His Dirty Obsession

Aria's POV.

I swear I didn’t breathe the entire car ride.

Like my lungs forgot how to work and my heart just kept punching itself in the ribs over and over and over again. I was sitting in the back of some terrifying black SUV with tinted windows and a man beside me who looked like he killed people for breakfast. I didn’t even have my phone. They took it. I didn’t have a bag. No jacket. No shoes. Just a short pink dress, trembling hands, and a horrible fucking feeling that something was really, really wrong.

And then we stopped.

Not in front of a house. Or a station. Or a fucking police building like I hoped. No.

It was a goddamn fortress.

Black steel gates taller than a church. Cameras blinking red like I was already guilty. Walls covered in vines that looked more like claws. Everything was made of marble and nightmares and I already knew I was too far from anything that could save me.

The door opened.

And someone yanked me out like a sack of potatoes.

I tripped. Literally tripped. My knees almost slammed the stairs. My feet barely worked. My heart was making me dizzy and my dress kept flying up because the wind was strong and my thighs were bare and I wasn’t even wearing a bra because I didn’t think I’d be kidnapped today. I heard my heels click on marble but I didn’t really see anything until they shoved me through a set of golden doors.

And holy shit.

It was like stepping into hell disguised as royalty.

Velvet curtains. Giant mirrors. Giant chandeliers. Paintings that looked like sex and blood and money. A massive glass statue of a naked woman with her legs spread like some kind of porn trophy. I could smell leather. Expensive perfume. And something else underneath it. Something sharp. Like copper. Like—

Blood.

I was trying to turn my head. I was trying to speak. I was trying to beg. But then I saw him.

And my mouth just stopped working.

He was sitting on this huge throne-looking chair like he owned the entire planet. Legs spread. One hand holding a glass of dark liquor. The other hand resting on his thigh like a fucking king waiting for tribute. Black button-down shirt. Top buttons undone. Dark hair slicked back like a villain in a forbidden movie. Eyes like steel. Lips like sin. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

Cristiano De Luca.

I had seen his name in newspapers. Heard whispers in my father’s study. Knew there was something about him that made grown men lose their voices.

And now he was looking at me.

Like I wasn’t a person. Like I was a thing. A doll. A fucking package he didn’t remember ordering but suddenly wanted to unwrap anyway.

He didn’t say hello.

He didn’t ask who I was or if I was okay.

He just said one thing.

“Strip.”

I blinked. My body literally twitched. Like when you get punched in a dream and you wake up choking. That was my brain.

“I’m sorry?” I whispered.

He tilted his head.

“I said strip.”

I looked around. There were at least three other men in the room, all watching me like I was a performance. My throat locked. My palms were sweating. My legs were frozen. I thought maybe if I just stood still and refused to move, someone would realize this was a mistake and let me go.

No one did.

Cristiano was still sitting there. Unbothered. Calm. Like this wasn’t insane. Like asking a girl to undress in front of strangers was just a normal fucking Tuesday.

“I don’t understand—”

“Take off your dress or I will cut it off myself.”

My knees almost gave out. That’s when I realized he was serious. And when I say serious, I mean that kind of dangerous serious that doesn’t come with yelling. It comes with consequences. Silent, brutal, devastating consequences. I was sweating. My chest was heaving. I reached for the hem of my dress with fingers that didn’t feel like mine.

“Slower,” he said.

Oh my God.

I thought I would throw up. My whole face burned. My eyes stung.

But I did it.

Because something about the way he said it made it impossible to disobey. Not just because I was scared. But because it felt like my body wasn’t mine anymore. Like I was being pulled forward into something I couldn’t explain. My fingers curled around the bottom of my dress. I started pulling it up. Slowly. Shamefully. I felt the air hit my thighs. My stomach. My chest.

And then I was standing there.

Wearing only my pale pink panties.

And that’s when I realized how wet they were.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to run. I wanted the ground to eat me alive.

I crossed my arms over my chest. Instinct. Stupid. Desperate instinct.

He didn’t like that.

“Arms down.”

I didn’t move.

“Now.”

I dropped them.

My nipples were hard. My chest was rising and falling like I was in the middle of a panic attack, which I probably was. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I could feel the shame crawling up my spine and the heat dripping down my thighs. I was so wet I wanted to scream. I didn’t understand it. I was scared. I was furious. I was humiliated. But my body was soaked and he hadn’t even touched me yet.

Then he stood up.

And I forgot how to think.

He was tall. So fucking tall. Taller than anyone I’d ever met. His shirt clung to him like it was afraid to be let go. His shoulders were broad. His arms looked like they could break steel. He walked toward me slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to devour me one inch at a time.

