails digging into her palms and the muffled sounds of Vic’s belt unbuckling behind her. Then Diana’s fingers joined her mouth, curling inside her with a rhythm that was just a fraction too fast, just a fraction too calculated to feel good. Lola gasped anyway, because that’s what they expected, because she’d practiced this in motel bathrooms with Vicki coaching her through the phone.
The belt cracked across Lola’s bare back before she could brace for it—a searing stripe of pain that left her gasping into the marble. Vic’s knee jammed between her thighs, pinning her in place as the leather hissed through the air again. This time it landed diagonally, crossing the first welt with surgical precision.
“Quiet,” Victor murmured, almost tenderly, his free hand fisting in Lola’s hair to yank her head back. “You scream, I’ll use the buckle next.”
The buckle clattered against the desk’s edge, dangling like a threat. Lola kept her mouth shut, teeth grinding into the inside of her cheek until copper flooded her tongue. Diana’s fingers didn’t stop moving inside her, relentless, efficient—like she was checking items off a list. Vic’s belt landed again, lower this time, the tip snapping against the back of her thigh. The pain was bright and precise, a white-hot line that made her muscles seize.
Vic’s chuckle vibrated through the desk. “Better,” he murmured, dragging the leather strap slowly up her spine. It caught on a raised scar, tugging the skin taut before releasing with a quiet snap. Diana’s mouth left her skin, replaced by Vic’s big black cock.
The desk shuddered under Lola’s weight as Vic mounted her from behind, his knees pressing hers wider apart against the cold marble. His cock pushed in without preamble—thick and unyielding—and Lola bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, focusing on the tang of blood instead of the burn. Vic groaned above her, one hand fisting in her hair while the other clamped over her mouth, muffling her involuntary gasp.
Diana had retreated to the leather couch against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle, watching with detached interest as Vic set a brutal pace. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, but her eyes never left the point where Vic’s body met Lola’s—where black silk bunched around thrusting hips.
Diana’s tears fell silently, tracking down her cheeks like polished glass shards catching the dim office light. She didn’t wipe them away—didn’t even seem to notice them. Her fingers stilled on her skirt hem, knuckles whitening as Vic’s grunts filled the room, each thrust punctuated by the muffled creak of the marble desk under Lola’s weight. Diana had loved him once, loved him so desperately she’d carved his initials into her own thigh with a rusted razor blade at sixteen. Now she watched him rut into another girl with the same hollow stare she’d given Lola in the shower when she’d confessed about the toilet water.
Vic’s fingers tightened in Lola’s hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. His breath hitched—a sure sign he was close—and Diana’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. Instead, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, hard enough to hurt. The taste of blood bloomed, metallic and familiar. She’d bitten through her own cheek more times than she could count in this office, on that couch, in the narrow supply closet where Vic used to take her when she was too young to understand why it hurt.
Vic came in Lola’s pussy; he pulled out and told Diana to lick her clean.
Diana said, “Yes, Master,” and started licking Vic’s cum out of Lola’s pussy. Vic smiled at Diana as she licked his cum from Lola’s pussy.
Diana moaned softly as she tasted the mixture of Vic’s cum and Lola’s juices. Vic watched as Diana swallowed every drop. Vic reached down and stroked Diana’s hair as she continued to lick Lola clean. Lola sighed contentedly as Diana’s tongue worked its magic. Vic told Diana, You are doing a fantastic job.
Diana looked up at Vic with a smirk and said, “Thank you, Master.”
Vic’s fingers trailed down Diana’s cheek as she finally pulled away from Lola, her tongue swiping one last time over her own lips. “Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb catching a stray drop at the corner of her mouth. Diana’s smirk widened, but before she could quip back, Vic’s tone shifted—casual, almost conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Take Lola to the basement. Chain her up.”
Lola’s breath hitched, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she stretched lazily, arching her back against the desk, her skin still glistening. Diana rolled her eyes but hauled herself up, offering Lola a hand. “You heard him. Up.” Lola took it, letting Diana pull her to her feet, their bodies brushing—warm, sticky, familiar.
The basement wasn’t some dank horror-movie set. Vic kept it clean, almost clinical, the concrete floor polished smooth. Diana nudged Lola toward the far wall, where a set of padded cuffs hung from a sturdy hook. “You know the drill,” Diana said, her voice low. Lola did. She turned, pressing her back to the wall, wrists already lifted. Diana fastened the cuffs with practiced ease, the leather snug but not biting.
Vic descended the stairs slowly, his footsteps deliberate. He paused halfway, watching them. Diana stepped back to admire her work, Lola testing the restraints with a little wiggle. “Comfy?” Diana asked, faux-sweet.
Lola blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Could use a pillow.” Diana snorted, but Vic was already moving again, circling Lola like a shark.
Diana’s fingers lingered on the buckle of Lola’s cuff, tracing the edge before she turned to Vic. “Master,” she said, the word slipping out smooth and deliberate, like she’d practiced it in front of a mirror. “Since I found her—” her thumb brushed Lola’s wrist, possessive, “—would it be okay if I took her to my house for the night?”
Vic paused mid-circle, his gaze flicking between them. Lola held her breath, her pulse thrumming under Diana’s touch. The basement air hummed with something unspoken; Diana’s request wasn’t just a question. It was a claim. Vic’s lips quirked, slow, like he’d been waiting for this. “Are you asking,” he said, “or telling?”
“Of course I’m asking, Master,” Diana said, her smirk softening into something dangerously close to sincerity. She didn’t drop Vic’s gaze, but her fingers tightened imperceptibly around Lola’s wrist. Lola exhaled sharply through her nose, her hips shifting against the wall. The leather cuffs creaked.
Vic tilted his head, considering. He didn’t speak right away, letting the silence stretch until Diana’s confidence wavered—just for a heartbeat, just long enough for Lola to feel it in the twitch of her pulse. Then Vic grinned, wide and wolfish. “Good answer,” he said, and Diana’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “But you forgot the magic word.”
Diana’s smirk faltered for half a second before she recovered, her grip on Lola’s wrist tightening just enough to make her gasp. “Please, Master,” she said, her voice dripping with obedience—but her eyes burned darker, locked onto Vic’s like she was memorizing the exact shade of his amusement. Vic exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, before reaching out to flick a stray curl off Diana’s forehead.
“Better,” he murmured. Then his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just shy of pain. “But let’s be clear,” he continued, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through Lola’s cuffed wrists. “She stays chained. Always. If she gets away?” His thumb brushed Diana’s jugular, feather-light. “You both die screaming.”
Lola swallowed hard, her chains clinking as she shifted—not trying to escape, just testing the give. Diana didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into Vic’s grip, her breath coming quicker. “Understood,” she said, and this time there was no smirk, no performative sweetness. Just hunger, raw and undeniable.
Diana exhaled sharply through her nose, her pupils blown wide as Vic finally released her hair. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat before he stepped back. “Go on, then,” he said, jerking his chin toward Lola. “Show me you mean it.”