forbidden contract

The room is filled with the metal sound from my handcuffs. My body hurt. Not the kind of hurt you sleep off with a couple of painkillers or a long bath, but the deep, bone-deep ache that settles into your joints, burrows into your muscles, and stays there for days. "Look at me when I’m talking to you, b***h!" The violent bark rang out right beside my ear, followed immediately by a sharp, stinging slap across my cheek. The sheer force of it whipped my head to the side, my long, dark hair blinding my eyes. My cheek burned like fire, but I forced my face to stay completely blank. No tears. No flinching. "I'm looking, Viktor," I forced out. My voice was raspy, barely a breath, sounding completely shredded as he kept f*****g my face not lovey dove fucking.. he is shoving his c**k deep into my mouth as deep as he can lucky me he has a small c**k. he pulled his c**k out. "You think you’re better than me?" Viktor sneered, grabbing a huge handful of my hair at the nape of my neck and yanking my head back until my throat was completely exposed. He leaned down, his face inches from mine. He smelled like cheap scotch, stale cigars, and sour sweat. "You think because you wear those fancy silk dresses and pretend to be an expensive escort that you're something special? Out there on the street, maybe. But in this room, you’re just a piece of flesh I paid for. you are just a b***h, I f**k for itch." I didn't answer. I kept my eyes focused on a tiny dark stain on the wallpaper behind his shoulder. I knew the rules of survival in this line of work: *Never fight back, never cry, and never give them the satisfaction of a real reaction.* Viktor was a low-level syndicate boss who ran small-time protection rackets and extortion rings down at the docks. He was a small, pathetic parasite in the city's mafia hierarchy—the kind of low-grade crook the real Syndicate Don wouldn't even waste a single bullet on. But inside this private VIP suite at *The Velvet Lounge*, with a paid girl trapped under his heavy frame, Viktor acted like an absolute god. "Say it," he growled, violently twisting my body and shoving me face-down onto the rough leather couch. His thick fingers dug into my waist so hard his heavy gold signet rings bit straight into my skin, guaranteed to leave dark purple rings by morning. "Say who owns you tonight." My face was smashed flat against the armrest, smothering my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird, panic rising like acid in my throat, but I kept my eyes wide open, staring blankly at the dark velvet carpet. "You do," I mumbled into the leather, forcing every drop of emotion out of my voice until it was completely flat and submissive. "You own tonight, Viktor." "Damn right I do," he shove hard into my special very little tight place with grunted, a cruel, breathless chuckle vibrating against my back. " remember who you are.. you are a bitch.." he growled with his hard breathing between his thrust. " say it you bitch.." " im a b***h victor" i say in a low voice. " im the b***h you own tonight" i know that will do its magic. i know thats all he needs to feel superior. He didn't care about pleasure or intimacy; he cared about power. Men like Viktor didn't buy s*x work because they were lonely or turned on—they bought it because they were weak and powerless everywhere else in their miserable lives. Their bosses walked all over them, the high-level Dons treated them like dirt, and this room was the only place in the entire world where they could inflict pain without consequences. Every rough shove, every bruised wrist, every quiet humiliation was just Viktor trying to convince himself that he was a dangerous man. I shut down my mind. It was a trick I had perfected over two brutal years. I turned off my senses one by one, detaching my spirit from my physical shell. I let my body become an empty wooden doll while he used it, taking the full brunt of his harsh, unyielding weight and his powerful thrust deep into me tearing my raw flesh until my knees give out, while he presses my boobs wild. *Two thousand dollars* I reminded myself silently as he grabbed my wrists and pinned them behind my back, pressing his heavy knee directly into the small of my spine. *Two thousand dollars for three hours. That’s three weeks of interest paid off to the loan sharks. Just hold on. Just endure it.* Every minute dragged like an eternity. The leather beneath my cheek was sticky with sweat and spilled alcohol. He didn't care that he was tearing my skin, or that my shoulder was strained at an unnatural angle. He just pushed harder, grunting against my neck, marking me up on purpose so that anyone who saw me tomorrow would know a syndicate man had been there. When he finally finished with a heavy, harsh shudder, he didn't check on me or offer a hand. He just stepped back immediately, zipping up his trousers with a satisfied grunt, and tossed a crumpled stack of hundred-dollar bills onto my bare, bruised back like he was tossing garbage into a bin. "Clean yourself up," he spat, adjusting his gold watch and slicking back his thinning hair in the mirror. "You look like a complete mess. And tell your handler I want a discount next time— i dont know how you stay tight for this long, but you didn't put enough effort , and its a turnoff" Turnoff he says after shoving into all my holes and moaning liking agirl for each thrust. used me like a dollin all the ways he wants when it comes for the time to pay he says im a turnoff to rip me