The office was too quiet when she stepped in. No music, no murmurs from the club floor below — just the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and the soft burn of amber lamps. Nitron sat behind his desk, motionless, a glass of brandy untouched in front of him.
Elma's thighs were still sticky from Booth Eleven, her silver top rumpled, her lips swollen from her rebellion. She licked her teeth and tried a smirk. "You wanted me?"
Nitron didn't move. He just looked at her, eyes darker than the space between stars. The silence stretched until her skin prickled.
Then he spoke. "Shut the door."
Elma kicked it closed with her heel, the latch snapping loud in the stillness. "If you're going to scold me—"
"Scold?" Nitron rose, slow and deliberate, the desk between them suddenly irrelevant. "You think this is about words?"
Her pulse jumped. "What, you're going to choke me again? Scare me into being a good little slut?"
He was on her before the last word finished. His hand clamped her throat, slammed her back against the door, air stolen from her lungs. The world narrowed to his grip, his breath hot against her ear.
"This isn't fear," he growled. "This is ownership."
She clawed at his wrist, half resisting, half arching into the contact. Her body betrayed her again, heat flooding low in her stomach, her thighs pressing together. "Fuck you—" she gasped.
"No." His lips brushed her ear, his voice a promise and a sentence. "Tonight, I fuck you. Until you remember who you belong to."
[System Override: Nitron has engaged control.]
Restriction: User cannot refuse interaction.
Duration: Until completion.
He dragged her across the room, one-handed, and threw her onto the desk hard enough to scatter papers. She landed sprawled, skirt riding high, chest heaving. Nitron stood over her, stripping his jacket with the calm of a man preparing for war.
"You disobeyed," he said, rolling his sleeves. "You took what wasn't yours."
Her smirk was weak, defiant. "I took what I wanted."
"And now," he said, stepping between her legs, "I take what's mine."
What followed was two hours of ruin.
Nitron didn't just use her — he dismantled her. His strength was monstrous, his pace relentless, his control absolute. Every time she thought he was finished, he shifted her into another position, bending her body until she forgot her own shape. The desk. The wall. The floor. Against the window where the city glowed unaware.
She lost track of how many times he made her scream, how many times she climaxed until she was sobbing from the ache of it. Her nails raked his back, her throat burned from begging and cursing, and still he didn't stop.
At one point he had her pinned face-down, his hand pressing her skull into the wood as he moved like a storm behind her. At another, he held her up against the wall, her legs trembling around his waist, her vision white with overload. Time blurred; pleasure and pain braided into something she couldn't tell apart.
The system chimed somewhere in the haze:
[Status: Consecutive Climaxes Registered.]
[Warning: Stamina dangerously depleted.]
[Override Active: Nitron decides when release ends.]
She hated him. She needed him. She wanted more even as she broke under it.
When it finally ended, she was on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold marble, her body a trembling mess. Nitron crouched beside her, not even out of breath. His hand stroked her hair once — almost gentle — before gripping it and forcing her to look up at him.
"You don't come without me," he said, voice calm, like a man reminding a child of math. "You don't touch without me. You don't breathe without remembering who lets you."
Her throat was raw. Her lips cracked into a smile anyway. "Then you better… never stop letting me."
For the first time, Nitron laughed. Low, genuine, cruel. "I won't. But next time, I'll keep you longer."
The system sealed it:
[Punishment Complete.]
[Status Update: Submission Threshold Reinforced.]
[New Trait: Bound Release — User cannot climax without Nitron's allowance.]
Elma collapsed back to the marble, laughing breathlessly through the ache, her body wrecked, her pride cracked, her hunger deeper than ever.
Nitron straightened his cuffs, poured himself the brandy, and took a slow sip.
"You'll thank me," he said.
And the worst part — the part she couldn't deny — was that he was right.