The Upper Room Pt. 02

My cheek pressed against the rug. Cool. Smelling faintly of sandalwood and sex. My pulse hammered in my throat like it wanted to break free, crawl to her, worship her in its own rhythm.

Betty didn't speak for a moment. She didn't need to. Silence was her scalpel, carving the air into obedience.

I felt James shift behind me. Felt Rita's breath stall. The room had tilted--the centre of gravity dragging hard toward the woman in white.

She stepped closer. Bare feet whispering across the floor. A small sound--silk sighing as her robe loosened another inch.

"Hands flat," she said softly.

My palms hit the rug before my mind caught up. Spread wide, nails biting wool. Every nerve ending screamed don't move. I didn't. I couldn't.

Betty crouched in front of me with the grace of a prayer being answered. Her fingers slipped under my chin, tilting my head back until I drowned in her pale, glacial gaze.

"You," she murmured. "Could not even keep her name."

My throat worked, dry as dust. Words died on my tongue.

She smiled faintly--razor wrapped in lace. "Perfect."

Her thumb pressed the corner of my mouth, dragging slow, deliberate, smearing spit like paint across my lips. My cunt clenched so hard I whimpered.

"James."

His name cracked the air like a whip. He stiffened. Didn't answer fast enough.

"On your knees."

The command was silk, but it landed like iron. He dropped. I heard it--the heavy thud of a man who'd never knelt for anyone but gravity.

"Closer," Betty said.

I felt him crawl behind me. His heat ghosted over my back. My shoulders trembled--not from fear, not quite. From the raw, electric weight of her power sealing the room like a vacuum.

"Hands behind your head," she told him. "Now stay."

There was a pause. Then the soft rasp of compliance as his big arms folded up. He didn't speak. He didn't dare.

Betty's attention slid to Rita next.

"And you."

Rita tried for a smirk. I heard it in her breath--brave, brittle. "What about me?"

Betty's head tilted, her honey blonde bowl cut showed me how much she looked like the most gangly mushroom.

"You can keep the robe." A pause. Then, lightly, like a match struck against velvet: "For now."

Rita laughed low. It cracked halfway through. "You think you can--"

"Stand."

That single word hollowed her out. She rose without finishing the sentence, fury curling off her like heat haze.

Betty didn't look at her again. She looked at me. Only me.

"Such a mess," she murmured, fingertips grazing the edge of my slip pooled at my waist. She traced the damp patch between my thighs--oh God, the humiliation burned sweet as fever.

"This," she said, lifting her fingers slick with me, holding them like an exhibit, "is what happens when I leave my toys unattended."

Rita hissed softly. James shifted. I shook like a marionette whose strings had been dipped in gasoline.

Betty lowered her fingers to my mouth. "Clean."

I obeyed. Lips closing, tongue curling, tasting myself off her skin. Her sigh was a soft, devastating hymn.

"Good girl."

The words detonated in my pelvis like a holy war. I moaned around her fingers.

Betty rose slowly, every inch an ascension. The robe slipped further, revealing a pale hip carved like sculpture. My breath shattered.

"Look at her," she said to no one and everyone. "This is mine."

She stepped over me, positioning herself like a queen over conquered land. Her heel pressed between my shoulder blades, pinning me in prayer.

"James."

"Yes." His voice was hoarse.

"You like breaking her down?"

"Yes." A pause. "Mistress."

That earned him a smile I didn't see--but felt in the room's temperature spike.

"Then watch," she purred. "While I remind her who writes the script."

The pressure left my back. Her hand fisted in my hair, yanking me upright with one fluid, merciless motion. My knees scraped. I gasped--and then I was standing, wobbling, naked but for that soaked wisp of silk clinging like a dirty secret.

"Slip off," Betty said.

I obeyed. It fell like surrender at my feet.

She circled behind me, her breath cool at my ear. "Open."

My thighs parted on instinct. My shame burned hot and honeyed. I felt her hand slide down my spine, slow as sin, then curve around to cup me--firm, claiming.

"Still wet," she murmured, and the sound was satisfaction distilled. Her thumb pressed just enough to make me keen.

"Eyes on them," she ordered.

I looked. James--on his knees, chest heaving, jaw tight like restraint was killing him. Rita--rigid, fists curled in the folds of her robe, her face a storm barely leashed.

"Do you see?" Betty's voice dripped velvet venom. "How easy it is to make gods kneel?"

Her hand plunged between my thighs. Two fingers, deep, brutal in their elegance. I cried out, high and helpless. She crooked them. My body bowed like a bowstring drawn to breaking.

"Again," she whispered--and my cunt seized, pulsing around her like it could keep her inside forever.

"James," she said without looking away from me. "Undo your pants. Stop there."

The hiss of a zipper sliced the air. His breath came rough, strangled.

"Rita," Betty added, voice sweet as cyanide, "touch yourself."

