Chapter Text
The containment circle burned cold against Diana's knees. White light traced geometric patterns into the concrete floor, each line humming with suppression magic that made her teeth ache. She tested the sigils binding her wrists again. Nothing. Not even a flicker of response from the power coiled inside her.
They'd taken everything. The armor. The gauntlets. The lassos. Even the prosthetic arm; her right shoulder ended in a clean stump wrapped in white bandages. What remained was a woman in a thin black shift, barefoot, kneeling like a supplicant in a temple dedicated to her own destruction.
The oxblood tattoos on her left arm pulsed with frustrated energy. She could feel her magic straining against the sigils, battering uselessly at walls designed specifically to hold her. Circe had warned her about bindings like these. Ancient Greek work, her mother had said. The kind the gods used before they learned subtlety.
Across from her, just outside the circle's edge, Zatanna stood free for the first time since Diana had seen her in that glass cage. The witch's short black curls were limp, unwashed. Dark circles under her eyes. But her hands weren't bound, and the muzzle was gone.
The collar around her throat glowed faint blue. Insurance.
Behind the reinforced glass wall, Veronica Cale watched. Sky-blue suit without a wrinkle. Dark gloves folded behind her back. Her expression held all the emotion of someone reviewing quarterly reports.
"You don't have to do this." Diana kept her voice steady. Calm. The voice she'd used to talk down monsters in Hell, to reason with creatures that only understood violence. "Whatever she's threatened, whatever she's promised, I can help you. We can find another way."
Zatanna's laugh came out broken. "Another way." She held up her hands. They were shaking. "You know how long I've been in there? In that cage?"
"I know."
"Nineteen months. Nineteen months with my mouth sealed shut, my hands bound, my magic rotting inside me like a dead thing." Zatanna's voice cracked. "You survived Hell. You had your witch mother. You had someone who loved you. I had a glass box and Cale's voice in my ear, telling me exactly what would happen if I didn't cooperate."
Diana's eyes flickered toward the observation window. Cale hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Just watched, like a scientist observing an experiment.
"I will come for you," Diana said. "When this is done. Whatever she makes you do to me, I will not hold it against you. And I will find a way to free us both."
"You really believe that." Zatanna's hands steadied slightly. She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew something small. Bronze. A ring inscribed with symbols Diana recognized from Circe's oldest books, pre-Olympian, from the age when magic was raw and binding oaths could reshape reality. "That's almost worse."
The ring caught the light. Diana's stomach turned cold.
"What is that?"
Zatanna stared at the bronze band like it might bite her. "It's called the Ring of Thrall. Older than the Greek gods. Older than Hecate, even." She swallowed. "Whoever owns this ring owns whoever is bound to it."
Diana pulled at the sigils again. Her wrists burned. "No."
"Not your mind. Not your will. Just your obedience." Zatanna finally looked at her, and her blue eyes were wet. "You'll think your own thoughts. Feel your own feelings. Hate every moment of it. And do it anyway."
Diana's eyes flooded red. Magic surged against the containment circle, making the white lines flare bright, making the air taste like ozone and desperation. "Listen to me. Whatever she's told you, whatever she's promised, she will never let you go. You know this. You have to know this."
"I know." Zatanna's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "But nineteen months, Diana. Nineteen months in silence." Her fingers closed around the ring. "I'm sorry."
"Zatanna..."
"I'm so sorry."
She started the incantation.
The words came out backwards, twisted syllables that made reality shudder. Diana felt them in her bones, in her blood, in the place where her magic lived coiled and waiting. The air around Zatanna warped, bending light, making her form shimmer like a heat mirage.
Diana threw everything she had against the sigils. Red light burst from her eyes, her tattoos blazing with power that had nowhere to go. The circle held. The bindings held.
Zatanna's voice rose. Tears tracked down her cheeks but she didn't stop, couldn't stop, the backwards words pouring out in a rhythm older than language itself.
She survived Hell. The thought sliced through Zatanna's concentration, but her mouth kept moving, the incantation running on its own momentum now. Maybe she can survive this too.
The ring began to glow. Bronze turned to molten gold, symbols writhing across its surface like living things.
Maybe.
Zatanna's voice crested.
Diana screamed as magic burned into her soul.
The ritual completed with a sound like chains locking.
Diana slumped forward, catching herself on her one hand before her face hit concrete. Sweat ran down her temples, mixing with the dried blood around her eyes until rust-colored streaks dripped onto the white lines of the containment circle. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Every inhale burned.
She could feel it now.
Something coiled in her chest, nestled against her heart like a sleeping serpent. Not controlling her thoughts. Not directing her will. Just... there. Waiting. A leash she couldn't see, couldn't touch, couldn't rip out no matter how hard she reached for it with the magic still trapped inside her.
The collar around Zatanna's throat pulsed once. The witch stumbled back, hand pressed to her mouth, and didn't look at Diana again.
Heels clicked on concrete.
Diana raised her head. Veronica Cale walked through the gap in the containment circle like she was entering her own living room. Sky-blue suit without a crease. Dark gloves pristine. She crouched to Diana's level, knees together, posture perfect, and studied her the way someone might study a particularly interesting specimen behind glass.
"This is mercy," Veronica said. Her voice was soft. Almost gentle. The tone you'd use to explain something simple to a child who kept failing to understand. "You killed my people. You freed my prisoners. You made a mess of years of careful work." She tilted her head. "Death would be too quick. Too easy. Too... final."
Diana's throat worked. The words came out hoarse. "You think this changes anything?"
"This way, you get to live." Veronica continued as if Diana hadn't spoken. "You get to serve. You get to watch yourself become exactly what I need you to be." She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. Nothing reached her eyes. "Isn't that kinder?"
Diana gathered what moisture remained in her mouth and spat at Veronica's feet.
The glob of saliva landed on the toe of one expensive heel. Veronica glanced down at it. Looked back up. Her expression didn't change.
"I'll break free." Diana's voice scraped like gravel. "I escaped Hell itself. I faced monsters untold and I still found my way to the surface." Her eyes flickered red, magic straining uselessly against bindings both visible and not. "This is nothing. You are nothing."
Veronica's smile widened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"That's the beautiful part." She stood, smoothing her skirt with one gloved hand. "You won't want to break free. Not eventually."
Diana's blood ran cold. Colder than the sigils. Colder than the thing coiled in her chest.
"The ring doesn't just compel obedience." Veronica examined her glove, brushing away an invisible speck of dust. "It rewards it. Every time you serve, every time you submit, every time you do exactly as you're told..." She met Diana's eyes. "It will feel good. Your own body will become your enemy. Your own pleasure will be the cage."
Diana lunged. The sigils flared white-hot, slamming her back to her knees. She tasted copper.
Veronica watched her struggle. Then turned away, walking toward Zatanna with the same measured pace.
"You've earned a larger cell." Her voice carried no warmth. No praise. Just fact. "Hot water. Books. We'll discuss further privileges based on continued cooperation."
Zatanna's hands were still shaking. She didn't respond.
Veronica paused at the door. Looked back over her shoulder at Diana, still kneeling, still bleeding, still burning with fury that had nowhere to go.
"I have a nephew," she said. "Distant relation. Spoiled. Arrogant. Eighteen years old." Her lips curved. "He's been asking for a bodyguard."
Diana's stomach turned.
"You're going to be so much more than that."
The door closed behind her. The click echoed through the concrete chamber like a gunshot.
Diana knelt in the circle.
Never give in. The thought rose unbidden, desperate, the only weapon she had left. Nothing will stop me.
The thing in her chest pulsed. Warm. Almost pleasant.
She wanted to scream.
I survived Hell. I survived eighteen years of darkness and monsters and a world that wanted me dead every single day.
Zatanna was gone. The guards were gone. Diana was alone with white lines burning into concrete and the weight of invisible chains settling around her throat.
