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| Elven_Eyes |
The hotel was grand, and the huge flags over the entrance seemed to boil and snap in the air, forbidding all lesser mortals the right to pass. Normally, in her businesslike heels and sharply tailored suits, this would merely herald her as one of the chosen few, and she would stride in as if it were her own private property. Dressed as a slut, it was different. She felt belittled already. Her fingers left smudges on the burnished brass door handles. Heart pounding in her throat, Eve entered the bar.
Scratch had made it easy for her. He was sitting in his recognizable leather jacket, front and centre to her vision as she walked in. When they had first met in a dirty pub, that jacket had looked rough, like it belonged there. In the refined hotel atmosphere, the jacket had the more polished effect of the coat of a man who wanted something even more expensive than the finest wool- the finest leather. He didn't turn at the sound of the door. Eve slinked to the bar and slid carefully onto the stool next to him.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, dripping sarcasm.
“How about I just buy the girl?” he replied, equally dry.
Eve could feel every ear in the place straining to hear them. Scratch slid her drink across to her. A deep flush started to spread from the base of her throat, and she lifted her glass to mask her pause. As she lowered her drink she muttered into the foam,
“Not everything is for sale.”
“What I find interesting is that you seem to think I'm an idiot.” Scratch still didn't look at her, but gazed at his glass, speaking in a low voice. “You answer an explicit text from a strange man- a man you've met only once, when he brutally fucked you in a pub- with total compliance to his whim. You dress like a common whore in a public place and come to his heel when he snaps his finger. Like a well trained bitch.” The word was clinical and detached, no malice in what might have been a slur. “How can you expect me to disregard such a display of submission in the face of one trite cliché? Forgive me for being sensible to the obvious.” He drained his drink and, for the first time, looked her full in the face. “You, my beautiful little slut, are for sale. But of course, not for anything as vulgar as money.” He reached out and brushed a tendril of her hair with his rough fingertips. “You are for sale to any man who can beat you. Dominate you. As much as you're a strong woman, you crave a man to be ever stronger. And, if I'm not right,” his finger traced the curve of her throat and plunged deep into her revealed décolletage, “I'm the first man to do that for you. Take away your burden of power and leave you vulnerable.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eve saw the barman watching them. His distain was obvious. Eve ducked her chin so her hair swung over her face, shielding her from his condemnation.
“And you want me to own you, whore,” Scratch purred. “You want it more than even your self respect.” He dropped a note on the bar (generous tipper, she thought absently) and stood up. Without a thought of protest, Eve left her drink, still practically full, to stand with him. “You're coming with me.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and walked her towards the lifts. After only a few steps, his hand fell to fondling her ass. They all think I'm a prostitute, she thought numbly. They all think I'm a whore going up to his room to be paid by the hour. Her skin felt alive with electricity, and there was heat building between her legs.
Inside the elevator, Eve fiddled nervously with her handbag, unsure of how to react to him. Scratch's hand dipped even lower, under her skirt, between her firm ass cheeks, and began to stroke the silk gusset. She jerked at the intimacy of his touch, began to tremble, but her mouth had run dry and she couldn't think of a thing to say. In silence, his sure touch dissolved her barriers and she felt herself giving in to his will. Whatever he wanted couldn't feel as good as giving it to him. The lift ride seemed endless, and the doors finally dinged open, it was to a small vestibule and one set of double doors. “Penthouse?” she asked, stupidly. He didn't answer but unlocked the door. Eve, feeling coltish in her bare legs, stepped tentatively across the threshold.
There was some sort of lounge area, but the lights were out and curtains drawn so Eve had only a fleeting impression of the room before Scratch led her through another set of double doors. At the far side of a truly cavernous dark room was a bed. It was a huge four poster, and the dim lights at either side of the headboard cast a warm glow that only illuminated the bed. Whatever else the shadowy edges of the room contained was hidden from view. The only other thing she could see was the thin bright outline of a rectangle on the far wall. The bathroom, she thought.
Sex had not been her plan; after all, Adam was fucking her masterfully these days. She wasn't neglected. There were no instruments of torture to imply that he was going to hurt her in a way that would make her want to fuck. There was no hint of drug paraphernalia, no porn on a flat screen TV, no hint of what awaited her. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something.
The only thing in the room was her.