off few bucks. He didn't wait for a response. He grabbed his heavy leather jacket, opened the door, and walked out, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him so hard the light fixtures rattled. The moment the latch clicked shut, the silence in the room hit me like a physical blow. I collapsed completely onto the leather couch, curling my knees up to my chest and letting out a ragged, violent sob I had been holding in for three agonizing hours. My whole lower body felt raw, torn, and completely broken. Dark finger-shaped bruises were already swelling across my hips, thighs, and wrists. My ribs throbbed where his heavy elbow had pinned me down. It took me ten minutes just to gather enough strength to sit up. My limbs felt like lead. I pushed myself up slowly, every single muscle screaming in protest, and practically dragged my feet across the carpet toward the suite's private bathroom. I turned on the sink taps, letting the scalding water fill the basin, and leaned heavily against the marble counter. I forced myself to look up, staring directly at my reflection in the lit mirror. It was a horror show. My dark eyeliner was smeared down my cheeks in messy black tracks, my lipstick was ruined, my bottom lip was swollen and bleeding at the corner, and my eyes... my eyes looked completely dead. Glassy, hollow, and devoid of any light. "Just a little longer, Elena," I whispered to the glass, my voice barely audible over the sound of running water. I grabbed a white hand towel, soaked it in hot water, and began aggressively scrubbing the red marks off my neck and chest. "Just a little longer." On the streets and in the clubs, my name was Clara. Elena was the girl who had died two years ago—the bright, naive college girl whose life collapsed when her father’s gambling debts caught up with the family. After that, the coward's suicide and the loan sharks sold her off to pay the interest. Clara was the cold, hollow survivor who did whatever dirty, painful thing it took to keep herself and her mother alive. Reaching down into the small inner pocket of my discarded silk dress on the floor, my trembling fingers searched until they wrapped around a small piece of cold, tarnished metal. My heirloom. I pulled it out and held it tight under the bathroom light. It was an old silver pocket watch that had belonged to my family for generations—the only thing I managed to hide during the raid on our house two years ago. The glass face was cracked, the internal gears were rusted shut, and the hands were frozen forever at 2:14. But holding it was the only thing that anchored me to reality. It reminded me that I used to be a human being with a name, a family, and a life, not just an object for sick, broken men to break. *Six more months,* I thought, pressing the cold silver watch against my pounding chest and closing my eyes. *Six more months of taking this hell, and the main debt is paid. I buy my freedom. I take my mother and I leave this city forever.* Suddenly, the deep, thumping bass from the club outside didn't just fade—it vanished instantly. A suffocating, eerie silence fell over the entire VIP corridor. *The Velvet Lounge* was a high-volume nightclub; it *never* went quiet. Before I could even shove the pocket watch back into my dress, the heavy oak bathroom door was kicked open with a deafening, splintering *CRACK*. I flinched back with a gasp, my spine slamming hard against the cold tile wall. Three tall men marched into the small bathroom. They didn't look like Viktor’s cheap, sloppy thugs in flashy silk shirts. These men wore custom-tailored, pitch-black tactical suits, moved with terrifying, silent precision, and held heavy black suppressed submachine guns pointed directly at the floor. "Clara?" the lead man asked. His voice was flat, robotic, and entirely devoid of human emotion. "I... I just finished my appointment," I stammered, my knees shaking so violently I had to grab the edge of the sink to stay upright. "If Viktor sent you ,i swear—" "We don't give a damn ," the guard interrupted cleanly. He stepped aside, pointing his gloved hand toward the dark, empty hallway outside. "Move." "Wait! Who are you? You can't just take me! My handler—" A loud crash echoed from the main lounge, followed by the sickening sound of a heavy blow, a wet thud, and my handler screaming in absolute agony before being abruptly silenced by a gun c*****g. "Your handler is currently bleeding out on the marble floor," the lead guard said, completely unbothered as he checked his watch. "Don Moretti wants you. Right now." The air left my lungs in an instant. My blood turned to liquid ice. *Don Moretti.* Even at the very bottom of the city's criminal underbelly, everyone knew that name. Dante Moretti wasn't a petty dock crook like Viktor. He was the Supreme Don of the Syndicate—a cold, unfeeling, terrifying monster who ruled the entire region through absolute violence and fear. Men like Viktor paid massive monthly taxes to men like Dante just to be allowed to breathe. "I didn't do anything," I whispered, backing further into the corner like a trapped, wounded animal. "I don't know the Don! I've never even seen him!" The guard didn't waste another second arguing. He gave a sharp nod to the two men behind him. Before I could scream or fight, a heavy black wool coat was thrown over my head. Iron-hard fingers clamped tightly around my bruised, aching arms, pinning them to my sides, and dragged my battered body out of the room and into the freezing night air.