I will survive this boy.
Her eyes burned red. Her magic beat against its cage.
I have to.
The elevator doors opened onto a view that made Diana's stomach turn.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Gateway City sprawled sixty stories below, glittering and indifferent. Modern art hung on walls that could have housed a dozen families, abstract shapes in colors that cost more than most people earned in a year. A gaming setup dominated one corner, three monitors curved like altars to distraction, chairs that probably cost more than cars.
One month. Thirty days in a cell with white walls and white food and the ring's warmth pulsing against her heart every time she obeyed an order. Stand. Sit. Eat. Sleep. Good girl.
She wanted to tear the walls down with her teeth.
Instead she stood in Derrick Gorvan's living room wearing clothes that felt like costume. Tailored charcoal suit that hugged her warrior's frame, fabric straining slightly across her shoulders. White blouse underneath, buttoned to the throat. Her wild black hair had been tamed into a severe bun that pulled at her scalp. The black lipstick remained. Veronica thought it added character.
Diana looked like a corporate bodyguard. She felt like a caged animal wearing its own skin as a disguise.
Derrick Gorvan sprawled on a leather couch, one arm thrown over the back, legs spread wide. Eighteen years old and radiating the confidence of someone who'd never been told no. Dark hair artfully mussed. Sharp jaw. The kind of handsome that came from good genetics and better dermatologists. He wore a t-shirt that cost three hundred dollars and looked like it cost twelve, designer jeans, bare feet on Italian leather.
He was looking at Diana like she was a new car. Appreciating the lines without understanding the engine.
"Derrick." Veronica's voice cut through the silence. She stood between them in her suit, dark gloves clasped behind her back. "This is Diana. Personal security. Very skilled. Very loyal."
Diana's jaw tightened. The thing in her chest pulsed. Warm.
"A late birthday gift," Veronica continued. She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew the bronze ring. It caught the light from those massive windows, symbols writhing across its surface. "Something of a family tradition. Protection symbolism."
She slid it across the glass coffee table.
Derrick glanced at it. Shrugged. His eyes drifted back to Diana, tracking down from her face to her chest, lingering on the way the suit jacket pulled across her breasts.
"Sure." He picked up the ring. Turned it over once. Slid it onto his index finger.
Diana flinched.
The leash pulled taut.
She felt it snap into place like a lock clicking home. The warmth in her chest flared, spreading through her veins, and suddenly she was aware of him in a way she hadn't been before. His heartbeat. His breath. The ring on his finger glowing faint bronze before fading to ordinary metal.
He owned her now.
This arrogant young man who'd never worked a day in his life. Who probably couldn't throw a punch. Who was still staring at her chest instead of her eyes. He owned the woman who'd escaped Hell. Who'd faced the horrors of the Wild Isle and survived. Who'd sacrificed her own arm to save a man she barely knew.
He owned her.
Veronica's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. "Business calls." No warmth in her voice. No triumph. Just fact. "Diana will handle your security needs. All of them." She met Diana's eyes for just a moment. "Won't you?"
The ring pulsed.
"Yes." The word scraped out of Diana's throat like broken glass.
Veronica smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. Nothing ever reached her eyes.
The elevator doors closed behind her.
Diana stood in the penthouse. Alone with her new master.
He is just a boy.
Derrick pushed himself up from the couch. He circled her slowly, examining her from all angles. His footsteps were soft on the hardwood floor. She could hear his breathing. Could feel the ring on his finger like a second heartbeat.
I have faced gods and monsters.
"So." He stopped in front of her. Close. Too close. She could smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp. "Aunt Ronnie says you do whatever I tell you."
Diana's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her eyes flickered red for just a moment before she forced the magic down, forced the rage down, forced everything down into the place where it couldn't help her.
This isn't even a young man, just a boy.
"Is that true?" He grinned. White teeth. Perfect smile. The confidence of someone who'd never been challenged in his life. "You do everything I say?"
The ring burned against her heart.
Diana's jaw tightened until her teeth ached.
"Yes."
Three days later.
Diana stood by the window, watching the city lights blur into meaningless patterns. Behind her, Derrick's gaming setup hummed with the low drone of some multiplayer match he'd abandoned an hour ago. She'd learned his rhythms now. The way he slept until noon. The parade of delivery drivers bringing food he barely touched. The friends who called but never visited.
He'd been circling her since that first afternoon. Testing the boundaries like a child poking a sleeping animal with a stick.
"Get me a drink."
She'd gotten him drinks. Whiskey, neat. Vodka with ice. Whatever bottle he pointed at.
"Stand closer."
She'd stood closer. Close enough to smell his cologne, to count the designer labels on his clothes, to watch him watch her.
"Tell me about yourself."
She'd answered in fragments. Born far away. Trained to fight. Here now. Nothing that mattered. Nothing that was hers.
The ring rewarded every compliance with warmth. A soft pulse against her heart that made her want to claw her own chest open. She'd started sleeping in the guest room because he'd told her to be available. Because the ring made her feet carry her there even as her mind screamed.
She hadn't slept well. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the pull. The leash tightening. The warmth waiting to bloom if she just... gave in.
Tonight was different.
She heard him coming before she saw him. Unsteady footsteps on hardwood. The clink of ice in a glass. He'd been drinking since dinner, working through a bottle of whiskey that cost more than most people's rent.
"Diana."
She turned. Kept her face blank. The mask she'd worn in Hell when the monsters came.
Derrick stood three feet away. Flushed. Grinning. The glass dangled from his fingers, amber liquid sloshing. His pupils were dilated, but not from the alcohol alone. Something darker moved behind his eyes.
"Come here."
The ring pulled. Her feet moved. She stopped an arm's length away and stared at a point just past his shoulder.
He closed the distance.
His breath was hot on her neck. Whiskey and something sweet underneath. She could hear his heart racing, feel the heat radiating off his skin. He was close enough that she could have snapped his neck before he finished his next exhale.
His hand slid down her back.
Diana's spine went rigid.
Lower. Past the small of her back. Over the curve of her ass. His palm settled there, fingers spreading wide, and squeezed through the fabric of her suit pants.
Every muscle in her body locked. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She could feel the bones in his fingers, could calculate exactly how much pressure it would take to shatter them. Less than a thought. Less than nothing.
The ring pulsed warm.
Derrick laughed. A low sound, drunk on whiskey and power and the realization that she wasn't going to stop him.
"You like that?" His grip tightened. Kneading. Possessive.
"No." Her voice came out flat. Dead.
"No?" He laughed again. His other hand came up, palm pressing against her breast through the white blouse. He squeezed, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and she felt her nipple harden against his palm despite everything. "That's too bad."
Diana's vision flickered red at the edges. Magic surged against the bindings in her chest, battering uselessly at walls it couldn't breach. She was trembling. She could feel it starting in her hands, spreading up her arms, and she couldn't make it stop.
He was hard against her hip. She felt it through his jeans, the thick length of him pressing into her side, and some distant clinical part of her noted that he was big. Much bigger than she'd expected from this soft boy who'd never worked a day in his life.
The rest of her was screaming.
His hand moved on her breast. Thumb brushing over her nipple through the fabric. His hips rocked forward, grinding his erection against her, and his breath came faster now. Ragged. Emboldened.
"God, you're hot." His voice was thick. "Aunt Ronnie really outdid herself this time."
Diana's jaw ached from clenching. Her fists were so tight her nails cut crescents into her palms. Blood welled up, hot and wet, and she welcomed the pain because it was something real. Something that belonged to her.
He squeezed her ass again. Harder. His grip more confident now that he understood she really wouldn't stop him. Really couldn't stop him.
Then he stepped back.
Diana didn't move. Couldn't move. Her body stayed locked in place, trembling with rage that had nowhere to go.
