Chapter Seven: The Passenger’s Tax

The air in the back of the Bentley is thick, tasting of expensive leather and the suffocating scent of Arthur’s cologne.

Arthur sits in the front passenger seat, his profile relaxed as he hums along to a soft jazz track on the radio. He looks every bit the contented man. 

To him, this is a beautiful Saturday morning, a chance to spoil his new, young bride with a shopping spree at the most exclusive boutiques in the city.

I am sitting directly behind Ethan.

The driver’s seat is adjusted back, and even through the leather, I can feel the heat radiating from his massive frame. He is focused on the road, his large hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. 

He looks professional, the dutiful son acting as a chauffeur, but the way he watches me through the rearview mirror tells a different story.

Every time our eyes meet in that small sliver of glass, my breath hitches. His gaze is a physical weight, stripping away my silk dress and my dignity.

"I’ve already called ahead to Valentino," Arthur says, turning slightly to smile at me. "They’ve cleared the floor for us. I want you to have everything, Zola. New shoes, new bags... and perhaps a few more of those scarves you seem so fond of."

"Thank you, Arthur," I whisper, my hand instinctively flying to the silk tied around my neck. "You're too kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it, my love," Arthur chuckles. "It’s my duty to protect you. To make sure you have the best of everything as your husband."

From the driver's seat, Ethan lets out a low, dry sound; halfway between a cough and a laugh. "Duty. It's a heavy word, isn't it, Father?"

"It’s a rewarding one, Ethan," Arthur replies, completely oblivious to the venom in the air. "Just the way you make sure Althea is protected and cherished. You’re being rewarded by her love, aren't you?"

I see Ethan’s knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel harder. He doesn't say a word. Instead, he reaches out with his right hand, pretending to adjust the gear shift, but his arm continues to move back.

Slowly, deliberately, he snakes his hand through the gap between the front seats.

I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs like a frantic drum. Arthur is right there, inches away, humming a song, yet Ethan’s hand is blind to the risk.

He finds my knee under my long dress.

"Oh, I'm being rewarded, Father," Ethan murmurs, "Every single day, I get exactly what I deserve."

His fingers are hot, his palm heavy as he clamps down on my thigh. I try to pull back, but I’m trapped against the back seat. He begins to squeeze, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of my inner thigh, inching upward toward the hem of my skirt.

"Zola?" Arthur asks, looking at my face through the front mirror, noticing my sudden rigidity. "Are you alright? You look a bit flushed."

"I... I think the heater is up too high," I stammer, my face burning.

Ethan’s thumb moves higher, hooking into the lace of my panties. He traces the line of my panties as he moves slowly touching the side of my pussy, vibrating threat against my skin.

"Is it too hot in the back, Mrs Reynolds?" Ethan asks, his voice smooth as silk, his eyes locked on the road ahead. "I can turn the air down. I wouldn't want my new mother to be... uncomfortable."

He gives my clitoris a sharp, possessive pinch, right where the bruise from his palm is still blossoming. I let out a tiny, muffled whimper.

"Did you say something, dear?" Arthur looks back, concern etching his face.

"No," I gasp, forcing a smile that feels like it's cracking my skin. "Just... a cough. I’m fine."

Ethan finally withdraws his hand, but the imprint of his touch remains, searing into my skin. He shifts gears, the engine of the Bentley roaring as he accelerates onto the main strip.

As we pull up to the boutique, Ethan steps out first, opening Arthur’s door with a polite nod, playing the role of the perfect son. Then, he circles the car. He pulls my door open and reaches in, offering me his hand.

I hesitate, looking at his large, calloused palm. It is the hand that fed me pleasure, the hand that spanked me until I sobbed, and the hand that now demands I walk into the lions' den.

"Careful, mother," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the city traffic as I take his hand. He leans in close, his lips almost touching my ear. "Don't trip on your lies. We haven't even gotten to the dressing room yet."

He squeezes my fingers until they ache, his eyes promising a much more thorough "tax collection" the moment we are behind closed doors.