A Gentleman From Hell

The room was dim, the air thick with a tension you could almost taste. Anastasia was crying out, a mix of pain and pleasure, until Psyke shoved his face into her neck, his body hard against Leonariz. It was a jarring shift, from raw sex to something colder, something more deliberate.

"Okh! Moy Lord, pochemu vy dolzhny pozvolyat' yey drochit'… akh!"

("Augh! My Lord—w-why do you have to let her joi—ah!")

"Zatknis', kto skazal tebe layat'?" ("Shut up, who told you to bark?") Psyke growled, the barely controlled power in his voice silencing Anastasia. He kept going, hard and fast, each thrust a brutal reminder of who was in charge. The air crackled; this wasn't just sex, it was a power play, a silent battle in the shadows.

Leonariz was completely thrown. The way they were tangled—Anastasia sprawled across Psyke, her face buried in his chest, her weight heavy—was deeply unsettling. It felt wrong, invasive, a violation she hadn't agreed to. Yet, a strange heat bloomed low in her belly. She felt Anastasia's breaths, the tremors, the rhythm of their sex a constant reminder of their proximity, of how close she was to Psyke.

Anastasia's moans were sharp, raw, a stark contrast to the room's previous intensity. They were a brutal reminder of Psyke's power, his control. Leonariz's knuckles went white as she gripped the sheets, a strange heat spreading through her, a nervous flutter in her stomach she couldn't explain. It was terrifying, this mix of fear and arousal, this feeling of being both terrified and strangely captivated.

Psyke watched Leonariz, his gaze sharp and predatory. He saw everything—the confusion on her face, the way her muscles tensed with each thrust, the hitch in her breath. He saw the tremor in her hands, her fingers digging into the sheets—a silent scream. He took a last drag of his cigarette, a brief pause before the storm broke again. A cruel, knowing smile played on his lips; his amusement was a silent threat.

Anastasia's cries grew louder, a mix of pain and surrender. "Heugh! P-pochemu ty stanovish'sya bol'shim — khaa!" ("Heugh! W-why are you g-getting bigge—haah!") Her voice was ragged, a desperate plea lost in the passion.

Psyke's eyes locked onto Leonariz, possessive and unwavering. He pulled her into his world—a world of dominance and submission. Leonariz looked away, her gaze fixed on Anastasia, her body trembling. The raw intimacy, the surrender, ignited something primal in Psyke; the fantasy of Leonariz beneath him intensified his arousal.

He wanted her to look at him, to see her confusion, her innocence, her resistance as he dominated the woman above him. He wanted to fully inhabit this illusion, to believe he was making love to his 'innocent Amazona', to savor her surrender, to break her down and rebuild her in his image. He wanted to push her to the brink, to force her to confront desires she didn't even know she had.

"YA konchayu! YA p-mmm-AKH" ("I'm cumming! I'm c-cumm—AH!") Anastasia's cry echoed, a mix of agony and ecstasy.

With a few final, powerful thrusts, Anastasia reached her peak, her body convulsing. She went limp against Leonariz, completely spent, her muscles trembling. She panted, her eyes wide with shock as Psyke shifted, his movements slow and deliberate.

"P-podozhdi, ya-ya mogu… kha!"("W-wait, I-I can… kha!") Anastasia's whisper was barely audible.

A soft whimper escaped Leonariz. The fact that he kept going, even though Anastasia was completely spent and vulnerable, was shocking. The shift in focus, the blatant disregard for Anastasia's state, sent a shiver down her spine.

Leonariz's eyes widened as Anastasia's body settled on top of her, her head on Leonariz's chest, her weight heavy. She had a perfect view of Psyke's face and body—his relentless movements, his unreadable expression, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Psyke moved seamlessly from one woman to the other, a deliberate dance of dominance and control. The effortless transition showed his skill, his experience, his mastery. He smiled, pinning Leonariz's arms above her head, his touch firm and possessive.

Fear, shock, and a strange, unfamiliar arousal warred on Leonariz's face, fueling Psyke's intensity. He was with Anastasia, but his focus was entirely on Leonariz. He moved with ferocious energy, creating the illusion that he was making love to his 'innocent amazona', savoring her unspoken surrender, her silent resistance.

Leonariz's breaths grew short, shallow, each inhale a struggle as Anastasia's weight pressed down, their bodies moving together. Psyke's expression—a mix of satisfaction and something darker, something predatory—was unnerving. His gaze was unwavering, possessive.

Leonariz closed her eyes as his grip tightened. She felt completely owned, exposed, like prey in the hands of a predator.

Psyke Sergevev Romanov. Her owner. Dangerous. Utterly dominant. His power wasn't just physical; it was a subtle, psychological manipulation that left her feeling trapped, vulnerable, yet strangely aroused.

The rhythm continued, the air thick with sweat and arousal. Anastasia's cries escalated, a crescendo of pleasure. Leonariz remained frozen, fear and fascination battling within her.

Psyke's jaw tightened, his movements faster, more forceful, his control absolute. He reveled in Leonariz's subtle yielding to his dominance. This was his ultimate conquest.

Anastasia's final moan echoed—her surrender. Leonariz felt her body convulse against her own.

But Psyke wasn't done. He withdrew from Anastasia, swiftly pushing her aside.

He moved with brutal efficiency, mounting Leonariz, one hand possessively on her side, the other moving rhythmically along his length. His breath was ragged, his gaze unwavering. The carefully controlled power finally broke.

His grim satisfaction was evident as his semen landed on Leonariz's face. Her expression was a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a terrifying arousal.

Psyke chuckled softly, a sound that spoke of his complete mastery. He stood, his desires undeniable. He craved the Amazon's body; his own body still burned.

He looked at Leonariz, her name unknown, adding to the thrill. She was motionless, her eyes vacant, the weight of his dominance heavy upon her.

Psyke smiled, his gaze lingering on the semen on her face.

"Ne mogu dozhdat'sya, kogda smogu trakhnut' eto telo... akh... stoit li mne prosto trakhnut' yeye pryamo seychas?"

("I can't wait to fuck that body… ahh… should I just fuck her right now?") he whispered, his desire palpable.

Her disarranged clothes revealed her chest, fueling his need. The handcuffs and chains on her leg only heightened his fascination.

It suited her. Perfectly.

He looked at her neck, the sweat a testament to the encounter. His body burned.

Damn, my hands would feel good around her small neck.

Lost in his power, he was startled by the opening door.

"What kind of murder scene is this? You're a deadly weapon—really." Sebastian's voice cut through the silence.

Psyke laughed softly, turning to his butler, who stood grinning in the doorway.

"What is it?" Psyke asked, his voice calm, controlled.

"My club's grand opening is tonight, you know?" Sebastian replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah. Where's that old maid? Tell her to clean up later," Psyke said, moving towards Sebastian.

Sebastian shook his head, his gaze lingering on Leonariz—her vulnerability, her silent surrender.

He laughed, seeing Leonariz still clothed, the semen on her face the only evidence of the encounter.

"The fuck? He's still holding back? Does he really hate sleeping with virgins that much?"

He chuckled, remembering Psyke's expression—the subtle smile, the barely controlled intensity, the raw power.

Sebastian smiled, leaving to find the maid, his thoughts already on the club's opening.

"Psyke is a true gentleman—or rather, a twisted, psychotic, manipulative bastard. The reason I work for him, however."