He circled me.

And I swear I stopped breathing again.

His fingers touched my back. My waist. Then he came around and cupped my breast like it belonged to him. No hesitation. No permission. Just ownership.

I gasped.

He didn’t stop.

He tugged at the side of my panties. Slid a finger under the elastic. Stretched the fabric and looked down inside.

“You’re wet.”

That’s what he said.

Just two words.

Two filthy, humiliating, soul-snatching words that hit me harder than the cold marble beneath my feet or the sharp sting of air on my bare skin.

And I swear my heart just… stopped.

Like it didn’t know what to do with itself anymore. Like it didn’t know if it should leap out of my chest and run, or stay right there and keep pounding until it exploded from the shame.

Because I was wet.

I knew I was wet.

I could feel it. I could feel the slippery heat between my thighs, the embarrassing slick clinging to my folds, the sticky way my legs almost resisted parting when I moved. I could feel how soaked I was and I hated it. Hated it. But at the same time I was pulsing. Throbbing. I could feel everything. And his voice—God, his voice—just made it worse.

“I’m not,” I whispered, too fast, too soft, too obviously lying. “I mean… I’m scared. That’s all. I’m not—I don’t want—”

He laughed.

He actually fucking laughed.

Not loud. Not joyful. Just a low, dark chuckle that slid right through my skin and made my pussy clench even tighter like it wanted to be filled with the sound.

“No, dolcezza. This isn’t fear. This is need.”

And I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him. I wanted to cover myself and crawl into the floor and disappear forever. But I also wanted to drop to my knees and beg him to touch me again. Deeper. Rougher. I wanted to feel what his fingers would do if they didn’t stop at just sliding between my folds.

Oh my God.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I wasn’t supposed to want this. I was supposed to be screaming and kicking and fighting like a good little girl with dignity and self-respect and tears. But I wasn’t. I was shaking, yes, but not from terror. Not anymore. Now I was trembling because I wanted more.

I felt his finger trail up again.

Slow. Unhurried. Right along the seam of me. Not pushing in. Just playing. Teasing. Like he could feel exactly how wet I was and was enjoying every sticky second of it.

And I moaned.

God help me. I moaned. Soft. High. Barely audible. But it slipped out. Right there in front of everyone. In front of him.

He looked up at me.

Dead in the eyes.

And I swear something in his gaze shifted.

Like he saw everything.

My shame. My heat. My weakness. My hunger.

All of it.

Then he stood.

So slowly I thought I’d faint.

I couldn’t even look at his face. I was too busy panicking. I was still naked. Fully. My nipples were stiff. My legs were glistening. My pussy was so wet I was probably dripping on the floor and I didn’t know how to close my thighs without smearing it all over myself.

And he was so close. So fucking close.

“You’ve never touched yourself, have you?”

My mouth opened.

I hesitated.

Then I nodded. Just barely.

He raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve never had anything inside you?”

I shook my head.

“Not even a finger?”

I wanted to die.

“No,” I whispered.

His mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Not exactly. But something. Something dangerous. Like the devil had just discovered a new way to sin.

“Good.”

He stepped even closer.

And I felt his breath against my cheek.

“That means I get to be your first.”

I think my legs gave out a little. Not completely. But my knees buckled. My breath hitched. My whole body flushed hot and sick and electric.

His hand curled under my jaw and tilted my face up.

“Your first kiss. Your first fuck. Your first moan. All mine.”

My lips parted but I had nothing to say. Nothing to think. I was drowning in him. In his voice. In his scent. In the weight of those promises. It wasn’t romantic. It was terrifying. But it also made my thighs clench again and my pussy pulse like it knew it had just been claimed.

He looked down at me.

Then back into my eyes.

“Spread your legs”.

“What?”

“I said spread your fucking legs before I spread them myself!!” He growled.

Aria's POV.

His voice didn’t shake. Mine did.

My throat locked up. My knees actually knocked together. I stood there naked in front of him, trembling so hard I could feel my tits bouncing and I hated that he could probably see that too.

My legs refused to move, even though my brain was screaming at me to do it. I couldn’t. Not like this. Not in front of everyone. Not with my pussy already soaked and shining and sticky with shame.

“Now,” he growled.

I flinched so hard it knocked me forward. My breath hitched. My stomach twisted. My legs moved before I even gave them permission. I spread them.

Wide.

Wider than I’ve ever done in any mirror, in any dressing room, in any stretch at the barre. And I knew. I just knew how exposed I looked.

