Page 14 of Corrupted Queen

By the time Gabriel finishes punishing my ass, my skin is red and raw. All I can hear are his feverish breaths, and then the tell-tale zip of his pants.

“Be a good girl and tell me that you want it,” he says, voice smooth like caramel.

I don’t speak. All he would need to do to find out is press a finger into my sex, where he would find me soaking wet.

Gabriel leans over again, this time squeezing his fingers around the back of my neck and grinding me into the sofa. His cock bobs between my legs, gliding enticingly against my lips. I let out a low moan.

“Tell me that you want it.” His breath fans over my ear. “Tell me that you’re mine, and beg me to fuck you.”

The words tumble from my lips like a prayer. “I want it, Gabriel. Please, please fuck me. I’m all yours.”

“Yes, you are,” he rasps, voice thick with desire. And then he plunges into me, all the way to the hilt, forcing the breath from my lungs.

My orgasm builds. It feels like a string is drawing tighter and tighter between my clit and my belly. I stroke frantically, greedily, breaths coming shallow and quick.

Gabriel fucks me hard, his hips slamming into my ass. He drags me up by my hair, mauling my tits as he whispers over and over again how he is never going to let me go, how I am his to fuck and to punish. His to own.

My toes curl, and a bolt of electricity slices through me. I come hard, shaking with the force of it. Every single follicle of hair stands on end. I grit my teeth as pleasure crashes over me, again and again.

I stay there for a long time, muscles relaxing little by little until I finally let out a long sigh.

Once the fuzziness begins to clear, my eyes flick open with the horrible realization of what I’ve just done.

Oh God. I just masturbated to the thought of Gabriel, the man I hate, the man whokilled my father.Not only that, but the fantasy I concocted was absolutelyfilthy. My cheeks heat with embarrassment and I bolt to my feet, pacing the room on jellied legs.

This needs to stop. I keep telling myself that I did the right thing in leaving and that I am happy to never see Gabriel again, but it’s like I can’t make myself believe it in the lower levels of my consciousness.

Gabriel is a monster. He played my body like a Stradivarius, but he was a creature of darkness nonetheless.

No more Gabriel sex fantasies, I resolve. Not a single one.

6

Alexis

I glance around the edge of my hoodie, checking the time again on my phone. My contact is late. What if somebody has caught him? What if Gabriel is about to come around that corner at any second, slow-clapping menacingly?

Being potentially close to Gabriel has made me twitchy. More likely than not, he’s nowhere near here. He might still be asleep, but Gabriel is an early riser. He’s probably sitting at his desk in his home office. But there is a chance, and that, combined with my contact’s tardiness, is making my muscles itch.

I lean back against the brick wall and stare at the chain-link fence opposite me. I’m at the edge of Gabriel’s docks territory, which, from what I overheard from two Irish mobsters the other night, has expanded considerably in recent weeks.

I think back to my covert visit to O’Neills. The bar is a reputed hot spot for Irish gangsters, and having met a few of them in my time, they were easy enough to pick out from the crowd. I slipped close to two of them, who were having a somber-faced discussion over their pints. I only caught snippets of their conversation above the din of the crowd, but when I loaded the recording onto my computer later, I was able to reduce the background noise.

Sure enough, the two men were lower-downs in the Irish mob. They complained about Walsh and his weak backbone, which confused me, as it was my understanding that Andrew Walsh was dead. And when he was alive, I certainly wouldn’t have called him weak. I figure there must have been another Walsh who took over in his stead.

One of them speculated about whether their pay would be cut now that they’d lost the majority of the docks, which slashed the syndicate’s revenue stream. The other reminded his friend that they had a new source of income now, playing lapdog for the Italians and pushing their import of purple heroin onto the streets. One of them must have chugged his drink, as the other warned him not to be hungover for the exchange in the morning, reminding him they were due back at the bar at seven.

Both of them grumbled at great length about the Italians and their fledgling alliance.

The men soon moved on to other topics, such as the great pair of tits lingering near their table (I chose to take this as a compliment), and I stopped the playback but didn’t move from my computer for a long time as I digested everything I’d heard.

I didn’t want to believe it, so I decided not to. Not until I gathered more evidence. I figured it was my journalistic duty to gather all the facts before I threaded a narrative together.

So I got up bright and early the next day and staked out the bar from a table in the window of the coffee shop across the street. The two thugs from the day before arrived separately, one of them looking worse for wear. I guess he hadn’t heeded his friend’s warning.

About half an hour later, a sleek black town car pulled up outside. My throat constricted and my muscles tensed as I wondered if I was about to watch Gabriel unfold from the car. I considered bolting. I felt too exposed. Gabriel would scent me in a heartbeat.

But when the door opened and a man emerged, I let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Gabriel. I didn’t recognize the man at all. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a twist in his lips like he’d just smelled something bad. I snapped a few photos and left, a little relieved that I hadn’t gotten the evidential affirmation that Gabriel was behind this.

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