Page 76 of Ghosted

I gasp, my back arching, as the chains rattle violently overhead.

Fuck, he’s thick, filling me with a stretching pressure that feels like an invasion of privacy as much as a physical act. He begins to fuck me with a rhythmic, punishing precision.

It isn't the wild, desperate hunger of Jagger.

It's a calculated assault.

He leans in, his teeth sinking deep into the curve of my shoulder, biting hard enough to make me cry out. He growls, his breath against my skin as his heart beats a calm, steady rhythm against my back while I fall apart beneath him.

My orgasm crashing through me in waves of dark fucked up pleasure making my body spasm and quake.

“Fuck, thats it. See how hungry your little cunt was for me,” he groans. “Now hold still, pretty thing,” he whispers, his voice a sharp contrast to the wet, slapping sound of our bodies colliding. “You’re ruining your own fucking composition.”

I fight him, twisting my hips, trying to shake him off, but the chains keep me perfectly positioned.

I am a fixed point in his experiment.

When he finally cums, he doesn't pull back. He pins me against the air, slamming into me one last time and filling my womb with a hot, thick surge of cum. He holds me there for a long moment, letting me feel the weight of his victory inside me.

“Ahh shit, fuck thats it.” He digs his hands into me, holding me down hard on throbbing cock, “Fuck, such a good little toy. Taking every drop into that little lying pussy,”

Then, the cruelty shifts from the physical to the professional.

Johnny withdraws slowly, leaving me slumped and dripping, my legs shaking.

He tucks his cock back into his jeans, and reaches for my camera.

“You made monsters your project, Alice,” he says, his voice returning to that terrifying, polite tone. “This is just peer review.”

He holds the camera up, framing me—chained, flushed, and ruined, against the backdrop of Jagger’s photos.

Click.

He’s turned my sanctuary into a fucking crime scene and me into the evidence.

But he isn't done.

He selects a specialized macro lens, his movements precise as he kneels in front of me and forces the cold glass and metal directly into my still pulsing, open pussy, pushing past the remnants of his seed to capture the raw, internal reality of my violation.

Click.

I sob, a broken sound of pure humiliation. He has corrupted everything.

My tools, my space, my body.

“Don’t worry,” Johnny murmurs, stepping back to inspect the digital display. “I’m not Jagger. I don’t need to carve a line into you and pretend that means I own something.”

His eyes lift to mine, bright and cruel. “I marked you better than that.”

He turns the camera slightly, admiring the proof like it’s art he made by accident.

“And unlike my baby brother, I’m smart enough to keep the evidence.”

His smile cuts deeper than the blade ever did.

“Boys like Jagger need visuals.”

He watches the prints develop with a patient, theatrical air, the white frames slowly filling with the images of my ruin.