I could feel the air hit my slit, my folds sticky and parted, my clit already swollen and twitching and so fucking wet it made a string of slick connect my thighs as they opened. I was dripping. Literally dripping. Onto his floor. Onto his fucking marble.

And I could feel him staring.

He didn’t even speak.

Just stared.

At my cunt.

At my shame.

At everything I had never shown anyone in my entire life.

I wanted to close my eyes.

I didn’t.

Because I knew that was worse.

I kept them open. Wide. I stared past his shoulder and tried not to sob, tried not to scream, tried not to grind my thighs together because something inside me was already clenching like I was going to come just from being seen like this.

“You’ve never been touched,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed.

“No, sir.”

“Never been licked?”

I shook my head fast, too fast, like I was trying to make the answer go away.

“Never been fucked?”

“N-no.”

He stepped closer.

I swear I stopped breathing.

He knelt down right in front of me.

Right in front of my pussy.

Right in front of the soaked, quivering mess I had become.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he reached up.

And touched me.

One finger. Middle finger. Right between the lips. Just slid straight through my slick like he already knew what it felt like.

Like he already knew how my body would react. I jerked. I moaned. My hands shot out, gripping the edge of the marble table beside me to stay upright.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re soaking. Your pussy’s leaking down your fucking legs.”

I whimpered.

It wasn’t a word. Just a broken, breathless sound. I felt everything. His finger rubbed up. Then down. Then up again, catching on my clit just enough to make my back arch like it betrayed me.

“Say it,” he said.

“S-say what?”

“Say you want it.”

I blinked fast. I felt tears burn behind my eyes.

“I… I don’t…

He slapped my pussy.

Not hard.

Not soft either.

“Say it, Aria. Or I’ll fuck it into your throat.”

“I want it!” I cried. My voice broke. I could hear it. I could feel everything crack and melt and fall apart. “I want you to touch me. Please.”

He hummed.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Then he stood.

Slowly.

Pulled out a chair. Sat down.

Unzipped his pants.

And my jaw dropped.

My knees buckled.

Because when his cock came out?

It was thick.

Dark.

Veiny.

And already hard.

Already twitching.

Already fucking leaking.

My mouth went dry and wet at the same time. My legs were shaking again. My thighs were stuck with my own slick and I didn’t even care anymore. I was locked in. My body wasn’t mine anymore. My brain had given up. I was heat. I was ache. I was soaking, messy, ruined heat.

“Get on your knees,” he said.

And I dropped.

Fast.

Because I didn’t need to be told twice.

Because I needed to know how he tasted.