Derrick looked at her. Flushed and grinning, adjusting himself through his jeans with casual arrogance. His eyes tracked over her body the way someone might admire a new purchase.
"Tomorrow," he said. He drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass on the coffee table. "Tomorrow we're going to have some real fun."
He walked away. Down the hall. His bedroom door clicked shut.
Diana stood by the window. The city lights blurred behind her. Her hands shook at her sides, blood dripping from her palms onto the hardwood floor.
The ring pulsed warm against her heart.
She didn't scream. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Tomorrow.
The next evening.
Diana is kneeling.
She didn't decide to kneel. Derrick told her to, and her body simply... did it. Dropped to her knees in front of his couch while he sprawls there in sweatpants and nothing else, cock already tenting the fabric. He's been working up to this all day. Lingering touches, commands to stand closer, sit next to him, let him play with her hair while he scrolled through his phone. Each one obeyed instantly. Each one making him bolder.
The ring burns warm against her heart. Rewarding her. Training her.
Now he hooks his thumbs into his waistband and lifts his hips, pushing the sweatpants down his thighs. His cock springs free and Diana's eyes widen despite herself.
Circe had never been hesitant in her stories. Late nights in the caves of Hell, firelight casting shadows on the walls, her mother's voice low and rich with centuries of memory. Tales of maidens taken by beasts back to their dens. Of horsemen and minotaurs with massive phalluses that broke maidens with pleasure and made them bear their young. Of gods who took whatever shape served their hunger.
Diana had thought them exaggerations. Warnings dressed as entertainment.
She wondered now if Derrick was one of them.
Ten inches. Thick. Flushed dark with blood and already leaking from the slit, a bead of clear fluid catching the lamplight. The shaft curved slightly upward, veined and heavy, the kind of cock that belonged in those old stories. Not on this soft boy who'd never worked a day in his life.
She's been with men before when she first came from hell. Brief encounters. Connections forged in the chaos of her new life on the surface. A soldier in Gateway City who'd looked at her with wonder instead of fear. A journalist who'd asked questions she actually wanted to answer. Bodies finding comfort in bodies, nothing more.
Nothing like this.
He sees her reaction. That widening of her eyes. That involuntary swallow. He grins, white teeth catching the light, and his cock twitches against his stomach.
"Take off the jacket."
The command hits her. Her hands move. Steady fingers working the buttons of her charcoal suit jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders, folding it neatly beside her knee because some part of her mind is still functioning, still cataloging, still screaming.
"Now the blouse."
Button by button. White fabric parting to reveal the black bra underneath. Practical. Functional. The kind of thing a warrior wears when she expects to fight, not... this. She pulls the blouse free from her waistband and sets it aside.
Now she's kneeling in her bra. Black against olive-bronze skin. Her tattooed arm on full display, the oxblood patterns crawling from shoulder to wrist. Her right shoulder ends in a clean stump, the prosthetic removed, the bandages fresh and white.
Derrick leans forward. His eyes trace the tattoos with a fascination that makes her skin crawl.
"Those are fucking wild." He reaches out, fingers trailing down her left arm, following the patterns. "Do they go everywhere?"
Diana doesn't answer. The ring doesn't compel her to. Only commands.
He waits. Shrugs. Doesn't seem bothered by her silence. His hand moves from her arm to her hair, fingers working into the severe bun, pulling pins free until black waves tumble down past her shoulders.
Then he fists the hair at the base of her skull.
"Suck my cock."
The command hits her like a physical force. Not changing her mind. Not making her want it. Not touching her thoughts at all. Just making her body move.
Her mouth opens.
Her head lowers.
Her black-painted lips wrap around the head of his cock and she tastes salt and skin and her own humiliation.
He's hot against her tongue. Thick enough that her jaw stretches to accommodate him. The taste of him fills her mouth, precum smearing across her palate, and she feels something in her chest crack. Not break. Not yet. Just... crack.
I chose kindness in Hell.
She takes him deeper. Her lips slide down the shaft, leaving a trail of black lipstick behind. Her tongue works against the underside without her permission, without her consent, her body performing a function she never chose.
I chose compassion.
Deeper still. The head of his cock bumps against the back of her throat. She swallows around him, muscles working, and he groans above her. A low, satisfied sound. The sound of a boy getting exactly what he wants.
None of that matters now.
The ring pulses warm.
Now I am just a mouth.
Derrick groans louder as Wonder Woman takes him deeper, and her lipstick leaves a perfect black ring around his shaft.
Diana works his cock skillfully. Down. Up. Down. Following the command and nothing more. Her mouth is a tool. Her throat is a passage. She is not here. She is somewhere else, somewhere far away, watching this happen to a body that used to be hers.
Then the ring pulses.
Warmth spreads through her chest. Lower. Pooling in her belly, sliding between her thighs, and she feels her pussy clench around nothing. A involuntary response. A betrayal written in flesh.
No.
She takes him deeper. Her tongue drags along the underside of his shaft without her permission, tasting the salt of him, the heat, and the warmth spreads further. Her nipples harden against the practical fabric of her bra. She can feel them now, tight and sensitive, aching for touch she doesn't want.
No no no.
Wet. She's getting wet. She can feel it, the slick gathering between her folds, her body preparing for something her mind is screaming against. The ring rewards compliance. Veronica told her. But she didn't understand. Didn't know it would feel like this. Like her own arousal is a weapon being used against her.
Derrick's hand tightens in her hair. The pins are gone now, scattered across the hardwood floor, and her wild black waves spill around her face like a curtain. He pulls her head back slightly, watching his cock slide between her black-painted lips, and his grin widens.
"Fuck yeah." His hips rock forward. Shallow. Testing. "That's it."
Diana gags as he pushes deeper. Her throat convulses around the head of his cock and tears spring to her eyes, blurring the expensive artwork on the walls into meaningless smears of color.
He doesn't stop.
"You can take it." His voice is thick. Confident. The voice of someone who's never been told no. "I can tell."
Deeper. Her nose brushes against his pelvis. She can smell him now, musk and sweat and expensive cologne, and her stomach rebels even as her pussy clenches again. The ring pulses warm warm warm, spreading pleasure through her veins like poison.
He pulls back. Thrusts forward. Starts fucking her throat in earnest.
The sounds are obscene. Wet. Gurgling. Her throat working around his shaft as he uses her, spit bubbling around her lips, drool running down her chin in thick strands. It drips onto her chest, soaking into the black fabric of her bra, turning the practical garment into something ruined.
"Good girl." He groans the words. His hand twists in her hair, yanking her head at the angle he wants. "Such a good girl. You like choking on cock?"
Diana's eyes flash red. Magic surges against the bindings in her chest, battering uselessly, and she wants to bite down. Wants to feel his blood fill her mouth. Wants to watch him scream.
He doesn't notice. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, lost in the sensation of her throat convulsing around him. Lost in the power of having Wonder Woman on her knees.
"Fuck... fuck..." His hips snap forward. Harder now. "Your throat is so tight..."
She gags. Chokes. Black lipstick smears across her face in a mess, the careful application destroyed, war paint becoming something else entirely. Her eyes water. Tears track down her cheeks, mixing with the drool on her chin, and she hates that some part of her is cataloging his reactions. The way his breath catches. The way his thighs tense. The way his cock throbs against her tongue when she swallows.
The warmth in her core builds. Spreads. Her thighs press together, seeking friction she refuses to give herself.
A moan escapes around his shaft.
Diana's eye go wide. That sound came from her. That broken, desperate sound. Her body betraying her while her mind screams.
Derrick's grip tightens. "Yeah, that's it. You fucking love this, don't you?"
She doesn't. She can't. But her pussy is soaked now, slick running down her inner thighs, and her hips want to rock against nothing and the ring keeps pulsing, keeps rewarding, keeps teaching her body that this is good.
