“Strip,” I said, loud enough for the room to hear.
She froze.
“I said strip.” I pulled her upright by her neck, forcing her to stand, and then released her. “Take my shirt off. Now.”
Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the brothers watching, the club whores staring, the absolute silence thathad fallen over the clubhouse. Her face was flushed, her pupils dilated, and I could see the war happening inside her.
The shame. The humiliation. The desperate need to refuse.
And beneath it all, the dark, twisted arousal that she couldn’t hide.
“Don’t make me ask again,” I warned.
Her hands moved to the hem of my shirt. Slowly. Reluctantly. But they moved.
She pulled the shirt over her head, revealing nothing underneath, as she stood completely naked in the middle of the clubhouse. In front of everyone.
The brothers were silent, their eyes locked on her. I could see the hunger in their faces, the way their gazes traveled over her body, taking in every curve, every mark of possession I’d left on her skin. The bruises on her thighs. The bite marks on her breasts. The rope burns on her wrists.
The evidence ofmy claim.
“On the table,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “On your back. Legs spread.”
She hesitated, and I saw the moment she almost refused. Almost told me to go fuck myself. Almost chose her pride over her submission. But then her eyes met mine, and whatever she saw there—the promise of punishment, maybe, or the promise of pleasure—made her move.
She climbed onto the pool table, the felt rough against her skin, and lay back. Her legs were still pressed together, her arms crossed over her chest in a futile attempt at modesty.
I grabbed her ankles and yanked them apart, spreading her wide.
“Hands above your head,” I ordered, and she obeyed. Her arms stretched up, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. And there she was, completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completelymine. Displayed for the entire club to see.“This,” I said, addressing the room, “is what submission looks like. This is what it means to belong to someone. She doesn’t get to hide. She doesn’t get to refuse. She doesn’t get to pretend she’s anything other than what she is.”
I looked down at her, at the way her chest was rising and falling rapidly, at the flush spreading across her skin, at the wetness glistening between her thighs.
“And what are you, Alex?” I asked, my voice soft but carrying through the silent room.
She didn’t answer.
I leaned down, my hand wrapping around her throat again, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp. “I asked you a question.”
“Yours,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!” The words came out as a sob, raw and desperate and utterly defeated.
“That’s right,” I said, releasing her throat. “You’re mine. And now I’m going to fuck you in front of everyone so they all understand exactly what that means.”
I didn’t give her time to process. Didn’t give her time to protest, or beg, or do anything other than lie there and take it as I positioned myself between her spread thighs. I could see the conflict on her face, the shame and arousal warring for dominance, and it made my cock throb.
This was what I wanted. What I needed.
To see her broken and exposed and completely at my mercy.
I thrust into her in one brutal stroke.
She cried out, her back arching off the table, her hands flying down to grab my forearms. But I caught her wrists and pinned them above her head again, holding her down as I started to fuck her.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
