Stepbrother's Mercy- Chapter 2- The Gala

Saturday night. The Winter Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The Temple of Dendur glowed under amber spotlights, ancient stone bathed in golden light while champagne flutes clinked and society whispers drifted like smoke. Saint Valenti moved through the crowd like he owned the room, because he did. Charcoal Tom Ford tuxedo tailored to perfection, black silk shirt open at the collar, platinum cufflinks glinting like tiny blades.

His hand never left the small of Raven’s back, thumb tracing slow, possessive circles over the bare skin where the dress dipped dangerously low.

The dress he’d chosen was pure weapon: black silk so thin it clung like liquid shadow, backless to the dimples above her ass, slit to the hip so every step flashed the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings. No bra. No panties. Just the platinum choker locked around her throat—wide enough to be a collar, with a discreet O-ring at the front. The key dangled between his shirt buttons, warm against his chest.

“Behave,” he’d murmured in the limo while clicking the choker shut, knuckles brushing her racing pulse. “One wrong move and every donor in that room learns exactly what you are to me.”

Raven had answered by sinking her teeth into the pad of his thumb until she tasted blood. He’d only smiled, licked the crimson drop away, and slid two fingers between her thighs through the silk slit, finding her already soaked. He’d circled her clit once, twice—enough to make her whimper—then withdrawn before she could come.

Now, two hours and three flutes of champagne later, she was vibrating with rage, need, and the humiliating awareness that her cunt was dripping down her inner thighs.

Saint was cornered by a Saudi prince and a Bloomberg reporter, discussing crypto volatility with the bored precision of a man who could buy the conversation outright. Perfect.

Raven slipped through a side archway, heels clicking on marble, heart slamming. She found the private ladies’ lounge—gold fixtures, fresh orchids, mirrors everywhere—and locked herself in the largest stall. Fingers shaking, she fired off a text to her old dealer:

need a bump. met steps by dendur. 5 min.

Reply instant: on my way princess ♡

She was reapplying black lipstick, trying to steady her breathing, when the lock clicked and Saint walked in. Alone. He turned the deadbolt with a soft, final sound that echoed in her bones.

Raven’s reflection went pale beneath the heavy contour.

He held up her phone, cloned weeks ago. The text thread glowed accusingly on the screen.

“Thought you could sneak a little coke in my museum?” His voice was velvet over steel. “After I specifically banned drugs in the penthouse? After I told you the only thing you get to snort is my cum?”

She lifted her chin, defiant even as her thighs trembled. “You can’t watch me every second, Saint.”

“I don’t need to.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the marble counter. “I own every second.”

From his inside breast pocket he produced a length of black silk cord—thin, unbreakable, the kind used to secure priceless artifacts. Before she could bolt, he spun her, yanked her wrists behind her back, and bound them with ruthless efficiency. Knots tight enough to bite, but not cut circulation. Professional. The silk dug into her skin like a promise.

“Saint—”

“Quiet.”

He pushed her forward until her hips slammed the marble edge. The mirror showed them in perfect, obscene tableau: her in backless silk, him in flawless tuxedo, her eyes blazing hatred, his cold and amused.

With one hand he gathered the long skirt and flipped it up to her waist. Cool air kissed bare skin. Her ass and shaved cunt completely exposed, already glistening with arousal.

“Count,” he said.

The first slap cracked across both cheeks like thunder. The heat bloomed instantly, sharp and sweet.

“I said count, Raven.”

“One,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

By five her skin was scarlet. By ten tears streaked her mascara and her thighs shook uncontrollably.

Between each strike he paused—two fingers sliding through her dripping folds, spreading the slickness up to her clit, circling mercilessly until her hips chased his hand, then withdrawing just as she teetered on the edge.

At fifteen he stopped.

“Spread your legs wider.”

She widened her stance. The high slit parted like theater curtains, framing her flushed, swollen cunt for the mirror.

He freed his cock with one hand (thick, brutally hard, a bead of pre-cum pearling at the slit). He dragged the head through her folds, coating himself, teasing her entrance until she sobbed in frustration.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Their eyes locked in the glass.

“This is what happens when you disobey,” he said, and slammed into her to the root in one savage thrust.

Raven screamed—raw, broken, half pain, half relief. He stretched her almost to tearing, but her body welcomed him like it had been starving for weeks. He bottomed out, balls pressed tight against her clit, and held still for a heartbeat.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he growled against her ear.

“Fuck you,” she spat, voice cracking.

He pulled out entirely, leaving her clenching on nothing. She whined—an involuntary, humiliated sound.

He slapped her clit—sharp, perfect. Pleasure-pain detonated through her.

“Wrong answer.”

Another slap. Another. Her knees buckled.

“Please—” The word tore out before she could stop it.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, Saint. Please.”

He drove back in so hard the counter rattled. Porcelain orchid vases trembled.

“Good girl.”

He set a brutal rhythm—hand fisted in her hair to arch her neck, the other gripping the choker like a leash. Every thrust slammed her hips into marble. Her nipples scraped silk with each impact. Outside the door, muffled laughter and clinking glasses drifted past—someone tried the handle, found it locked, moved on with a giggle.

The danger made her wetter.

Saint reached around and pinched her clit hard between two fingers.

“Come on my cock like the obedient little sister you are.”

She shattered instantly—cunt spasming, squirting in hot, messy pulses that soaked his abs, his balls, splashed up onto the mirror. Saint kept fucking her through it, relentless, using her orgasm to slide even deeper.

He didn’t stop.

He pulled out, spun her to face him, lifted her onto the counter, back against the mirror, legs spread wide, and slammed back in. The new angle let him hit deeper, battering her cervix with every stroke. He fucked her like he was trying to imprint himself inside her—hips snapping, breath ragged, sweat dripping from his jaw onto her tits.

Raven’s bound hands scrabbled uselessly behind her. She could only take it, head thrown back against the glass, mouth open in silent screams.

When she came again—harder, squirting so violently it dripped off the counter edge—he finally let himself go. With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and came—thick, endless ropes flooding her, overflowing instantly, running down her ass crack and pooling beneath her.

He stayed inside her, softening slowly, breathing hard against her neck.

Then he untied her wrists, massaged the red marks with surprising gentleness, and wiped her tears with his tuxedo pocket square folded it neatly, tucked it away like a trophy.

“Fix your face,” he said softly. “We’re going back out there. You’re going to smile, shake hands, and let my cum drip down your legs all night. If you’re very good, I’ll fuck you again in the car. If you’re not—”

He let the threat hang.

Raven stared at her reflection: lipstick smeared, mascara tracks, pupils blown wide, choker gleaming like ownership, thighs slick with their combined release.

She looked utterly, irrevocably his.

And for the first time, the thought didn’t make her want to scream.

It made her want to kneel.