His thrusts become erratic. Sloppy. The wet sounds fill the penthouse, echoing off the windows, off the expensive walls. His groans mix with her choking, with the gurgle of spit and precum flooding her mouth.
Then he pulls out.
Diana gasps. Coughs. Drool and precum spill from her lips, running down her chin onto her ruined bra. Her chest heaves as she sucks in air, black lipstick smeared across her face like a wound.
Derrick looks down at her. Flushed. Grinning. His cock bobs in front of her face, slick with her spit, black lipstick staining the shaft in messy rings.
"Get up." He stands, shoving his sweatpants the rest of the way off. "We're going to the bedroom."
The ring pulses.
Diana's body rises.
The bedroom was bigger than the cave system Diana had called home for eighteen years.
California king bed. Sheets that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. City lights streaming through uncurtained windows, turning everything silver and shadow. No art on these walls. Just mirrors. Three of them, positioned so that whoever lay in that bed could watch themselves from every angle.
Diana stood at the foot of it. Bra ruined with drool and precum. Suit pants still clinging to her hips. Lips swollen, black lipstick smeared across her chin, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. She could taste him still. Salt and skin and humiliation.
Derrick circled her slowly. Still hard. His cock bobbed with each step, slick with her spit, catching the city lights like something obscene. He was looking at her the way he'd looked at the gaming setup when it arrived. The way he looked at everything. Mine now.
"Strip."
The command rippled through her chest. Down her spine. Into her hands.
Her fingers moved to the clasp of her bra. Practical. Functional. The kind of thing a warrior wore when she expected to fight. Not this. Never this.
The clasp released.
Black fabric fell away from her breasts. Full and heavy, nipples already hard from the ring's warmth, from the arousal she couldn't stop. Couldn't control. Her chest heaved with each breath, and she felt the cool air kiss her skin like mockery.
Her hands moved to her waistband. Unbuttoned. Unzipped. She pushed the charcoal fabric down her hips, taking the practical black underwear with it. The pants pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them.
Naked.
Diana of the Wild Isle stood naked in a stranger's bedroom, lit by city lights, marked only by the oxblood tattoos that crawled from her left shoulder to her wrist. Witch marks. Her mother's work. The only thing left that was hers.
Derrick stopped circling.
He stared.
She had the body of a warrior. Eighteen years of fighting for survival carved into every line of muscle, every curve of strength. Shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of a sword. Arms that could break bones. Abs ridged beneath olive bronze skin. But she was also undeniably feminine. Full breasts that moved when she breathed. Strong hips that flared from a narrow waist. Thick thighs that could crush a man's skull if she chose.
If she could choose.
He walked toward her. His hand came up, palm pressing against her left breast. Squeezing. His fingers sank into the soft flesh, testing the weight of her, and she felt her nipple dig into his palm.
"Fuck." The word came out reverent. Hungry. "You're built like a fucking goddess."
His other hand found her right breast. Both hands now, kneading, squeezing, treating her body like something he'd bought. His thumbs brushed over her nipples. Circled. Pressed.
Diana's jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.
He pinched her left nipple. Twisted.
Pain lanced through her chest. Sharp. Bright. Her body jerked, a gasp escaping before she could stop it, and she watched his grin widen in the reflection of those mirrors.
"Sensitive." He pinched again. Harder. "Good to know."
His hands left her breasts. Slid down her sides. Over the curve of her hips. Around to her ass. He grabbed two handfuls and squeezed, fingers digging into the muscle, spreading her cheeks apart.
"Get on the bed."
The ring pulsed.
"Hands and knees."
Diana moved. Her body carried her forward while her mind screamed. She climbed onto the mattress, expensive sheets cool against her palms, and positioned herself with her ass toward him. Presented. Displayed.
Like an animal waiting to be mounted.
She could see herself in the mirror across the room. A warrior goddess reduced to this. Black hair spilling down her back. Tattoos gleaming in the city light. One arm braced against the mattress, the other shoulder ending in a clean stump. Strong back. Round ass. The wet gleam of arousal between her thighs that she couldn't hide, couldn't stop, couldn't control.
Her whole body trembled.
Rage. It was rage. It had to be rage. Not the heat pooling low in her belly. Not the way her pussy clenched around nothing. Not the shameful slick that had been building since he first put his hands on her.
The bed dipped.
She felt him kneel behind her. Felt the heat of him between her spread thighs. His hands found her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and she heard his breath catch.
"Look at that." His voice was thick. Wonder and hunger mixed together. "You're fucking soaked."
His hands spread her ass. Thumbs pressing into the meat of her, pulling her open, exposing everything.
Diana stared at her reflection. Red eyes stared back. Magic surging uselessly against the bindings, battering at walls it couldn't breach, screaming in a voice no one could hear.
She felt the head of his cock notch against her entrance.
Hot. Thick. Pressing against her folds without pushing in. Teasing. He rubbed the head through her slick, up and down, coating himself in the arousal she couldn't stop producing.
I survived Hell.
He pressed forward. Just the tip. Stretching her entrance around him.
I survived Hell.
More pressure. The head of his cock pushing past the ring of muscle, spreading her open, and she felt every inch of that thickness. Felt her body strain to accommodate him.
I survived….
He thrust forward.
One long stroke. All the way in. Filling her completely.
Diana's defiant silence shattered.
"Ahhhh... ohhh... hahh..."
The moan tore out of her throat. Broken. Desperate. Her back arched, head dropping between her shoulders, and she felt him bottom out inside her. Felt his hips press against her ass. Felt herself stretched around every inch of that massive cock.
Full. She was so full.
The ring pulsed warm against her heart.
He pulled back. Slammed forward.
Diana's whole body rocked with the force of it. Her one hand clawed at the sheets, bunching expensive fabric between her fingers, and the sound that escaped her was nothing like the warrior she'd been. Nothing like the witch who'd survived Hell. Just raw. Animal. Broken.
"Fuck yeah." His grip on her hips tightened. Bruising. "That's what I thought."
He set a brutal pace. Hard, deep strokes that made her whole body jolt forward with each impact. She could feel him in her guts, could feel the head of his cock battering against something deep inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes. The wet sounds were obscene. Slick and filthy. Her arousal coating his shaft, dripping down her thighs, betraying her with every thrust.
Diana bit down on her lip. Drew blood. Copper flooded her mouth and she welcomed it because at least that pain was hers. At least that was something she'd chosen.
His palm cracked against her ass.
"Ahhh!"
The yelp punched out of her before she could stop it. Sharp. Surprised. The sting bloomed across her cheek, heat spreading, and she felt the flesh ripple from the impact.
He did it again.
"God, look at that." His voice was thick. Hungry. "You've got the fattest ass I've ever seen."
Again. His palm connecting with her other cheek, the crack echoing through the bedroom, mixing with the wet slap of his hips against her. She could see it in the mirror. Her ass reddening under his hand. Her face contorted. Her eyes flickering between blue and red as magic surged uselessly inside her.
Again.
Again.
Each impact jolted through her core. Made her pussy clench around him. Made the ring pulse warm warm warm against her heart. She was biting her lip bloody now, teeth sunk into the soft flesh, trying to hold back the sounds building in her throat.
"You like that?" He spanked her harder. The crack was louder this time, sharper, and her whole body jerked. "The big bad lady like getting her ass spanked like a slut?"
Diana didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Her jaw was locked, blood running down her chin, every muscle in her body screaming.
His palm connected again. Harder than before. Hard enough that she felt it in her bones.
"Answer me."
"Yes!" The word tore out of her. Broken. Desperate. "Yes, okay, yes..."
Something crumbled inside her chest.
