The door shut behind him with a hiss—final, like a tomb sealing.
Damian didn't flinch. He stood tall, shoulders squared, breath even.
The corridor smelled like her—amber, smoke, restraint. She walked ahead, poised and composed, the click of her heels echoing off the stone. No music. No whispers. Just that sound—her sound—reverberating through his skull.
He followed, slow but measured. A lion watching another predator.
Every cell in his body was awake. Aware. Her presence did that to him—scraped the edges of his control like a blade. But this time, he kept it. Tightly.
She stopped at the last door.
Turned.
"You came."
He said nothing.
She looked him over—not lustfully, not admiring. Assessing. Weighing.
"You understand what this room means."
Again, he stayed silent.
Her lips curled. "So why did you follow?"
His jaw tightened.
"I wanted to see," he said finally. "How far you'd go."
She nodded once, like a teacher hearing a half-right answer. "And what will you do," she asked, stepping aside to gesture toward the room behind her, "when you realize it's you who'll go farther?"
He stepped to the threshold.
Looked inside.
The collar sat there like a dare.
He felt it then—that tremor under the surface, the pull in his chest that wanted to kneel. Not because she asked. But because part of him was already unraveling.
He could feel it happening. And that's why he stopped.
"No."
It came out low. Barely audible.
She raised an eyebrow.
"I don't kneel."
A beat.
Then she stepped closer.
"Not yet."
Their eyes locked.
It was war now.
She turned and left the door open behind her, walking inside.
But Damian didn't follow.
He turned.
And walked away.
The night air hit him like a slap.
Cold. Sharp. Real.
Damian moved fast—down the quiet stone steps of the Sanctum, out through the black gate, across the empty street. He didn't look back.
She had stayed in the room.
She hadn't said a word when he turned away.
Did she expect that? Did she plan for it?
That smirk. That patience. That fucking patience.
It made him feel insane.
He reached his car and drove like a man possessed—cutting through the city, headlights bouncing off glass towers and night-lit signs. No destination. Just motion. Just speed.
And then he knew where he needed to be.
Not home.
The Inferno.
The club pulsed as he entered—crowded, decadent, drenched in sweat and perfume and liquor. This was his world. Where he ruled. Where people bowed.
Where he was in control.
He didn't go to the bar.
He didn't talk.
He pulled out his phone and typed one name:
Clarissa.
The brunette from two winters ago. Thin, sculpted, wired for obedience. She'd cried when he last ghosted her.
Tonight, she'd be grateful.
She picked up before the first ring ended.
"Sir?"
"Come."
"Where—"
"My room. Fifteen minutes."
He hung up.
She'd run through fire for him. He knew that. They always did—until he burned them to ash.
Fifteen minutes later, she was there, panting, wide-eyed in a too-short dress, no panties.
He didn't greet her.
Didn't touch her.
Just stared.
"Kneel."
She dropped like a stone.
But it wasn't enough.
"Beg."
She blinked, confused.
"I said beg, Clarissa. For my attention. For my hands. For my cock. For your fucking place beneath me."
She swallowed, hard.
"Please… please, Sir. I've missed you. I need you. I'll do anything—"
"Louder."
"Please, Sir! Use me. Own me. Make me your whore again. Please—"
He grabbed her by the jaw, forced her eyes up.
But he didn't feel powerful.
He felt hollow.
He fucked her anyway—ruthless, cold, mechanical. Bent her over the velvet couch, made her sob through orgasm after orgasm, left bruises where his fingers dug in.
She thanked him, breathless, tears running.
He said nothing.
When it was over, she crawled toward him, lips brushing his thigh.
He stepped back.
"Get out."
"W-what?"
"Out."
She stared at him like he'd struck her.
But she left. Like always.
And he stood alone in the dark room, chest heaving, her scent clinging to his skin like a mistake.
The moment Clarissa left, the silence caved in.
Damian sat on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, staring at the floor like it might offer answers.
He felt nothing.
No triumph. No satisfaction.
She'd begged. Pleaded. Called him Sir through cracked moans and mascara-streaked cheeks. He made her cum until she trembled. Left her shaking with a fresh bruise on her hip and raw knees.
Still nothing.
He stood abruptly. Pacing. Grabbing his phone again.
Sofia.
A blonde he hadn't seen in two months. Gorgeous, wild, loved it rough.
He messaged three words:
You free. Now.
---
Twenty minutes later, she was tied naked to the Saint Andrew's cross in the backroom of the Inferno.
Leather cuffs around wrists and ankles. Ankles spread. Spine arched.
Damian tightened the restraints himself—slow, methodical, punishing.
Sofia moaned. "God, I missed this."
He didn't answer.
He picked the single-tail whip from the wall. Not his usual toy. But he wasn't looking for pleasure tonight.