A sharp inhale. Then silence but for the obscene symphony of skin meeting skin--Rita's slick little gasps, James gritting his teeth, and me--God help me--me unravelling with every curl of Betty's fingers.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"Shut up. I know exactly what I'm doing."

"i meant to me."

"Who do you belong to?" she asked softly, lips grazing my temple.

"You," I sobbed. "Only you."

She kissed my cheek like benediction. "Good girl."

The climax ripped me apart--violent, sob-sharp, my body jerking against her grip as if I could fuse myself to her bones. She held me through it, unyielding, her free hand stroking my hair like taming a feral thing.

When the shudders died, she eased her fingers out, slick and shining, and held them up like proof before the court.

Then she turned--slow, surgical--and showed them.

"Mine," she said simply.

Neither spoke. Neither dared.

Betty let the silence stretch until it hummed, until the walls themselves seemed to bow. Then she smiled, soft and lethal.

"Clean up your mess," she told them--and walked out barefoot, trailing the scent of victory like perfume.

I sank to my knees on the rug, wrecked and raw, watching her leave. Knowing I would follow. Knowing I already had.

[Jana]

The door closed like a secret. No slam, no drama--just that soft metallic click that split the air and my spine.

I stayed where she left me. Knees sinking into the rug, palms splayed on the floor like I was bracing against a world that had tilted under me. My chest heaved. My cunt... God, my cunt pulsed in aftershocks, the heat of Betty's fingers still curled inside me like a brand.

Everything smelled of her. White silk and skin gone cold from control, lemon and steel, the faint ghost of sandalwood on her wrists. That scent crawled up my throat, filled my lungs until there was no room left for shame.

And shame was all I had left.

My slip lay on the floor like a murdered thing. I reached for it. Tried to cover myself, hands shaking so hard the straps tangled. Useless. My body was wreckage, soft and obscene under the mirrored glare.

Behind me, James moved. The sound of his breath was a slow storm, heavy and hot. His presence pressed at my back like a wall.

"Jana..."

I flinched. That name felt foreign now--wrong, jagged, like biting down on tinfoil. It didn't belong to me anymore. Betty had stripped it clean off, peeled it like skin and left me raw.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My mouth was dry, my pulse pounding between my thighs where the wet wouldn't stop, where the mess of me slicked down to the rug like proof of everything I'd surrendered.

And then--another scent.

Citrus and gin.

Rita.

She hadn't moved from the corner. She stood like a saint gone feral--barefoot, robe half-slipped, her skin lit with fury. Her hair was a black snarl over her shoulders.

Her lips glistened from where she'd bitten them bloody watching Betty tear me open with nothing but two fingers and a word.

When she spoke, her voice was satin frayed to wire.

"Pick it up." The slip. I didn't move.

She crossed the room in four barefoot strides, the robe gaping like a wound. Her nails bit my jaw as she yanked my face up to hers. Her breath hit me--gin-sweet, fever-hot.

"You think this is over?" she hissed. "You think she gets to keep what I made?"

Her mouth smashed into mine before I could answer. No--before I could think. Teeth clashing, tongue shoving deep like she could claw Betty out of me through my throat.

I whimpered into her kiss, hands clawing at her belt, silk sliding like sin between my fingers. Then her hand was on me. Christ--her hand--plunging between my thighs. Two knuckles sinking into the wreck Betty left. I sobbed into her mouth. My hips jerked like a puppet's.

"That's right," she snarled, dragging her tongue down my cheek. "You're still mine."

I shook my head--or tried to. My voice cracked like glass: "No... no, I--"

The slap landed like scripture. Sharp. Perfect. My head snapped sideways, heat blooming under my skin. My cunt clenched like a fist.

"Yes," she whispered, voice like silk soaked in poison. "Say it."

I moaned instead. Pathetic. Hungry. Her smile was a knife unsheathed.

"On your back."

I obeyed without air, without thought. The rug burned my shoulders as I sprawled, legs wide, shame yawning like a wound.

Rita crawled over me, hair spilling like black curtains. She straddled my chest, her panties dark and slick where the robe fell open, baring the sharp architecture of her body.

"Eat," she said, voice soft as strangulation.

I did. God help me--I did. My tongue dragged across satin soaked in her salt, her gin, her rage. She ground down harder, hips rolling like a rhythm she'd kill to keep.

"Good little slut," she panted, her nails fisting my hair until my scalp screamed.

Then--she slid lower, off my chest, mouth crashing on mine again as her small little fingers dove back between my thighs. Three this time. Brutal. Claiming.

"Betty makes you kneel," she spat, biting my lip hard enough to split it. "I make you come."

And I did. Violent. Bone-deep. A shattering that left my scream ragged against her mouth as my body convulsed under hers, slick pouring between my thighs like a declaration.

When I opened my eyes, the mirrors were fogged with ghosts. Rita's hair clung to her wet lips. Her smile was all teeth.

