The Devil’s obsession, forbidden bond

Damien Wolfe

I don’t believe in love.

Love is for the weak, for the soft, for the ones who need something to cling to when the world takes everything else away. It is a distraction, a leash around the throat, a reason to crawl instead of kill, and I have no use for it.

I don’t need reasons. I don’t need anyone.

People call me the Devil. I never asked for the name, but I wear it because names carry weight, and weight is power. If there’s one thing I have always valued above everything else, it is weight, whether it is the weight of gold in my hand, the weight of silence when a man realizes he is about to die, or the weight of fear pressing down on a room the moment I walk in.

That night, I didn’t come to the auction to watch and stair at asses and breast

I didn’t come here for pussy.

I came for information.

But then she stepped on stage and turned a thousand heads. She possessed a beauty meant for a goddess or maybe she was one.

She stepped in barefoot. Hands bound in front of her like an offering. The slip they shoved her into was thin enough to show the curve of her nipples, the line of her thighs, the soft dip of her stomach. Her skin was pale under the spotlight, almost glowing, and her hair clung to her face like it had been dragged through tears.

Every man in the room leaned forward. Predators smelling fresh prey.

But none of them saw what I saw.

Not just innocence. Not just fear.

A body made to be fucked, ruined, owned.

My cock hardened instantly, brutal and unrelenting. She looked too untouched for this place, too raw, and it made me want her even more. I wanted to be the first. The only.

Her lips parted like she was about to cry, but no sound came out. That silence was louder than any scream. And it snapped something in me.

“Five million,” I said. My voice didn’t rise. It cut.

The auctioneer stuttered. A ripple went through the crowd gasps, disbelief, then silence. Men turned to look at me, then quickly away.

They knew better.

No one outbids the Devil.

I stood, straightened my cufflinks, and walked out like I’d just bought a glass of wine instead of a girl.

She was mine now. Whether she wanted it or not.

They delivered her an hour later to My suite 60th floor at the top of Obsidian was glass and shadow, whiskey in my hand, city at my feet. I didn’t turn when the door opened. I felt her before I saw her.

Shallow breaths. Small steps. The heavy silence of someone who’s already seen too much.

“Leave us,” I said.

The guards dropped her wrists and vanished.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, slip clinging to her curves, chest rising too fast.

Rope burns circled her wrists, angry red against soft skin.

I walked toward her, slow, measured, like a predator closing distance. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Interesting.

I pulled my knife, sliced the ropes clean. The fabric fell away. Her skin bloomed under the blade’s kiss. I ran my thumb along the mark, and she stiffened, but didn’t pull back.

“What’s your name?”

Her lips parted. A whisper.

“Aria.”

I let it roll through me. Soft. Fragile. Breakable.

Her eyes dropped instantly. Good girl.

“Water.” I pointed to the glass waiting on the table.

She hesitated.

“You don’t hesitate with me.”

She obeyed. Fingers trembling on the glass, throat flexing as she swallowed. I watched her tongue flick over her lips, and my cock throbbed against my slacks.

“Shower,” I said. “End of the hall.”

She turned. The slip rode higher, exposing the curve of her ass through the thin fabric. My jaw tightened.

The door closed behind her. Water started. Steam hissed into the hall.

Her clothes were left behind. The slip. White cotton panties.

I bent, picked them up, rubbed the fabric between my fingers. Still warm from her body. And I slid them into my pocket. No reason. No excuse.

I didn’t try to sleep.

The city was black glass and neon below me, alive with noise, but none of it mattered because she was here now. In my bed. In my world.

I left the suite and went down the corridor that no one else ever walked. Behind a steel door, I kept the room that belonged only to me. Not a dungeon, not chains, nothing so obvious. Just shadow, and glass, and silence sharp enough to cut the air.

One wall was a mirror. From her side, it was nothing but her reflection. From mine, it gave me everything.

Aria.

She lay curled beneath sheets she hadn’t chosen, in a room she didn’t own, her breathing shallow, her body shifting restlessly like even in sleep she couldn’t escape me. The robe had slipped, baring the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the long pale line of her legs.

My cock hardened instantly.

I sat in the leather chair facing the mirror, loosened my tie, poured whiskey I didn’t taste. I let my eyes drink her in until every inch of me burned.

She looked untouched. Fragile. Breakable. Mine.

I wanted to be on that bed, pressing her down, splitting her open until she cried with it. I wanted to bury myself so deep inside her that her body would never forget me.

But I don’t fuck without begging.

I don’t take what isn’t surrendered.

I don’t need to. I make women crawl, and when they think they can’t crawl any further, I make them crawl again.

So I sat there, hand unzipping my slacks, cock heavy in my palm. I stroked slow, steady, never breaking my gaze from the girl trembling on the other side of the glass.

Her lips parted in her sleep. A sound escaped her, soft, a half-moan, half-sob, and I nearly spilled right then, just from that broken little sound.

“Beg for me,” I whispered, voice low enough the glass swallowed it whole.

She shifted in the sheets, the fabric sliding higher on her thighs. My fist tightened around my cock, my strokes faster now, harder, my jaw locked against the groan that built in my chest.

The orgasm tore through me like violence, brutal and consuming, my cum splattering across my hand, warm, thick, messy. I didn’t close my eyes. I didn’t let myself look away from her face.

When it was over, I sat back, still hard, still unsatisfied, staring at her body curled against the pillow.

This wasn’t release. It was a promise.

I leaned closer to the screen, my pulse steady, cock aching, mind already running through all the ways I’d break her silence.

Not tonight. Not yet.

But soon.

Because I didn’t pay five million to watch.

I paid to own.