Page 6 of Enslaved

Tall.

Dark.

Handsome as hell.

Every woman’s dream until I become their nightmare when they realize I can never love them back. All I do is take them over the edge as I plunder their bodies, filling them, stuffing them so good—I break them. After me, they’re shattered. Ruined for any other man’s touch.

That’s the legacy I leave behind.

Sated bodies and broken hearts.

What intrigued me about the DOM/sub lifestyle is the rules. I was sick of the hang-up phone calls and tear-streaked women showing up at my house at all hours of the night. I wanted a sexual partner who would understand the arrangement between us would be painful pleasure. Nothing more.

But even that got old.

I’m running out of things that make me feel, even if only for a fleeting speck of time, craving anything other than the dead sea living inside my chest.

Now it’s the hunt of innocence that drives me. Owning it, bending it to my will, conquering virginal women until they are trembling for me, needing only me to fill their greedy, tight pussies.

For that first moment when they sigh in pleasure feeling my huge cock thrust in and out as I rut, making them come—I feel like the gods my father says our ancestors were.

“Christos?”

“George. Make sure my house in Capri is also equipped.”

“Yes, sir. May I assume, that I can dispose of Ms. Fiona’s things?”

“That should have already been done. I disposed of her months ago.”

“Of course, sir. My apologies. I’ll make sure the house is fully ready for your new mistress.”

“Buy her the best. Spare no expense. I’ve emailed you a list of her preferences from food down to toiletries. She’s an American, size six. I want her dressed in nothing but French silk and Valentino heels. I want my playroom fully sanitized and all the toys replaced.”

“It will be done.”

I hung up with a satisfied grunt, half-hard at the thought of my golden beauty in ivory lace and heels, ass cheeks spread and waiting. It’s been six months since I was done with my ex-sub, Fiona. I’m not a man to jump from one pussy to another. I select them carefully, curating them, finding the perfect ones to sink deep into. Unlike Alex, where anyone will do.

It took me six months to find my next potential sub, and I won’t let her slip through my fingers. The golden hair and skinned American must have a perfect ripe peach between her thighs. One whose juices I can’t wait to taste.

Picking up my phone again, I called the second person alive—outside my medical staff—who knows my secret.

“Christos?”

“Is she there?”

“Yes. She arrived thirty minutes ago.”

“You know what to do.”

“Your instructions were quite clear.”

“Good. Stay away from her.”

“She’s not my bloody type.”

“She’s any straight man’s type.”

“Sod off, you wanker. You bloody well know where my tastes lie.”

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