Chapter 34

“Let me show you the product,” Uncle Eight said, his voice a dry rasp that sounded like sandpaper on wood.

He signaled to his men. A group of women were dragged forward from the shadows of the warehouse, their bare feet slapping against the cold, grime-streaked concrete. They were completely naked, their skin pale and shivering in the damp draft of the warehouse. The guards forced them down, shoving them onto their knees in a ragged line directly in front of us. The smell of the place—stale cigarettes, diesel, and the salty rot of the docks—seemed to thicken, mixing with the scent of unwashed bodies and raw fear.

Then I saw her.

My heart didn’t just skip; it felt like it had been gripped by a cold, iron fist. It was Van. To my absolute horror, the woman standing there was a ghost of the person I once knew. Her eyes were hollowed out, sunken deep into her skull, devoid of the spark that had once defined her. The haughty, untouchable princess look was gone, replaced by a vacant, glazed expression of total submission.

My mind reeled. A wave of nausea surged up my throat, hot and acidic, and I fought the urge to vomit inside the confines of my leather hood. I felt a dizzying sense of failure. I had left her specifically to ensure the Triads would never touch her, to keep her far away from the orbit of men like Uncle Eight. So why was she here? Why was she in Thailand, stripped bare and kneeling in the dirt of a crime meeting? The injustice of it felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe through the narrow slit of my mask. But I forced myself to stay still. I became a statue of leather and silence. I had to be strong.

Mr T stepped forward, his presence commanding and predatory. He began to inspect the girls, his eyes scanning them like a buyer at a livestock auction. He paused in front of Van, his gaze lingering on her fragile frame. Then, he turned to me.

“You like this one?” he asked, his voice smooth, almost playful.

I felt a surge of panic, but I didn’t let it reach my voice. I gave a noncommittal shrug. I had to pretend I didn’t recognize her. If Mr T knew she meant something to me, she would become a tool for my own torture, or worse, he would discard her just to see me break. I needed her to be invisible. I needed her to be safe, even if that safety meant being a nameless piece of meat.

Mr T smiled, a thin, cruel line. “Come,” he commanded. “Break her in for me.”

The command sent a jolt of electricity through me. I stepped forward, the leather of my catsuit creaking with every movement. I stopped directly in front of Van. Up close, the signs of her ruin were undeniable. The pinpoint pupils, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she didn’t even flinch when I approached—she was heavily drugged, her will dissolved by chemicals.

I reached down to the crotch of my suit. With a slow, deliberate motion, I untucked my implant. It sprang free with a sudden, rigid snap, the thick, hydrogel-enlarged shaft pulsing with a permanent, artificial erection. It was a monstrosity—too thick, too stiff, a surgically engineered weapon of pleasure and pain. The cool air hit the head of the cock, and I felt the familiar, heavy throb of my over-aroused state.

I grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to expose her throat. She didn’t resist. All the defiance that had once made her so proud had been beaten out of her. I shoved the head of my cock against her lips.

“Open,” I hissed.

She obeyed instantly, her mouth parting in a slack, mindless gape. I slammed the rigid length of my implant deep into her throat. I heard a wet, choking sound—a guttural gag—as the girth of the implant stretched her mouth to its absolute limit. I didn’t care about her comfort; I had to maintain the persona of the cold, dominant pet.

I began to fuck her mouth with raw, rhythmic intensity. I focused on the trivial details to keep my emotions from boiling over: the way her saliva lubricated the shaft, creating a loud, slapping sound every time my pelvis hit her chin; the smell of her cheap, chemical-laden breath; the sight of her eyes rolling back in her head, unable to focus. I pushed deeper, hitting the back of her throat until she began to tear up, the moisture spilling over her cheeks.

Inside, I was screaming. Every thrust was a betrayal, a violent act of “protection” that felt like another layer of mutilation. I was using the very thing that marked me as a freak to claim her, forcing her to submit to the monstrosity Mr T had created. I felt the heat building in my groin, the artificial rigidity of the implant grinding against her soft palate. I wanted to weep for her, but instead, I gripped her hair tighter and drove myself into her mouth again and again, ensuring that to the men watching, she was nothing more than a hole for my pleasure.