He cracked it once—loud.
She flinched.
"Color?" he asked, his tone clipped.
"Green, Sir."
The whip danced. Down her back, across her ass, wrapping around her hip with precision and sting. He didn't warm her up. He didn't let her sink into the pain.
He made it hurt.
Again.
Again.
Until the welts began to raise and her cries turned breathless.
Then the crop.
Then his hand.
Then a cold plug he shoved in without warning.
She screamed—real, guttural—and he pushed her further.
Two orgasms denied. A third yanked out of her by force.
When she finally collapsed into sobs, begging for mercy, begging for him—he stepped back.
And again…
Nothing.
Not even the echo of pleasure.
He left her tied. Someone else would release her.
---
Part 4 of 4
The Spiral Deepens
He hit the third girl harder.
Yuna. Half-Japanese, beautiful, obedient, used to soft sadism and post-scene affection.
Not tonight.
He grabbed her by the hair and made her kneel naked on the floor of a hotel suite he booked in Midtown.
She smiled when she saw him.
It was gone in seconds.
He blindfolded her. Gagged her. Bent her over the foot of the bed.
Used a thick caning rod on her ass until it marked purple.
Then he made her thank him—after every strike.
"Thank you, Sir," muffled by leather, voice shaking, tears slipping from under the blindfold.
He fucked her mouth until she gagged.
Flogged her thighs.
Called her worthless, desperate, forgotten.
She nodded through it all, craving his cruelty.
It didn't move him.
She came twice from the pain alone—he made sure of it, fingers between her legs while he whispered filth.
But when she looked up at him, raw with devotion—
He turned away.
---
The fourth girl he didn't even know the name of.
Redhead. Hourglass body. Subby energy.
She'd asked him to play.
He took her into a side room of the club and didn't say a single word.
Only commands.
"Kneel. Hands behind your back. Mouth open."
She obeyed like a dream.
He choked her with his cock. Made her drool. Made her cry.
Used nipple clamps. Spanked her till her ass was blistered red.
Forced her to beg to be filled—then walked away before she came.
She whimpered on the floor, alone.
Damian didn't look back.
---
It was nearly 4 a.m. when he finally reached his penthouse.
He stripped in silence, body still carrying the scent of sweat, sex, and tears. His belt still in his hand.
He stared at it like it might explain something.
He'd punished four women tonight. Harder than he had in months. Reduced them to begging, sobbing, thanking messes.
And he still hadn't reclaimed it.
Control.
He laid the belt across his bed.
Sat beside it.
His phone vibrated.
His heart jumped—stupid, reflexive.
It wasn't her.
It never was.
He shut off the screen.
And the image returned—the collar. Her calm. Her offer.
Not a plea.
Not a seduction.
A fact.
That he could kneel.
That she was willing to own him.
He should be disgusted.
Instead, his cock stirred again.
And he hated himself for it.
Got it—thank you for the correction.
You're referring to Damian's PAs (Personal Assistants), not "OAs." So in this phase, he:
Lets his first PA handle all the morning logistics of his legitimate business (merchant empire).
Calls up the second PA, a woman he uses routinely for sex—not out of desire, but to assert control.
We'll emphasize how no one suspects he's also a mafia boss, keeping his criminal operations completely secret.
The sex scene will reflect his emotional detachment—mechanical, dominating, unsatisfying.
Let me rewrite and expand Phase III – The Illusion of Control with those details:
The city was quiet when Damian rose from the bed, though his body screamed with exhaustion.
He hadn't slept—couldn't—not after the things he'd done.
Four women. One night.
Punishments layered until they bled. Screams that should have satisfied him.
But they didn't.
He lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl against the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city below knew only one version of him.
Damian Wolf, the respectable merchant.
A tycoon.
A golden boy of the international trading scene.
A man who smiled in boardrooms and shook hands with presidents.
They had no idea who he really was.
No idea what he built underneath the surface—a mafia empire, faceless and untouchable. Gun routes, bribed ports, silent killings, loyalty sealed with blood.
He kept the two worlds perfectly apart. And no one suspected a thing.
He picked up his phone and opened a secure, encrypted messaging app.
PA-1: Tobias
"Delegate the Saint-Alexis deal. Cancel my appearance. Do not involve me in anything today. Understood?"
Seconds later:
"Already on it, sir."
Tobias had been with him for years—sharp, obedient, discreet. The perfect mask to keep the public empire running smoothly, while Damian focused on keeping the underground one intact.
Still shirtless, Damian took another drag. His chest was bruised. Not from a fight—but from the strain of not feeling anything.
He unlocked a different contact.
PA-2: Mira
She was his second assistant—on payroll, yes. But mostly for moments like this.
"Penthouse. Now. Don't knock."
No emoji. No question. Just command.