The resistance she'd been clinging to, the defiance that was all she had left, it cracked like ice under pressure. And suddenly she was pushing back. Meeting his thrusts. Her hips rocking backward to chase the fullness, to feel him deeper, to get more of what she'd been fighting against.
"Ohhh... ohhhh fuck... nnnghhh..."
The sounds coming from her throat weren't hers. Couldn't be hers. Diana of the Wild Isle didn't moan like this. Didn't whimper and gasp and make these broken, desperate noises that filled the bedroom like a confession.
But she did.
She was.
Derrick laughed. Breathless and triumphant. His hips snapped forward faster, matching her rhythm, fucking her the way she was asking to be fucked.
"Knew it." His hand cracked against her ass again and she cried out, pushing back into it, wanting more. "Knew you'd be a good fuck. All that warrior woman stuff..." Another thrust, deep enough to make her see stars. "...hiding a desperate little cock-hungry slut."
Diana's thighs shook with the effort of holding position. Her ass burned, reddening under his palm, each spank making her pussy clench tighter around his shaft. Sweat slicked her spine, made everything wet and hot and overwhelming.
His other hand fisted in her hair. Yanked her head back.
Her spine arched. Her breasts swung free, nipples hard and aching, and she watched herself in the mirror. Watched this stranger wearing her face, mouth open, drool and blood on her chin, eyes glazed with something that looked terrifyingly like pleasure.
He spanked her again. She moaned. Loud and shameless.
"Fuuuuck... please... nngh..."
Then he yanked her up.
Her back pressed against his chest. His cock still buried deep, still stretching her, and his breath was hot against her ear. One hand stayed fisted in her hair. The other wrapped around her throat. Not squeezing. Just... there. Possessive.
"Here's the thing." His voice was a growl. Low and rough and vibrating against her spine. "I'm going to make you cum whether you want to or not."
The ring pulsed warm.
Diana's whole body trembled.
He flipped her.
Diana's world spun. One moment she was pressed against his chest, the next her back slammed into the mattress and her legs were over his shoulders, her body folded nearly in half. The position opened her completely. Exposed. Vulnerable. Her pussy stretched around his cock at an angle that made her gasp.
She should have stopped him. Should have fought. Her body was still hers in the spaces between commands, still capable of breaking every bone in his soft hands.
She didn't move.
Derrick looked down at her with triumph burning in his eyes. His grin was savage, drunk on power and whiskey and the sight of Wonder Woman pinned beneath him. He pulled his hips back slowly. Let her feel every inch of that thickness dragging against her walls.
Then he slammed home.
"Ahhhhh... fuck..."
The sound punched out of her. This angle was deeper. So much deeper. She felt him in places she didn't know existed, the head of his cock battering against something that made lightning crackle up her spine. Her whole body jolted with the impact, breasts bouncing, and she watched his eyes track the movement with hungry satisfaction.
He did it again. Pulled back slow, slammed forward hard.
"Nnnngh... oh... ohhhhh..."
Stars burst behind her eyes. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching expensive fabric, searching for something to anchor her against the waves of sensation crashing through her body. The ring pulsed warm against her heart, rewarding her, training her, and she felt her pussy clench around him without permission.
Her eyes blazed red.
Not flickering this time. Solid crimson, magic surging in response to sensation she couldn't control. The light cast bloody shadows across the ceiling, across his face, and she watched his rhythm falter.
"What the fuck?" His thrusts slowed but didn't stop. His brow furrowed, confusion mixing with the hunger. "Your eyes. What the fuck is up with your eyes? You doing witch shit?"
Diana's chest heaved. She tried to find words. Tried to form them past the pleasure shorting out her brain.
"Happens... ahh... when I'm..." Another thrust punched the words out of her. "...overwhelmed."
His grin came back. Wider than before. Sharper.
"Overwhelmed." He rolled the word around like candy. "Yeah?"
He fucked her harder.
His hips snapped forward with renewed purpose, driving into her at a pace that made the headboard crack against the wall. Diana's back arched off the mattress, her whole body bowing, and the sounds coming from her throat weren't words anymore. Just noise. Raw and broken and desperate.
His thumb found her clit.
"No... don't..."
He pressed down. Rubbed circles against the swollen nub while his cock split her open, and Diana's world narrowed to two points of impossible sensation. His thumb. His cock. Everything else faded to static.
"I can't... oh gods..."
The pressure built. Coiled tight in her belly, spreading through her limbs, making her thighs shake against his shoulders. She could feel it coming. Could feel herself hurtling toward something she couldn't stop.
"Oh GODS... fuck fuck fuck..."
His thumb pressed harder. His cock drove deeper. The wet sounds of their fucking filled the bedroom, obscene and rhythmic, and she watched her own reflection in the mirror. Red eyes blazing. Black lips smeared. Body bent in half beneath a boy who owned her.
She came.
"DERRICK…"
His name tore from her throat like something ripped out by force. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, muscles spasming, walls milking him with desperate contractions. Her back arched so hard she thought her spine might snap. The orgasm crashed through her in waves, each one stronger than the last, and she screamed.
Half rage. Half surrender. Entirely broken.
He didn't stop.
"That's one." His voice was breathless but triumphant. His hips kept moving, kept fucking her through the aftershocks, kept his thumb circling her oversensitive clit. "How many more can you take?"
Diana shook beneath him. Tears leaked from the corners of her glowing eyes, tracking down her temples into her hair. She came on her captor's cock. She screamed his name. Some part of her that escaped Hell was dying right now, bleeding out on expensive sheets while her body betrayed everything she'd ever been.
The orgasm faded.
The ring pulsed warm.
And she felt the second one building.
Low in her belly. Coiling tight despite everything. Her clit throbbed under his thumb, too sensitive, too much, but the pressure kept mounting. Her walls fluttered around his shaft. Her hips started rocking without permission, chasing sensation she didn't want, couldn't want.
"No..." The word came out broken. Pleading. "Not again... I can't..."
He was right.
He was going to break her on his cock.
He shifted her again.
His hands hooked behind her knees, pushing them up toward her ears, folding her body in half beneath him. His full weight came down on her, crushing her into the mattress, and suddenly she couldn't move. Couldn't escape. Could barely breathe with him pinning her to the bed like a butterfly under glass.
Mating press. The position had a name. She'd heard it in Circe's stories, in those late night tales of beasts and maidens, of creatures that mounted their prey and filled them with seed. She'd never thought she'd be the maiden.
He fucked her like he owned her.
Because he did.
Every thrust drove that truth deeper. Ground it into her bones along with his cock. The angle was devastating, the head of his cock battering against her cervix with each stroke, and she felt her body strain to take him. Felt herself stretched around every inch of that impossible thickness while her knees pressed against her chest and her toes curled toward the ceiling.
Diana was crying.
She didn't notice when she started. The tears just appeared, streaming down her temples into her hair, mixing with ruined makeup and sweat. Black lipstick smeared across her face like war paint turned wrong. Mascara she didn't remember applying running in dark tracks toward her ears.
Tears of something she refused to name. Joy, pleasure.
"Ohhh... oh gods... nnnngh..."
She couldn't stop. Couldn't stop the sounds. Couldn't stop the tears. Couldn't stop cumming.
Her second orgasm rolled into a third. Her walls clenched around him, milking his shaft, and she felt herself gushing onto his cock. Felt her arousal flooding out of her, soaking into the sheets beneath them, making the wet sounds of their fucking even more obscene.
"Fuck yeah..." His breath came in harsh pants against her face. His hips never stopped, never slowed, just kept driving into her with that brutal rhythm. "That's it... keep cumming for me..."
The fourth orgasm hit harder.
Her back tried to arch but his weight held her down. Her pussy spasmed, walls rippling, and she screamed. Wordless. Broken. Her one hand clawed at his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to draw blood, and she watched his grin widen at the pain.
Then the fifth one hit.
Diana squirted.
