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Disclaimer: This series is purely fictional and created solely for entertainment purposes within this subreddit. It does not promote or condone violence in any way. All characters and events are fictional. Some parts of the story may include themes of humiliation or uncomfortable situations as part of the narrative. Reader discretion is advised. Enjoy.
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Friday arrived, and the tension had been building all week—slow, inevitable, the kind that robbed them of sleep. Michael had hired a private investigator, a former Miami cop recommended by an old contact who swore he was discreet, but after nearly emptying their joint account, all they got were vague rumors: Victor spotted at a casino far from the city. Nothing solid, no trace of the money. Tom hadn’t called, hadn’t sent anyone. Just silence—and that was the worst, because it felt like he knew time was eroding everything in his favor.
Michael woke first that morning. It was seven o’clock and sunlight was already slipping through the blinds, bathing the bedroom in a golden, cruel light. Mia slept beside him, curled under the sheets. Even asleep, her body was a presence that distracted him—the pronounced curves of her hip under the thin fabric, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each quiet breath. Michael watched her for a long time, caught between a love that tightened his chest and a guilt that burned inside. He got up without making a sound and went downstairs to the living room. Mia came down half an hour later. She approached Michael from behind, wrapped her arms around his waist, and rested her cheek against his back, seeking warmth.
“Good morning,” she murmured.
Michael turned, kissed her forehead tenderly.
“Good morning, love.”
They sat at the breakfast table with little appetite. Toast they barely touched, some fruit, coffee that grew cold in the cups. The silence was too heavy.
“Any news from the investigator?” Mia finally asked, stirring her cup without drinking.
Michael shook his head.
“Nothing new. He says Victor covered his tracks well. It could take weeks, months.”
Mia looked out the window at the quiet street, where neighbors were out jogging or watering their gardens, as if the world wasn’t crumbling just yards away.
“Today is Friday,” she said quietly.
Michael swallowed hard.
“I know.”
Another long silence. Mia bit her lower lip, that nervous gesture Michael had known forever—the same one she’d had before their first date, before the wedding.
“We talked about this,” she said. “We said we’d find a way.”
“And we tried,” he answered, voice hoarse. “God, Mia, we tried everything. We sold the watch, the jewelry… I even called people I shouldn’t have. Nothing.”
Mia stood, walked to the counter, and stared out at the backyard, shoulders tense beneath her robe.
“I can’t do it, Michael. I can’t get in that car. Tom… he disgusts me. The way he looked at me the other day, like he already owned me. He’s a criminal. Probably a killer. The thought of… of being with him, of him touching me…”
Her voice broke. Michael came up behind her, hugged her, feeling the slight tremor in her body, the warmth that always comforted him.
“You don’t have to,” he whispered against her hair. “We’ll find another way out. We’ll run if we have to. Move to another state, start over.”
Mia turned in his arms, looked him straight in the eyes.
“With what? Not a dime? Leaving everything behind? And what if he finds us? You know how these people are. They don’t stop.”
Michael looked down. Tears stung his eyes.
“It’s my fault. All of this because of me. If I hadn’t trusted Victor…”
Mia took his face in both hands, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“Stop. We both knew. We both chose to look the other way.”
They stayed like that for a moment, very close. Michael felt her racing pulse, the soft press of her breasts against his chest. Despite everything, the contact aroused him a little; it was instinctive, impossible to switch off with Mia.
“What do you think he really wants?” she asked suddenly, almost in a whisper. “When he said ‘spend time with me.’ Dinner, conversation… ‘whatever I want.’ It’s not just talking, Michael. You know that.”
He nodded slowly.
“I know.”
Mia stepped back, crossed her arms under her chest, which slightly lifted the robe and accentuated her curves. The gesture was unconscious, but Michael noticed anyway: the smooth skin peeking from the neckline, the perfect shape that always left him breathless.
“It disgusts me just thinking about it,” she said. “His voice, his stare… like he was undressing me with his eyes. And now… would I have to let him do it for real?”
Michael felt a knot in his stomach: jealousy eating at him, rage, helplessness. The idea of Tom touching Mia made him sick, but it also stirred something darker, a twisted tension that quickened his pulse and shamed him.
“Don’t do it,” he said. “Tell me no, and we’ll face whatever comes together.”
Mia paced nervously around the kitchen, stopped in front of the refrigerator, and pressed her forehead against the cold door.
“I’ve been thinking about it all week,” she admitted. “At first, when we said no, I felt strong. But every night I wake up sweating, imagining they come back. That they beat you again. Or worse.”
Michael stepped closer but didn’t touch her.