Thirty minutes later, she entered without a word. She knew better.
Mira was slender, her honey-brown skin glowing beneath her black coat. She wore nothing underneath—his rule, not hers. Hair in a loose knot. Eyes cast down.
Damian didn't greet her.
Didn't say a single word.
He simply pointed to the floor.
She obeyed instantly, dropping to her knees on the cold marble. Her posture perfect—back straight, mouth slightly open, hands behind her.
He stepped closer, looming over her like a shadow.
"This isn't for pleasure," he said, voice sharp, low. "It's for discipline. For my sanity. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
What followed wasn't lovemaking. It wasn't even lust.
It was control, ritualized and rehearsed.
He pulled her head back by the hair, forcing eye contact. "You don't come unless I say."
Then he turned her over, dragged her to the edge of the couch, and began.
His movements were precise—punishing. Cold. Calculated.
No tenderness. No buildup. Just release, over and over.
She whimpered. Then cried out. Then obeyed again.
Still, Damian felt nothing.
His mind wandered—to a quiet café… to the taste of lavender… to her.
The only woman who hadn't begged.
The only one who made him consider kneeling.
He finished. Not from climax, but exhaustion.
Mira lay limp on the rug, bruised and marked.
He stepped into the shower without a glance back.
The marble floor still echoed with the sound of heels when Lana entered—his private servant, a blonde with a body made to kneel for power. Petite in stature, but with curves that drew eyes like magnets—hips that swayed with every step, breasts barely held by the sheer silk robe she wore.
Damian didn't speak. He didn't have to.
Lana dropped to her knees beside the couch, eyes lowered, waiting like a well-trained pet. Her lips trembled—not in fear, but anticipation. She loved being used.
Mira, the PA, was still recovering, lying on her side, bruised and sore from earlier.
Damian glanced down at both women and made his decision.
"Get up," he ordered Mira. "You're not done."
She flinched. "Sir… I don't think I can—"
"You'll do what you're told. Or do you need to be reminded of your place?"
Silence.
Damian stepped forward, towering over her. He gripped Mira by the chin and forced her gaze upward.
"You refused to serve her last time," he said, motioning to Lana. "You said she was beneath you. A servant."
"She is!" Mira hissed, the words sharp. "I'm your PA. I manage your empire—"
"And yet she makes me come," he interrupted coldly. "Something you fail to do."
That shut her up.
"Strip," he growled.
Mira obeyed—slowly, hesitantly, like a woman walking into fire.
Lana didn't wait. She was already crawling toward the couch, positioning herself as she knew he liked. Legs spread, ass raised, back arched—eager and perfect.
Damian sat back in his chair, unbuckling his pants as he nodded toward Mira.
"You're going to watch me fuck her. And then, you're going to clean us both."
Mira turned red. "You can't be serious."
His voice dropped into ice.
"Knees."
She dropped instantly.
---
What followed was a display of pure dominance.
Damian pulled Lana to him roughly, her breath hitching as he buried himself inside her in one long, punishing thrust. She cried out—loud, needy, unashamed.
Her moans filled the room as he took her from behind, one hand on her throat, the other gripping her hip. Fast. Hard. Unrelenting.
Mira knelt helplessly below them, her lips parted, eyes locked on the brutal rhythm of his body slamming into the servant's.
"Touch yourself," he ordered her. "Watch. Learn."
"I'm not—"
He grabbed her hair and forced her face closer. "Don't make me repeat myself."
She obeyed, one trembling hand sliding between her thighs as her pride burned.
Lana was sobbing now—not from pain, but from being pushed into bliss. Her body shook violently, an orgasm ripping through her like a storm.
Damian didn't stop. He rode her through it, harder, deeper—until he finally growled low in his chest and came inside her with a hiss.
Only then did he turn to Mira.
"Clean her. Mouth only."
Mira stared in disbelief.
Damian smiled coldly. "You said she was beneath you. Prove you're not."
She hesitated for a breath. Then moved forward. Slow. Reluctant. Angry.
But she obeyed.
Her tongue slid between Lana's trembling thighs, catching the taste of them both. Lana whimpered at the overstimulation but didn't move—submissive and proud of it.
Damian watched, lighting another cigarette.
He felt better.
Not satisfied.
But back in control.
Mira's mouth was slick with obedience by the time he grabbed her by the neck and dragged her up to meet his eyes.
"You want to be useful again?" he asked darkly, his voice a blade.
She gave a trembling nod. Her cheeks were flushed—not just from shame, but arousal. Her body betrayed her pride.
"Then lie back. On the table."
She hesitated.
He raised an eyebrow. "Last chance."
She moved quickly after that, climbing onto the table, naked, legs parted under the overhead chandelier's cold light. The smooth wooden surface chilled her spine, but Damian's touch burned.