The gush of fluid soaked his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath them. She felt it leave her body in a hot rush, felt her pussy clench and release in waves that she couldn't control. Her eyes blazed solid crimson, magic surging uselessly, and she sobbed through the pleasure tearing her apart.
Derrick laughed. Delighted. Breathless.
"Holy shit." His hips stuttered but didn't stop. "You're a fucking fountain." Another thrust, deep enough to make her choke. "You always get this wet, or did you just need a real cock?"
Diana tried to answer.
Tried to find something defiant. Some scrap of the warrior she'd been. Some piece of the woman who'd survived Hell.
All that came out was a broken moan and one word.
"Please..."
Please what?
Please stop. Please never stop. Please let her keep some shred of dignity. Please don't make her feel this good. Please fuck her harder. Please let her hate this. Please...
She didn't know. Couldn't know. Her brain had stopped working somewhere around the third orgasm and now she was just sensation. Just flesh. Just a body being used exactly as it was meant to be used.
He kissed her.
Hard. Demanding. His mouth crushed against hers, tongue pushing past her black painted lips, and she tasted whiskey and salt and her own degradation. His weight pressed her deeper into the mattress. His cock pressed deeper into her cunt.
She kissed him back.
Her tongue met his. Her teeth caught his lip. Her one arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and her legs... her legs unlocked from where he'd pinned them and wrapped around his waist instead. Heels digging into his ass. Pulling him deeper.
She was pulling him deeper.
Her hips rocked up to meet his thrusts. Her pussy clenched around him deliberately now, milking his shaft, and the sounds coming from her throat were encouragement. Desperate, broken encouragement.
"Yes... yesss... harder... please..."
She'd lost. Completely. Utterly. The conquest was done and she was the conquered territory, welcoming the invader, opening herself for plunder.
His rhythm became erratic. Sloppy. His breath came faster against her face, hot and ragged, and she felt his cock throb inside her. Felt him swell.
He went quiet.
The sudden silence after all those groans and taunts made her eyes focus. She watched his face contort, jaw clenching, tendons standing out in his neck. He buried himself to the hilt.
Then he groaned.
Deep and long. A sound that started in his chest and vibrated through her body. His hips ground against her, trying to get deeper even though there was nowhere left to go. His cock pulsed.
Diana felt it.
Thick. Hot. Impossibly copious. His cum flooded her insides in waves, painting her walls, filling her womb with heat that spread through her belly like fire. She felt every pulse. Every spurt. Felt herself being filled by this arrogant boy who'd bought her like property.
"Diana..." Her name. Her real name. Groaned against her throat like a prayer.
She hated how much she liked hearing it in his voice.
Her pussy milked him. Walls rippling, clenching, coaxing every drop from his cock like her body wanted this. Like some primal part of her was designed for exactly this purpose. To be mounted. To be filled. To be bred.
Another orgasm crested. Smaller this time. A rolling wave instead of a crash. She whimpered through it, face buried against his shoulder, and felt his cum leak out around his cock. Felt the wet heat of it seeping onto the sheets beneath her.
They lay there. Tangled. Panting.
His weight crushed her into the mattress but she didn't try to move him. Couldn't have moved him even if she wanted to. Her body was wrecked. Bruised hips from his grip. Spanked red ass throbbing with heat. Pussy swollen and dripping cum. Throat raw from screaming. Makeup destroyed beyond recognition.
The smell of sex hung thick enough to taste. Sweat and cum and arousal, filling the bedroom, soaking into everything.
He stayed inside her as he softened. His cock twitched occasionally, still sensitive, and each twitch made her whimper. Made her walls flutter around him. Made more of his cum leak out of her ruined cunt.
Then he lifted his head.
Looked down at her with that triumphant grin.
"Clean me off."
The ring pulsed warm against her heart.
Diana's jaw aches. Her body aches. Everything aches. But she's kneeling between his legs anyway, his softening cock in her mouth, tasting herself and his cum mixed together as she licks him clean.
The command was simple. Clean him off. And her body interpreted that as thoroughly.
Her tongue traces the underside of his shaft, gathering the slick mixture of their fluids. She swallows. Does it again. Her black-painted lips slide down to the base, then back up, making sure she gets everything. The taste fills her mouth, salt and musk and something that should disgust her but doesn't. Can't. The ring won't let it.
"Mmm..."
The small sound escapes before she can stop it. A hum of... not satisfaction. Not that. But something close enough that she wants to bite through her own tongue.
She hates it. Hates the little sounds of contentment she makes as she works. Hates how the ring's magic turns even this into something that sparks pleasure in her core. Her pussy clenches around nothing, still swollen, still dripping his cum onto the sheets beneath her, and she feels another soft pulse of warmth spread through her chest.
Good girl. The ring doesn't speak, but she hears it anyway. Good girl for obeying. Good girl for cleaning up the mess. Good girl for kneeling between your owner's legs and licking his cock like it's a privilege.
Derrick watches her with heavy-lidded satisfaction. One hand pets her hair almost gently, fingers carding through the wild black waves, and the tenderness is somehow worse than the brutality. At least when he was fucking her she could pretend it was only violence. This... this is something else.
"You're incredible," he says. His voice is thick with post-orgasm languor. Pleased. "Aunt Ronnie really outdid herself with this gift."
Diana's tongue swirls around the head of his cock. She doesn't respond.
"Were you always this good at sucking cock?" He tugs lightly at her hair, tilting her face up so he can see her ruined makeup. The black lipstick smeared across her cheeks. The tear tracks cutting through whatever mascara someone had applied. The dried blood on her chin from biting her own lip. "Or were you practicing for me?"
She doesn't answer. Just keeps licking. Keeps swallowing. Keeps being exactly what he wants.
His cock twitches against her tongue. Thickens slightly. She feels him growing harder in her mouth, and some distant part of her catalogs the information with clinical surprise. The stamina is genuinely impressive for someone who drinks as much as he does. For someone who's never worked a day in his life.
When he's clean, she pulls back. Sits on her heels between his spread thighs and waits for the next command. Her jaw throbs. Her throat is raw. She can still taste him.
"Come here."
The ring pulses. Her body moves.
He pulls her up onto the bed beside him. Arranges her like a pillow, and she realizes with dull humiliation that she's much taller than him. Broader. Stronger in every way that matters and none of the ways that count. He turns onto his side and tucks himself against her, her body curved around his, her breasts pressed against his back.
His personal body pillow. His trophy. His.
Then he twists in her arms. His lips find hers in one last deep kiss, tongue pushing into her mouth, and his hand comes up to grope her breast. Fingers digging into the soft flesh. Thumb brushing over her nipple.
"Mmmmph..."
The moan vibrates against his mouth. She feels him smile into the kiss.
When he pulls back, his eyes are already drooping. Satisfied. Utterly untroubled by conscience.
"Night," he mumbles. His hand stays on her breast, possessive even in sleep.
His breathing evens out within minutes. The deep, steady rhythm of someone completely satisfied. Someone who's never had to lie awake wondering if they'll survive until morning.
Diana lies there in the dark.
His cum still leaks from her pussy, cooling against her thighs. Her ass throbs with the memory of his palm. Her throat aches from choking on his cock. Between her legs, she's swollen and sore and still, impossibly, a little wet.
She stares at the ceiling.
Circe raised me to survive anything.
The thought rises unbidden. Her mother's voice in her memory, low and rough from centuries of exile. You will face horrors in this world, my little one. Monsters that wear beautiful faces. Gods who think mortals are toys. Survive them all. That is the only victory that matters.
But did she raise me to survive this?
His elbow digs into her ribs as he shifts in sleep. Sharp bone against bruised muscle.
Diana doesn't move it. Doesn't even think about moving it.
To survive becoming... this?