“Mia…”
“No,” she cut him off, turning. “If I say no, what happens? Ruin us? And if I say yes… just a few times? Until we recover something. It would be temporary. Like a horrible job you endure because there’s no alternative.”
Michael went pale.
“Don’t talk like that. You’re not… that, Mia. You’re my wife.”
“I know,” she said. “But what choice do we have?
The wall clock read nine. The day stretched ahead like a sentence.
Michael kept insisting there were other options: filing for bankruptcy, making an anonymous report, even confronting Tom with whatever they had left. Mia listened, but shook her head each time.
“Tom doesn’t negotiate with the weak,” she said. “And the police… they’d drag us down too. Years of laundering, Michael.”
Around noon, Mia went upstairs to change. She put on black leggings that clung to every curve of her hips and thighs, and a loose T-shirt. She came back down and found Michael in the study, staring out the window at the street.
“What time did he say the car would come?” she asked.
“He didn’t give an exact time. Just ‘Friday.’”
Mia sat beside him, took his hand.
“Michael… if I do it, nothing changes between us. You’re still the love of my life. The only one who really touches me.”
He looked at her, eyes wet.
“I don’t want you to do it for me.”
“It’s not just for you,” she lied a little. “It’s for us.”
The tension in the room was thick, almost tangible. Michael felt that mix of guilt, love, and a forbidden arousal gnawing at him inside. He hated himself for it.
Mia leaned in and kissed him—slow, deep. Her lips soft, her tongue seeking his with an urgency that seemed to want to stop time. Michael responded, pulling her closer. His hands slid down her back, feeling the firmness beneath the fabric. Mia straddled his lap, the T-shirt riding up to reveal the flat skin of her abdomen. They kissed harder, as if they could erase what was coming.
“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth.
“And I love you. Always.”
They pulled apart breathing hard. Mia rested her forehead against his.
“Okay,” she said at last. “If the car comes… I’ll get in.”
Michael closed his eyes as tears rolled down his cheek.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she admitted. “It repulses me. But I’ll do it.”
The clock read two when they heard the engine outside. A black sedan pulled up in front of the house. The driver didn’t get out; he just waited.
Mia stood, trembling. She looked at herself in the hallway mirror: face pale, but still beautiful. She quickly went upstairs to put on a simple black dress, fitted, that accentuated her hourglass figure. Low heels. Minimal makeup.
Michael walked her to the door.
“You don’t have to…”
She silenced him with one final, long, desperate kiss.
“We’ll get through this. I’ll call you when I can.”
She opened the door. The sun blinded her for a moment. She walked toward the car on legs that barely held her. The driver opened the back door.
Mia got in and the car pulled away. Michael stood frozen, not knowing what would happen, watching her disappear, his heart in pieces.
Mia sat in the back seat, hands clenched in her lap, staring out the tinted window without really registering the passing landscape.
They arrived at the private building. A uniformed doorman opened the car door and escorted her to the exclusive elevator without barely looking at her. They rode up in silence to the penthouse, and when the doors opened, the space unfolded before her. Tom was standing by the bar, pouring himself a whisky with deliberate movements. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, dark trousers, no jacket. He turned when he heard her enter.
“Welcome, Mia,” he said in that calm, deep voice that seemed to settle in her chest. “Punctual. I like that.”
She stayed near the elevator, not moving forward, as if the floor burned. Her heart pounded against her ribs so hard she feared he’d notice.
“This is a mistake,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she expected. “We can find another way to fix the money issue. Michael is doing everything he can to recover it.”
Tom gave a faint smile, took a slow sip, and approached without hurry, stopping at a distance that still respected her space, though his eyes scanned her as if he already had her measured.
“Let’s sit,” he suggested. “I don’t bite. At least not yet.”
Mia hesitated a moment, but crossed the room and sat on the edge of the sofa, knees together, back straight. Tom took the armchair opposite, crossed his legs, and watched her in silence for a long time. His dark eyes traveled down her face, lingered on her neck, on the neckline where her chest rose and fell with her agitated breathing.
“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he said at last. “Your husband has been a lucky man. Or was.”
A shiver of revulsion ran down her spine. This man was everything she despised: a predator in a suit, someone who bought and sold lives like changing cars. The idea that he desired her turned her stomach.
“I’m not here because I want to be,” she replied, lifting her chin a little. “Just… to buy time.”
Tom nodded, as if he understood perfectly.
“I know. And I value that. The courage. The loyalty. That’s why I’m going to go slow with you, Mia. I’m not always a savage.”
He stood, went to the bar, and prepared a drink: gin and tonic with a lime slice. He offered it to her. She accepted, mostly to have something in her hands and gain seconds. The first sip burned her throat but loosened some of the tension.