Because I needed that cock in my throat like I needed air.

~~~

I dropped to my knees so fast it made a sound.

I’m serious. Like a real sound. Skin on marble. No hesitation. No grace. No control. My knees slapped the floor and echoed through the room like my body already knew I didn’t belong standing in front of him. No, I belonged here. Like this. On the ground. Naked. Shivering. In front of the man who fucking bought me.

Cristiano De Luca.

The Don.

The monster in a suit with a voice like a razor and eyes like a grave.

My chest was heaving. My lips were parted. My pussy was leaking. My whole body was trying to figure out what the fuck was happening and how the hell I’d gotten here.

And then he unzipped.

No words.

Just that sound.

That soft, deadly sound of his zipper coming down like it was the beginning of my funeral.

And then..fuck.

His cock.

His thick, heavy, veiny fucking cock.

It slapped free like it had been waiting for this moment, already hard, already dripping, already pointed at my mouth like it was aiming for my soul.

I froze.

My eyes locked on it.

It was so much.

So big. So angry-looking. The head was flushed dark and shiny with precum, the shaft lined with thick veins that made my pussy clench like it was jealous, and I knew..I knew..there was no way this was going to fit.

But I wanted to try.

God help me, I wanted to try.

He fisted the base and dragged it along my lips once. Just once. And I moaned.

I fucking moaned.

Before anything even went in.

He chuckled low.

“Look at that,” he muttered, eyes locked on my face. “The little virgin’s mouth is already begging.”

I whimpered.

My cheeks burned. My thighs squeezed together. My body was betraying me in every direction. I could feel the slick between my legs, warm and wet and humiliating.

“Open,” he said.

I did.

Because I couldn’t not.

My lips parted. My tongue flicked out. My jaw stretched.

He grunted, dragging the tip along my tongue, smearing his pre-cum across it like it belonged there. Like I belonged there.

Then he shoved it in.

And I swear I saw stars.

My mouth was too small. My throat too tight. I gagged immediately. My eyes watered. My fingers curled against my thighs but I didn’t pull back. I couldn’t. His hand was in my hair, holding me there, pushing deeper, testing my limit.

And then he moaned.

Deep.

Raw.

Animal.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I never thought that bastard’s daughter would feel this good.”

My brain cracked.

He was talking about my dad.

My fucking dad.

Yeah.

I got sold to this monster here because my dear, wonderful, spineless father couldn’t keep his promises. Couldn’t keep his money. Couldn’t keep his dick in his pants or a deal off the black market. And since my mum didn’t give him a daughter—surprise..he waited until I turned eighteen and handed me over like I was a fucking briefcase.

Just one more thing to liquidate before bankruptcy.

Cristiano gripped the back of my head tighter. Thrust deeper. I choked. Slobbered. Cried. My lips stretched so wide they burned. My spit dripped down my chin and coated his cock and I could hear it, the nasty wet sounds of my throat trying to keep up.

But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t even slow.

He fucked my mouth like it was my cunt. Like he already owned it. Like he had the right.

And I let him.

I moaned again around him.

God, it sounded filthy.

He groaned in response.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “You suck cock like a goddamn whore.”

I whined. Tried to speak. I didn’t know if I was begging him to slow down or fuck harder. Everything was dizzy and soaked and swollen. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My pussy was clenching so tight I thought I might come just from the way his cock kept bullying my throat.

He pulled out. Just for a second.

A long, shiny string of drool connected us.

I gasped for air.

But I didn’t stop staring at him. At his cock. I wanted it back.

“You like this?” he asked. His voice was wrecked. Lower. More dangerous. “You like choking on the cock of the man who fucking owns you now?”

I nodded so fast my vision blurred.

“Say it,” he growled.

“I..I like it. I like your cock. I like it in my mouth. I—” I swallowed, spit everywhere. “I want to be your little throat slut.”

His eyes flared.

His jaw flexed.

And he shoved back in so hard my nose hit his abs and I nearly passed out from the pressure.

But I didn’t stop.

I sucked harder.

Gagged louder.

I moaned like a bitch in heat.

And when he said, “Swallow every fucking drop, Aria,” I nodded with tears streaming down my cheeks and spit hanging off my chin like a disgrace.

He came.

Hard.

Hot.

Heavy.

Right down my throat.

I swallowed everything. Every single drop. My eyes rolled back. My body trembled. I choked and sucked and moaned as his cock twitched between my lips.

And when he finally pulled out, I gasped like I’d just come up from drowning.

He looked down at me like I was art.

And I looked up at him like I’d never wanted anything more in my life than to be wrecked again.

Just him.

Cristiano De Luca.

The man who bought me. Used me. Ruined me. And still wasn’t done.

My lips were wet. Puffy. Trembling. My jaw ached. My throat was coated in the taste of him. I could still feel the ghost of his cock throbbing against my tongue, like my body was begging for it back even while I was still drooling from the last time.

He stared down at me.

Not like a man who was satisfied.

Like a man who was just getting started.

“You know what the fucked up part is?” he said. “Your father didn’t even hesitate.”

I blinked.

He crouched down in front of me, his fingers gripping my chin, tilting my face up again so I couldn’t look away even if I tried.

“One phone call,” he whispered. “That’s all it took. I said, ‘I want something real. Untouched. Something worth breaking.’ And he offered you.”

My heart dropped.

He wasn’t lying. I knew he wasn’t.

“He didn’t even ask the price,” Cristiano muttered, eyes burning into mine. “He just gave you to me. Like a fucking object. Like a gift-wrapped apology for all the deals he fucked up.”

I bit my lip. Hard. My chest was twisting.

“Because my dear mother didn’t give him a girl,” I said, voice small, but I felt it cut me open. “So when I was born, I wasn’t a daughter. I was a fucking backup plan.”

He smirked. It wasn’t nice. It was dark. Dominant. Mean.

“Well now you belong to me,” he said. “Not your father. Not your past. Not even your name.”

His hand slid lower.

Between my breasts.

Down my stomach.

To the slick mess between my thighs.

“You’re mine now, Aria,” he whispered, breath hot against my cheek. “And I haven’t even started breaking you.”

Then he stood.

Straightened his shirt.

Fastened his belt like he wasn’t already leaking power from every fucking inch of his body.

“Bend over the table.”

My heart stopped.

“What..”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he said flatly. “Not yet.”

He stepped behind me.

“But I am going to see how tight that virgin cunt really is.”

I swallowed. My thighs clenched. My pussy pulsed so hard it hurt.

“Now, Bend!”