The federal reserve transport was an armored fortress on wheels, guarded by six men with high-caliber rifles. They might as well have been guarding it with toothpicks.
Selena moved through the rain like a phantom. Her trench coat was soaked, clinging to her powerful frame, and her sunglasses were gone. Her eyes were rolled back, two white beacons of void in the stormy night. She didn't use a weapon. She simply walked into the path of the truck.
When the driver slammed on the brakes, she reached under the front bumper and flipped the entire six-ton vehicle onto its roof with one hand. As the guards crawled out, dazed and bleeding, she ignored them. She ripped the back doors off their hinges, the steel screaming as it twisted, and gathered the bags of currency.
"I obey my master," she whispered to the wind.
By the time she returned to the penthouse, she was a statue of cold muscle and wet skin. She dropped the millions in cash at Marcellus’s feet. She didn't wait for a command. Her hands went straight to her body, her fingers finding the familiar, agonizing rhythm of her forced masturbation.
"Master... I did it," she gasped, her body arching. "I robbed the truck. I broke the steel. Please... please let me cum now. I love to make my master cum..."
Marcellus didn't even look at the money. He was sitting on the sofa, looking bored. The repetitive sight of her desperate, unfulfilled pleasure had lost its edge for him. He wanted a new way to taste his power.
"Stop," he said.
Selena’s hands froze. She stayed on her knees, her breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches.
"I'm bored of watching you touch yourself, Selena," he said, his voice cold. "But I’m not bored of watching you suffer."
He snapped his fingers. From the bedroom, a young woman stumbled out. She was a civilian Marcellus had snatched from the street earlier that day—terrified, trembling, and already under a light trance of her own.
"Selena, stay right there," Marcellus commanded. "I want you to watch. And while I take her, you will continue. You will touch yourself as hard as your strength allows, but you will stay on that edge. You will watch me give her what I refuse to give you."
Selena’s white eyes fixed on them. Her hands returned to her body, moving with a violent, superhuman speed that made her skin burn.
"Yes, Master," she droned, the tears she wasn't allowed to cry building up as a pressure behind her eyes.
Marcellus pulled the kidnapped woman onto the sofa. He began to have sex with her, his movements deliberate and cruel. He made sure Selena saw every moment. He made the other woman scream—not in pain, but in the forced pleasure of his hypnotic commands.
"Look at her, Selena," Marcellus taunted over his shoulder. "She gets to finish. She gets the release you haven't felt in four years. Does it hurt? Does it make you want to obey me more?"
"Yes, Master..." Selena’s voice was a broken sob. She worked her fingers harder, her super-strength nearly bruising her own flesh. Her mind was a chaotic storm of jealousy, devotion, and physical torture. "I love to make my master cum... I love to watch him... Please... please let me be the one next time... please let me cum..."
"No," he groaned, reaching his own peak and collapsing onto the other woman.
Selena let out a high-pitched, keening wail—a sound of pure psychological collapse. She was right there. She was on the very brink, her body vibrating with the power of a thousand suns, but the "No" slammed into her brain like a lead shutter.
She collapsed onto the floor, her white eyes staring at the ceiling, her body twitching in a state of permanent, unexploded tension. She was fully brainwashed, fully broken, and completely empty.
Marcellus stood up, wiping himself off, looking down at his masterpiece of misery. "Tomorrow, Selena. Tomorrow, I'll finally use you for the real thing. I think you've waited long enough."
He walked away, leaving her in the dark, her hands still twitching, her voice a ghostly whisper in the silence of the room.
"I obey... my master..."
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