The years did not pass in days or months; they passed in bank vaults, armored trucks, and the rhythmic, agonizing pulse of unsatisfied desire.
By the third year, the "Real Selena" was a ghost haunting her own ribcage. The superhero who could leap buildings now lived entirely on her knees. The penthouse had become her universe, and Marcellus’s voice was the only law of physics that mattered.
Tonight, the routine was more brutal than usual. Selena lay on the cold marble floor of the living room, her body arching in the dim light. Her eyes were rolled so far back that her sockets looked like two smooth pearls of white marble.
Her hands were a blur of motion, obeying the standing order to work her own body, but the tears were flowing freely now. They tracked hot paths down her cheeks, dripping onto the floor.
"Please..." she sobbed, the word breaking through the drone of her mantra. "Master... it hurts. My body... it's so tight. Please, let me finish. Just once. Please let me cum."
Marcellus stood over her, looking down with the bored expression of a king watching an insect struggle. "You’re leaking, Selena. Heroes shouldn't cry. Stop the tears."
Her tear ducts slammed shut instantly, leaving her eyes burning and dry, though the emotional agony behind them only intensified.
"Look at what you’re working for," he commanded.
Marcellus unzipped his trousers, exposing himself right above her face. Selena’s head snapped up, her white eyes fixed on him. In that moment, the brainwashing reached a new, terrifying depth. To her starved, conditioned mind, he wasn't just a man—he was the source of all light, the only person who could grant her the relief she craved.
A wide, vacant smile broke across her face—a smile that didn't reach her empty eyes.
"Wow..." she whispered, her voice breathless and worshipful. "Master... your dick is beautiful. It’s so beautiful. Thank you for letting me see it."
"You want it?" he teased, his voice mocking.
"Yes, Master. I want to please you. I love to make my master cum," she chanted, her body trembling with the effort of her forced masturbation. "Please... if I make you happy, will you make me cum?"
"Open."
Her jaw dropped open with a soft click. She didn't hesitate. She leaned forward, her mouth finding him with a desperate, practiced hunger. She began to suck, her movements rhythmic and devoted, her super-strength tongue and throat working with a precision that was purely mechanical.
She worked for him, her hands still moving below, her mind a swirling vortex of "Master" and "Obey." She wasn't a person anymore; she was a circuit, closing the loop of his pleasure.
When he finally reached his peak, he didn't pull away. He groaned, his hands gripping her hair as he released onto her face. The hot, thick reality of it coated her cheeks, her forehead, and her chin.
Selena didn't move. She sat there, covered in him, her white eyes staring upward as if she had just been blessed. The last remnants of her will—the tiny spark of the girl from the orphanage—flickered and went out.
"I obey my master," she whispered through the mess on her face. "I am nothing. I am only yours."
Marcellus looked down at her, satisfied. She was finally fully broken. Her will was gone, replaced by a permanent, desperate need to serve.
"Clean yourself up," he said, turning away. "We have a big job tomorrow. A federal reserve transport. And Selena?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Don't touch yourself for the rest of the night. I want you focused."
"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master."
She sat on the floor, the "Master's" mark drying on her skin, her eyes still rolled back, perfectly content in her own destruction.
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