The city lights paint silver patterns on the ceiling. Somewhere far below, sixty stories down, people are living their lives. Going to work. Coming home. Falling asleep in beds where no one owns them.
Diana counts the hours.
She doesn't sleep. But she doesn't move either.
Just lies there with her owner breathing against her chest, his hand still cupping her breast, his cum still drying between her thighs.
Counting the hours until she can figure out how to escape.
The gaming setup cast blue light across Diana's face.
Controller clicks filled the penthouse. The wet sounds of her mouth working his cock underneath them, barely audible over the gunfire exploding through his headset. Derrick's voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the match, shit-talking friends he'd never met in person about kill counts and headshots.
"Dude, that's three in a row. You're fucking trash tonight."
His hand dropped to her head. Petted absently. Fingers carding through her hair without looking down.
Diana hollowed her cheeks around his shaft.
One week. Seven days of this. Seven days of waking in his bed, of making breakfast because he'd ordered her to learn and the ring had made her body walk to the kitchen and her hands crack eggs until she could produce something edible. Seven days of kneeling. Bending. Spreading. Swallowing.
Seven days of becoming exactly what he needed her to be.
She tongued the sensitive spot beneath the head. Felt his cock twitch in response. His hips shifted slightly, pressing deeper into her mouth, but his eyes never left the screen. His hands never left the controller except to pet her.
Background noise. Furniture. A warm hole.
The black lipstick she'd reapplied this morning was already ruined. Smeared into dark rings along his shaft, a visual record of how deep she'd taken him. She could see it when she glanced down. Could track her own progress in the marks she left behind.
When did I start caring about leaving marks?
His breath caught. She recognized the pattern now. Knew he was close to another kill, knew the spike of adrenaline would make his cock throb against her tongue. She adjusted her rhythm preemptively, taking him deeper, throat relaxing around the head the way she'd trained it to.
No gag reflex anymore. Her body had adapted. Optimized.
"BOOM! That's what I'm talking about!"
His hand fisted in her hair. Held her down while his hips bucked once, twice, riding the high of digital victory. She breathed through her nose and waited, throat full of him, and felt the ring pulse warm against her heart.
Good girl.
The thought wasn't hers. Couldn't be hers. But it came anyway.
He released her head. Went back to the controller.
Diana pulled back enough to breathe. Kept her lips wrapped around his shaft, kept working him with her tongue, kept being exactly what she was supposed to be.
The penthouse smelled like sex and expensive cologne. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Gateway City sparkled sixty stories below. She'd watched her own reflection get ruined against that glass twice now. Watched herself pressed against it while he fucked her from behind, her breath fogging the surface, her tits flattening against the cold, the whole city spread beneath her like an audience.
He'd taken pictures. Posted them to the private feeds where rich heirs showed off their toys.
My Greek girlfriend, the caption had read. Thousands of likes from people whose last names appeared on buildings. When someone commented that she looked like that Wonder Woman lady who disappeared, he'd typed back why do you think I got her with a winking emoji.
The OnlyFans account had already made millions.
Diana had watched herself on screen. Oiled up and naked, fingers working between her thighs while the camera captured every clench and spasm. Watched herself squirt on command, watched herself swallow thick ropes of cum, watched herself become content for strangers who thought she was a very dedicated cosplayer.
I used to be a warrior.
She took him deeper. Let her throat work around him. Listened to his breathing change as the match wound down and his attention finally shifted.
I used to fight monsters.
Her tongue traced the vein along the underside of his shaft. She knew exactly how much pressure he liked. Knew when to speed up, when to slow down, when to hollow her cheeks and suck hard enough to make his thighs tense.
Now I track his breathing to know when he'll cum so I can swallow without choking.
His hand dropped to her head again. Not petting this time. Gripping. His attention was on her now, the match forgotten, controller abandoned on the couch cushion.
She looked up at him through her lashes. Made eye contact the way she'd learned he liked. Let him see the ruined lipstick, the tear-streaked mascara from taking him too deep earlier, the red still flickering at the edges of her irises.
"Fuck." His voice was thick. Appreciative. "You're getting really good at this."
The words hit her like a slap.
Pride.
Hot and immediate, blooming in her chest before she could stop it. Pride in a skill she'd developed. Pride in his approval. Pride in being good at sucking his cock while he ignored her for video games.
No.
She kept working him. Couldn't stop. The ring wouldn't let her stop until he told her to.
No no no.
But the pride was still there. Warm and real and utterly horrifying. Some part of her, some broken piece that the ring had carved out and reshaped, was genuinely pleased that he'd noticed. Genuinely satisfied that she'd improved.
When did I start wanting to be good at this?
Diana wanted to scream.
Instead she took him deeper, swallowed around his cock, and felt the ring pulse warm against her heart.
His hips stuttered. Controller still clutched in both hands, eyes still fixed on the screen where his team was pushing some objective she didn't understand and didn't care about.
"Swallow."
One word. Flat. Distracted. He didn't even look down.
Diana felt his cock pulse against her tongue. Felt the first thick rope of cum hit the back of her throat. She swallowed. Automatically. Efficiently. The way she'd learned to do it so she wouldn't choke, wouldn't gag, wouldn't interrupt whatever he was doing.
More came. Hot and bitter and endless. She swallowed through it, throat working, and above her the gunfire kept exploding through his headset. His friends' voices crackled with excitement about some play she couldn't see.
"Nice, dude. That's game."
His cock twitched one last time. She swallowed the final pulse and then, without being told, her tongue traced along his softening shaft. Cleaning him. Making sure she got everything. The black lipstick smeared further, dark rings marking how deep she'd taken him, and she licked those clean too.
She didn't remember deciding to do this. Didn't remember the ring pulsing with a command.
Her hands tucked him back into his sweatpants. Gentle. Careful. Like putting away something precious. Then she rested her head on his thigh, cheek pressed against the soft fabric, and waited.
Ready.
In case he wanted more.
His hand dropped to her hair. Stroked through the wild black waves with absent affection. The touch was gentle. Almost tender. The way someone might pet a dog that had performed a particularly impressive trick.
"Hey, I gotta go." His voice shifted, warmer now, addressing his friends through the headset. "Something came up."
Laughter crackled through the speakers. Someone made a crude joke she couldn't quite hear.
"Yeah yeah, fuck off." He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice even without looking up. "Later."
The headset hit the couch cushion with a soft thump. His hand kept stroking her hair. She felt him shift, felt his attention focus on her for the first time since she'd started.
"Hey."
Diana lifted her head. Met his eyes.
He was looking at her with something that might have been affection. The same warmth you'd see from someone gazing at a beloved pet. A prized possession. Something treasured and owned in equal measure.
"You wanna watch a movie with me?"
The question hung in the air.
Diana opened her mouth to say... what? No? That she'd rather kneel here in silence than pretend they were anything other than what they were?
"Yes."
The word came out before she could examine it. Before she could determine if the ring had compelled it or if she'd simply... answered.
His grin widened. "Cool. I'll pick something good."
He didn't pick something good.
The movie was loud and stupid. Explosions every three minutes. A plot held together with duct tape and testosterone. The kind of thing designed to fill silence without requiring thought.
Diana curled against his side on the leather couch, her body fitting into the curve of his arm like it belonged there. The silk robe whispered against her skin with every small movement. Emerald green, barely long enough to cover her ass. Easier access, he'd said when he'd handed it to her three days ago. She wore it around the apartment now. Only that.
His hand rested on her thigh. Warm through the thin silk. His fingers traced idle patterns on her skin, sliding higher, retreating, sliding higher again. Casual. Proprietary. The touch of someone handling something they owned.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't tense.
Just let him touch what was his.
On screen, the hero said something quippy before shooting another faceless enemy. The explosion lit up the penthouse in orange and red.