He looked to Lana. "You'll ride her face."
Lana obeyed immediately, crawling up with feline grace, straddling the PA's mouth with a wicked smile. Mira gasped, squirmed, but Lana gripped her hair and pulled her in, forcing her to lick.
Damian stepped between Mira's thighs, finally giving her what she'd begged for since morning.
He took her slow, to make her feel every inch. And deep, to hear her choke on moans she tried to stifle under Lana's hips. His hand gripped her throat while he thrust, hard and punishing.
"You see?" he growled in her ear. "This is your place. Serving me. Serving her."
Mira bucked under him, helpless, flushed red with humiliation—yet her nails clawed at his back, needing more.
Lana whimpered above her, grinding down. "She's learning…"
Damian pulled out of Mira mid-thrust and turned to Lana. "Over. Now."
Lana shifted off the PA, breathless, and obediently bent over the table beside her.
Mira was too dazed to speak.
Damian pushed Lana's face against the wood, entering her from behind again—this time even harder. Her cries echoed off the walls as he grabbed her wrists and pinned them behind her back.
"Watch," he ordered Mira. "This is what it looks like when someone knows how to obey."
Then, as if to prove it, he began using them both—switching between Mira's mouth and Lana's body, controlling their pleasure like instruments in an orchestra. Lana moaned with every slap of his hips, Mira choked around his cock, her pride long gone, reduced to function.
He finished between them—one hand wrapped in Mira's hair, the other gripping Lana's ass—coming with a deep, guttural groan that filled the room with satisfaction and dominance.
But only his.
They collapsed. Bruised. Used. Spent.
He stood above them, cold and calm, adjusting his cuffs and sliding his belt back on.
"You're dismissed," he said simply, already lighting another cigarette. "Get out before I change my mind."
Neither woman spoke.
They dressed in silence—one limping, the other trembling.
Damian poured a drink. He looked out the window into the city, power pulsing under his skin.
Still…
Not enough.
Because no matter how many women he broke, one name haunted the edges of his mind.
Elle.
"That's how you make a master cum, slut."
The words hung in the air like a loaded pistol.
Damian's hand paused mid-buttoning his shirt.
Slowly, he turned.
Lana, still flushed and breathing hard, didn't register the storm brewing in his eyes until it was too late.
"You what?" he asked quietly.
Lana stiffened. "I—Master, I just—"
"You spoke without permission."
She dropped to her knees instantly, head bowed.
"I didn't mean—"
"I don't give a damn what you meant. You claimed my pleasure as yours to explain?" His voice was ice.
"I—I was just—"
His hand struck her face—not hard enough to bruise, but sharp enough to humiliate.
"You will learn your place, Lana."
He looked down at Mira, who was still catching her breath, cheeks red and thighs shaking from being used.
"Thirty minutes," he said coldly. "You will serve her."
Lana's mouth fell open.
"Mira?" she asked in disbelief.
"Did I stutter?"
Lana hesitated.
He moved closer. "On your knees. Mouth on her. Don't stop until I say."
Lana swallowed her pride, crawled toward the PA like a trained pet, and slid between Mira's thighs.
Mira looked up, stunned, unsure whether to protest. But Damian didn't give her a chance.
"You will take it," he ordered her. "Because this is no longer about pleasure. It's about obedience."
He pulled up a chair, sat back, and watched them.
Lana began to lick—slowly at first, clearly resisting, but Damian raised a brow and said:
"Don't make me count the minutes aloud."
She picked up the pace.
Mira's breath hitched. She gripped the edge of the table as Lana's tongue worked with reluctant precision.
Damian poured himself another drink, eyes never leaving them. Watching Lana serve the very woman she'd tried to belittle—that was justice.
Humiliation. Power. Discipline. He felt it in his blood.
At the ten-minute mark, Lana's movements became smoother—more desperate, more yielding. Mira's body responded, in spite of the awkwardness.
At fifteen minutes, Mira began to moan.
At twenty, she was crying out, legs twitching.
At twenty-five, Lana's cheeks were soaked, not just with arousal but shame—and something else: submission.
And at thirty…
"Stop," Damian said.
Lana slumped back, panting. Mira lay dazed.
He stood. "Now thank her."
Lana's lips trembled. "Thank you, Mira."
"Louder."
"Thank you, Mira!"
He walked toward them slowly, eyes full of ice.
"And thank me for correcting your filthy tongue."
She dropped her head to the floor.
"Thank you, Master Damian. Thank you for punishing me."
He looked over them both, used and broken, where he wanted them.
"Now get dressed. I have a meeting to attend."
And just like that, they scrambled.
He left them without another word, slipping into his private elevator.
His cock was satisfied.
But his mind?
Still clouded by a single thought:
Where the hell is Elle?