[RITA]

The hallway tiles burned cold against my bare feet as I stormed away. My robe was half-off, dangling from one shoulder like a dead bird. My skin still smelled of her. Her breath. Her sweat. Her goddamn Betty.

I should've stopped. Should've swallowed the rage like I've done a thousand times. But watching that porcelain bitch yank the strings like a maestro while I--I--stood there with gin in my hand like a fucking extra?

No. No.

The suite door slammed behind me hard enough to rattle the glass. My breath tore in and out like fire alarms. The mirror above the dresser caught me full-length--hair a mess, nipples peaked through white silk, cunt still slick from--

"Fuck."

I tore the robe off and hurled it across the room. My panties followed. Damp. Reeking of Jana's spit and my need.

I gripped the edge of the dresser so hard my knuckles blanched. My reflection stared back--wild-eyed, lips swollen, a streak of Betty's precision still ghosting my cheek where her thumb had pressed earlier that day.

That look on Jana's face--when Betty said 'Down'. Something in me split.

I shoved the glass tray of perfume aside and climbed onto the dresser, legs spread, cunt bared to the chandelier's soft gold glow. My fingers plunged vicious, no tease, no grace--just raw friction, nails scraping as I fucked myself like I could scrub their fingerprints out from the inside.

I hissed through my teeth. My hips jerked, banging against lacquer, the sound obscene.

"Mine," I spat into the empty room. "She was mine first."

The orgasm ripped through like a car crash. Hard. Ugly. My back bowed, a cry shredding the air as hot slick gushed over my knuckles. I collapsed forward on the cool marble top, chest heaving, tears streaking mascara onto the glass. My own face blurred. I hadn't realised i was crying.

I hated Betty in that moment. Hated her the way a drowning woman hates the ocean.

And God help me--I wanted her more than air.

[JAMES]

The private gym was black steel and chrome, humming with the low bass of some wordless track pulsing through the speakers. I stripped my shirt, tossed it across the bench. My fists were already clenched before I hit the bag.

One. Two. Three.

Leather cracked against leather. The chain groaned.

Betty's voice replayed in my skull--soft, calm, slicing: Mine.

She hadn't raised her tone. Didn't need to. She just walked in, pulled the entire floor out from under me, and walked out without looking back.

That's what killed me. Not the act. The elegance.

I slammed another combination into the bag--jab, hook, cross--until sweat slicked down my spine, dripping off my jaw like penance.

Jana's face flickered in my mind--eyes glazed, mouth slack, Betty's fingers disappearing between her thighs like a disappearing act. And me? Kneeling.

Fucking kneeling while Betty made her come so hard she screamed like a holy fool.

My cock surged. I ignored it. Hit harder. Faster. The bag swung like a pendulum on its chain.

I wanted to break something. Betty's composure. Rita's little delusions. Jana's soft fucking heart.

Especially Jana.

Because that girl was the key. Always was.

I ripped the wraps from my hands with my teeth and shoved my pants down, cock springing thick and furious. I gripped it, hard, stroking in punishing pulls as the scene rewound on loop--Jana's body jerking, Betty whispering good girl like a sacrament.

I spat into my palm and pumped harder, hips jerking to the phantom rhythm of her sobs.

"You're mine," I growled into the dark, voice cracking like bone.

And I came like a loaded gun misfiring--violent, messy, streaking the black mat with heat. My breath sawed in and out. My head dropped.

Betty thought she'd won.

She'd only started the war.

[BETTY]

The suite was silent. She liked it that way. Silence was a scalpel.

Betty shut the door behind her with a click, peeled the robe off with slow precision, folded it in thirds, and laid it across the chair. Not a wrinkle. Not a flaw.

Her fingers still smelled of Jana. Sweet musk tangled with salt. She lifted them to her face and inhaled once, deep and measured, before stepping to the basin.

The water ran cold. She scrubbed slow, surgical strokes, watching the suds curl down the drain. Watching her own reflection--a pale wraith with hair spilling like ink, eyes clear as frost.

The doctrine was simple. Always had been.

To own them, break them gently. No point doing it any other way.

Betty dried her hands on linen so white it glowed. Folded it twice. Set it square on the marble. Then crossed to the bed and sat, long legs folding like the arms of a compass.

She thought of Jana on her knees, trembling, mouth open like a chapel door.

Thought of James--big, arrogant James--reduced to silence at a single syllable.

Thought of Rita's eyes gone black with the kind of hunger that made grown men tremble in fear.

Betty smiled faintly. Not joy. Not triumph. Something colder.

This wasn't victory.

This was inevitability.

She reached for the leather collar in the drawer. Ran her thumb over the D-ring like a rosary bead.

"Soon," she whispered to no one.

The Mansion didn't hum. It purred.

And Betty?

Betty began to plan the next move.