Diana's eyes drifted from the screen to the window. The city lights sparkled beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, Circe was still trapped in whatever prison Cale had constructed. Somewhere out there, Steve Trevor was probably searching for her. Somewhere out there, the world kept turning without Wonder Woman in it.
Derrick's hand slid higher. His thumb brushed the junction of her thigh and hip. She felt her body respond without permission, a small shift, her legs parting slightly to give him better access.
He didn't take it. Just kept stroking. Kept watching the movie. Kept holding her against his side like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
The explosion faded. The hero ran through a collapsing building.
Diana caught herself leaning into his warmth.
The realization hit like ice water.
She was comfortable. Her body was relaxed against his. Her breathing had synced with his. She'd been watching the stupid movie without cataloging exits, without calculating how quickly she could snap his neck, without screaming inside her own skull.
She'd felt... safe.
Safe. With her owner. With the boy who used her throat while playing video games. With the stranger who'd posted her naked body online for millions of followers. Safe.
"I need to..." Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. "Bathroom."
"Sure." His hand squeezed her thigh once before releasing her. "Hurry back, though. This is the good part."
Diana stood. Her legs were steady. That was wrong somehow. They should have been shaking.
The bathroom was marble and chrome. Expensive. Cold. She locked the door behind her and stood at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter with her one hand.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Wild black hair loose around her face because he liked it that way. Black lipstick freshly applied because he liked that too. The silk robe gaped open, revealing the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the hickeys blooming purple and red across her throat.
She hadn't asked him to stop making them.
Hadn't even thought to ask.
This is the magic.
Her knuckles went white against the marble.
This is what Veronica promised. Her body betraying her. Her mind starting to follow.
The woman in the mirror didn't look like a warrior anymore. Didn't look like someone who'd survived Hell. She looked like exactly what she'd become. A kept woman. A prized pet. A very expensive hole that had learned to enjoy being used.
She has to find a way out.
Her eyes flickered red. Magic surged uselessly against the bindings, battering at walls it couldn't breach.
She has to.
The ring pulsed warm against her heart.
Before there's nothing left to save.
Diana turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water on her face. Watched the droplets run down her cheeks in the mirror, mixing with the ruined makeup, dripping onto the marble counter.
She took one breath. Two. Three.
Composed her expression. Smoothed her hair. Adjusted the robe so it covered slightly more of her breasts.
Then she unlocked the door and walked back to the living room. Back to the couch. Back to her owner's waiting arm.
Because the ring demanded it.
And because some small, broken part of her had wanted to anyway.
The leather chair creaked softly as Veronica Cale settled deeper into it, crossing her legs at the ankle. The observation room hummed with the quiet drone of cooling systems, banks of monitors casting blue light across her face. She held a glass of something amber and expensive, ice cubes clicking as she swirled it.
Screen one showed the live feed. Diana curled against Derrick on the leather couch, silk robe riding up her thighs, her head resting on his shoulder. The movie's explosions painted them both in flickering orange. Comfortable. Domestic. The warrior reduced to a girlfriend-shaped accessory.
Screen two played the footage from the first night.
Veronica watched Diana's back arch off the mattress. Watched her eyes blaze crimson as she screamed his name. The audio was crisp, captured by microphones hidden throughout the bedroom, and she could hear every desperate sound. Every broken moan. Every wet slap of flesh against flesh.
The squirting had been a pleasant surprise. Diana's body gushing onto his cock, soaking the sheets, her voice cracking on sounds that weren't words anymore. The Amazon's legendary control shattered by a college dropout with a trust fund and a big cock.
A data overlay ran along the bottom of the screen. Heart rate. Cortisol levels. Oxytocin spikes. A percentage glowed in cold blue text at the corner.
40.2%
Screen three cycled to Wednesday's session. Diana splayed on her back, legs spread wide, Derrick's fingers buried inside her while his thumb worked her clit. The camera angle was perfect, capturing every clench and flutter, every gush of fluid that sprayed across the lens. Five minutes of continuous orgasms. Diana's screams swallowed by his mouth when he leaned down to kiss her, her one hand clawing at his shoulder, her hips bucking against his hand.
Screen four. Thursday. The timestamp read "4 Hour Amazon Breeding Session."
Diana on her back again, folded nearly in half, her long legs wrapped around Derrick's waist. The first hour had been brutal efficiency, Diana's jaw clenched, her eyes flickering between blue and red, her body responding while her mind fought. The second hour, something cracked. Her voice shifted from broken moans to desperate pleas. Stop. Please. I can't. No more.
The third hour, she stopped asking him to stop.
More. Harder. Please. Don't stop. Please don't stop.
The fourth hour, she'd begged for it. Her voice raw, her body wrecked, her pussy swollen and dripping with his cum, and still she'd pulled him closer. Still she'd rocked her hips to meet his thrusts. Still she'd screamed when she came, over and over, until her voice gave out and all that remained were broken whimpers.
Veronica had to admire his stamina.
She sipped her drink. The whiskey burned pleasantly, warming her chest. On screen one, Diana laughed at something Derrick said. A real laugh, surprised out of her, her shoulders shaking with it. Veronica watched the warrior's face soften, watched genuine amusement flicker in those dark eyes, and marked the timestamp for the file labeled "Subject W: Psychological Deterioration."
Forty percent in one week. Faster than projected.
The ring was working beautifully, of course. Ancient magic designed to break gods, applied to a demigod raised in Hell. But Derrick deserved credit too. The boy's size and stamina were doing half the work. Diana's body was conditioning itself to crave him, Pavlovian responses building with every orgasm, every pulse of warmth from the ring, every night spent curled against his chest.
Another month, maybe two, and she'd be begging for it without the ring's compulsion. Three months and she wouldn't remember why she'd ever wanted to escape. Six months and she'd fight to stay.
Her tablet chimed.
Veronica set down her glass and pulled up the fertility data. Diana's cycle, mapped with precision. Optimal windows highlighted in green. Projected conception timeline branching into probability trees. Amazon physiology was remarkably predictable once you had baseline readings. The Amazons had been created by gods, after all. Divine engineering followed patterns.
She made a note in the margin: Instruct Derrick to finish inside more frequently. Increase unprotected sessions from 2x daily to 4x. Subject's fertility window begins in 6 days.
He wouldn't question it. He was too busy enjoying his gift to wonder about the long game. Too busy posting videos of Wonder Woman choking on his cock to consider why his aunt had given him such an extraordinary present.
Useful. Compliant. Easily managed.
Veronica pulled up her contact list.
Names scrolled past. The Ashtons, though they'd refuse. The Leon family, who'd pay triple. Al Ghul, who had his own breeding programs but might appreciate the novelty. Private military contractors who supplied armies to nations that didn't officially exist. World leaders with security concerns and private islands where laws were suggestions.
All of them would pay handsomely for what Diana would produce.
Amazon children.
Raised from birth to serve. Their mother's strength without her troublesome morality. Wonder Woman's legacy reduced to a breeding program for the elite. Weapons in human form, loyal only to whoever paid for their creation.
The first generation would take years to mature. But Veronica was patient. She'd spent decades building the infrastructure that contained the supernatural. A few more years to build an army of demigods seemed a reasonable investment.
On screen one, Diana shifted against Derrick's side. Her robe had slipped further, exposing the curve of her breast, the marks he'd left on her throat. She didn't fix it. Didn't seem to notice. Her attention was on the movie, on the warmth of his arm around her shoulders, on the simple comfort of human contact after years alone in Hell.
She chose to be a hero.
Veronica finished her whiskey.
Now she'll birth a generation of weapons.
She watched Diana laugh again, watched Derrick's hand slide higher on her thigh, watched the warrior lean into his touch without flinching.
There's poetry in that.
The percentage in the corner ticked upward. 40.3%
The kind only true believers can appreciate.
A world of Absolute Hierarchy.