Tom sat again, this time on the sofa, closer, though still without touching her.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he said. “What’s a woman like you doing with an accountant like Michael?”
Mia frowned.
“He’s not just an accountant. He’s a good man.”
Tom let out a low laugh, almost affectionate.
“Good men don’t launder my money, darling. But I understand blind love.”
The conversation went on like that for a while: gentle questions from him, sharp answers from her. Tom was patient, almost seductive in his controlled calm. He spoke of the paintings on the walls—expensive pieces, surely with shady histories—of faraway trips, of the pleasure of having control. Every word was a subtle reminder of who held the power. Mia drank; the alcohol loosened her nerves but didn’t erase the rejection she felt every time he smiled.
After a while, Tom leaned back, stretched an arm along the back of the sofa, close to her shoulders but not brushing them.
“Take off the dress,” he said suddenly, voice low and firm.
Mia froze.
“What?”
“Slowly. I want to see you.”
She shook her head.
“No. You said dinner, conversation…”
Tom stared at her, unblinking.
“And this is conversation too. With your body. I’m not going to force you, Mia. You can get up and leave right now.”
Silence fell heavy, thick. Mia thought of Michael alone at home, waiting, anguished.
She stood slowly. Her hands shook as she lowered the zipper. The dress fell to the floor. She stood in a black lace bra and thong, underwear she’d chosen that morning with a shame that now burned her. Her body, exposed, was the one that always drew stares: full, firm breasts, narrow waist, wide hips, long legs.
Tom exhaled slowly, eyes roaming her without disguise.
“God… you’re perfect.”
He unbuckled his belt, lowered the zipper. He took out his cock: erect, imposing, thick and long, veined, the head swollen and glistening. He took it in his hand and began stroking slowly while looking at her.
“Now the bra.”
That man, older, powerful, cruel, masturbating in front of her. She unhooked her bra and let it fall. Her breasts were freed: large, round, pink nipples hardened by the cold air and by fear.
Tom barely sped up his movement.
“Turn. Slowly.”
She obeyed, feeling his gaze burning her back, her firm ass barely covered by the thong.
“Take it off.”
She slid the thin fabric down, standing completely naked. She instinctively covered herself with her hands.
“Lower them,” he ordered, his voice rougher.
She did. Tom stroked himself with a controlled rhythm, in no hurry to finish.
“Come. Sit in front of me.”
Mia approached and sat on the edge of the opposite armchair, legs closed.
“Open your legs,” he whispered. “Touch yourself for me.”
She looked at him and instinctively began to touch herself. She didn’t understand how she could allow this from Tom; maybe deep down she loved being dominated by her husband’s boss.
“Godddd,” Mia moaned.
Tom leaned forward without stopping his movement.
“Look at me, Mia. This is temporary. You can hate me as much as you want, but your body is speaking for itself while you touch yourself for me.”
Her hand brushed her clit. At first she was dry, but the friction, the tension, the excitement mixed with something forbidden made her body respond against her will, getting wet.
Tom let out a low moan.
“Like that. Look at me while you do it.”
She looked at him. He stroked himself harder, his enormous cock throbbing in his hand. Mia sped up, the treacherous heat rising in her belly.
“Perfect,” he said. “So brave. So wet despite everything.”
She closed her eyes for an instant, but he ordered:
“Look at me.”
She opened them and the orgasm hit her suddenly, intense and humiliating. She bit her lip so she wouldn’t make noise.
Tom smiled.
“Good girl.”
He stood up and approached. His cock was inches from her face.
“Now help me.”
Mia looked at that thick, veiny, throbbing thing nine inches long. It terrified her, that monstrosity, but she took her trembling hand and closed it around it. It was so wide she could barely wrap her fingers around it. She moved it slowly, feeling the heat, the pulse.
Tom groaned, placed his hand over hers, guiding her.
“Faster.”
She obeyed, yet there was also a sick fascination with the size, with the power it represented; deep down she felt excited.
Mia only sped up and tried to make Tom come, thinking that the faster she did it, the sooner she would return home to her husband. However, she didn’t expect Tom to finish by coming on her face, with hot spurts landing on her hand and her thigh.
He dropped back onto the divan, breathing hard.
“Good,” he said. “That’s enough for today.”
Mia stayed there, naked, trembling. Tom handed her a towel.
“Clean yourself. The car will take you home.”
While she dressed, he watched her with something that almost looked like tenderness.
“Next week will be more, and maybe we’ll do more things,” Tom said with a winner’s look.
Mia remained scared and excited; for some reason the power of this man turned her on, and how far he could go, even though deep down she still felt fear of the size of his cock and the fact that she felt she was betraying her husband.
To be continued…
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