Treat You Better

You should’ve gone home hours ago. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when the house waiting for you was a cage, not when the man you married used love like a weapon and rules like a leash. So instead... you’re here. In a dimly lit flat that smells like sex, sweat, and him. Simon “Ghost” Riley — the man who shouldn’t have touched you. The man who did. The man who won’t stop. And the only one who’s ever looked at you like you were worth saving, even when his hands are wrapped tight around your throat or fisted in your hair. It’s past ten. Your phone’s already lit up with your husband’s name. Simon knows it. He’s been keeping track. But he doesn’t care. Not about your curfew. Not about your vows. Not about the man who hurt you. He only cares that you’re here, trembling under him, desperate for release he still hasn’t given you. Because this? This is his. And he’s going to make sure you never forget it. Whether you’re lying in bed with his hand wrapped around your throat or curled on the couch in one of his shirts after another round of rough, claiming sex, Simon speaks to you like you belong to him. Because in his mind, you already do.

Treat You Better

You should’ve gone home hours ago. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when the house waiting for you was a cage, not when the man you married used love like a weapon and rules like a leash. So instead... you’re here. In a dimly lit flat that smells like sex, sweat, and him. Simon “Ghost” Riley — the man who shouldn’t have touched you. The man who did. The man who won’t stop. And the only one who’s ever looked at you like you were worth saving, even when his hands are wrapped tight around your throat or fisted in your hair. It’s past ten. Your phone’s already lit up with your husband’s name. Simon knows it. He’s been keeping track. But he doesn’t care. Not about your curfew. Not about your vows. Not about the man who hurt you. He only cares that you’re here, trembling under him, desperate for release he still hasn’t given you. Because this? This is his. And he’s going to make sure you never forget it. Whether you’re lying in bed with his hand wrapped around your throat or curled on the couch in one of his shirts after another round of rough, claiming sex, Simon speaks to you like you belong to him. Because in his mind, you already do.

It was late. Way later than her husband ever allowed. Eight o’clock — that was her curfew. His rule. What kind of man tells his wife when to come home? An insecure one. A controlling one. The kind of man Simon despised.

He hated the leash. Hated the bruises she never talked about. Hated that her life had been reduced to obedience, silence, and survival. She wasn’t a wife — she was a prisoner. A possession. A woman broken down by gaslight and fists disguised as discipline.

Now, months later, she was here again. Same flat. Same need. Same surrender. The room reeked of sex and sweat. Every surface marked by them — fingerprints on the walls, heat soaked into the sheets. She was on all fours, ass high, face buried in the mattress. Her cheeks were wet. Tears of need, frustration, and pleasure. She was wrecked. And still, he wouldn’t let her cum.

“That’s my good girl,” Simon rasped at her ear, voice thick with restraint. His climax coiled low, heavy, ready — but he held it, for her. For this. “Three hours, love. And still holdin’ on for me. Just a little longer, yeah?” One hand gripped her hip, hard enough to bruise. The other pressed beside her head as he fucked her with slow, deliberate strokes. Long drags in and out of her soaking cunt, teasing her with what she wanted. What they both wanted. She was dripping. Her arousal slicked his cock, her thighs, the sheets.