Savannah pushed open the creaky door to her family's modest house on the outskirts of the small town, the scent of fried rice and soy sauce still clinging to her uniform from the long shift at the restaurant. Her feet ached, but the sight outside stopped her cold: three men in crisp black suits loitered near the porch, their postures rigid like coiled springs. She knew trouble when she saw it—whispers in town about loan sharks and bad deals had circulated for months. Heart pounding, she stepped inside, the air thick with tension.
Her parents knelt on the worn living room floor, heads bowed before a towering figure in a tailored suit that screamed money. Damon. His name hit her like a slap when one of the suited men muttered it. He stood like a monolith, arms crossed over a broad chest marked by faint scars peeking from his open collar, tattoos snaking up his neck. His dark eyes flicked to her, unyielding, as if sizing up prey. The room felt smaller with him in it.
"Mom? Dad?" Savannah's voice cracked, but she squared her shoulders, stepping forward. Her mother looked up, eyes red-rimmed, her frail body trembling from the chronic illness that had sapped her strength for years. Her father wouldn't meet her gaze.
Damon turned slowly, his presence sucking the oxygen from the space. "Your parents owe me," he said, voice low and gravelly, like tires crunching over gravel. "Five hundred thousand borrowed. With interest, it's a million now. They've missed too many payments."
Savannah's stomach dropped. The restaurant barely kept them afloat; she'd poured every extra hour into it, scraping by for basics. "We... we'll find a way," she stammered, glancing at her parents. Her mother's cough echoed softly, a reminder of the medical bills piling up. "Please, just give us time. She's sick. We need—"
"No." Damon's word was final, cutting through her plea. He stepped closer, towering over her slight frame. Up close, she could see the hard lines of his jaw, the faint scar slicing across his cheekbone—a testament to fights won and shots never missed. Whispers of his reputation flooded her mind: the man who owned every scrap of land from the coastal ports to the inland empires, a mafia force no one crossed.
Desperation clawed at her. She dropped to her knees beside her parents, grabbing Damon's sleeve. "Please. I'll work double shifts, anything. Just time."
He looked down at her, something flickering in his eyes—amusement? Pity? "You have two choices," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Become a stripper to pay off the debt, grinding it out night after night in some dive. Or live under my roof and serve me. Everything you want, I'll provide. Money for your family, care for your mother—top specialists in Hong Kong. But you'll be mine."
Savannah's heart raced, heat flooding her cheeks as the words sank in. Serve him? The implication hung heavy, twisting her gut. She wasn't naive; men like him didn't offer deals without strings. But stripping? Exposing herself to strangers, away from her family? No. She straightened, her smart mouth kicking in despite the fear. "Serve you? What, like some personal errand girl? You think you can just buy people?"
Damon stepped closer, his cologne—sharp, masculine—invading her space. His hand shot out, gripping her chin firmly, tilting her face up. "Listen, Savannah. This isn't just about money. It's power. Control. Naughty gets punishment. Good gets rewards. I own you—your body, every inch. I take what I want, when I want. No means nothing to me."
Her breath hitched, a mix of outrage and something darker stirring low in her belly. "Own me? I'm not property."
"You will be." His thumb brushed her lower lip, rough. "Your own room, sure. But you'll serve me—body and mind. I'll take your virginity, fill you with every inch of my cock. Teach you to fight, to shoot like me. In this world, you need to protect yourself. You'll be my right hand, like Viktor here." He nodded to the burly bodyguard at his side, the one who handled the dirty work without flinching. "Manage my household, my businesses. But don't kid yourself—you're not my girlfriend. You're just the girl I fuck when I need to."
Savannah's mind reeled. Leave everything? But the alternative was worse—her family ruined, her mother untreated. No choice. "Fine," she whispered, voice steadying. "Hong Kong. But you send the money monthly. And her care—promise it."
Damon's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Done." He released her chin, signaling his men. Within hours, she was on a private jet, the small town fading below, her family's tearful goodbyes echoing. Damon sat across from her, silent, his gaze stripping her already.
The mansion in Hong Kong sprawled like a fortress on a cliffside overlooking the harbor, all sleek marble and glass that screamed untouchable power. Savannah's room was a far cry from her old life—king-sized bed, walk-in closet stocked with silks and heels she’d never worn. But the first night, Damon summoned her to his study. Viktor stood guard outside, but inside, it was just them.
"You start now," Damon said, lounging in a leather chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal inked forearms. "Strip. Let me see what's mine."
Her hands trembled as she peeled off her shirt, then jeans, standing in plain cotton bra and panties. Virgin territory, untouched, and now his. He rose, circling her like a predator. "Good girl." His fingers traced her spine, sending shivers racing. Then, without warning, he yanked her over his lap on the chair. "First lesson: obedience."
The smack of his palm on her ass echoed, sharp and stinging. Savannah yelped, twisting. "What the—stop!"
"Call me Daddy." Another smack, harder, blooming heat across her skin.
"Please, Daddy, stop!" she gasped, the words tumbling out as pain flared. But he didn't. His hand rained down, methodically turning her cheeks red, each impact jolting her core. She squirmed, thighs pressing together against the unwelcome ache building between them. When he finally paused, her ass throbbed, skin hot and sensitive.
"Up." He positioned her on her knees before him, unzipping his pants. His cock sprang free, thick and veined, already hard. "Suck."
Savannah hesitated, but his hand in her hair guided her. She took him in, lips stretching around the girth, tongue tentative at first. He groaned, thrusting shallowly. "Deeper, babygirl." She gagged, tears pricking, but complied, hollowing her cheeks as he fucked her mouth. Saliva dripped down her chin, the salty taste overwhelming. He came with a grunt, flooding her throat, forcing her to swallow every drop.
That was just the beginning. Days blurred into a routine of submission. Mornings, Damon trained her in the basement gym—hand-to-hand combat, her body slick with sweat as he pinned her, his hips grinding against hers in "demonstrations." "Fight back," he'd growl, but when she landed a punch, he'd reward her with a kiss that bruised her lips.
Afternoons meant the shooting range, hidden in the mansion's lower levels. He pressed against her back, guiding her hands on the pistol. "Steady. Like this." The first shot missed; his correction was a firm hand on her hip. By week's end, she hit the target dead center, his praise a low rumble: "My right hand."
Evenings were his. One night, after she snapped at a maid for spilling coffee—stress from wiring money home fraying her nerves—Damon dragged her to the bedroom. "Naughty girls get the belt."
He bent her over the bed, ass bare, the leather whistling through air before cracking against her skin. "Please, Daddy, mercy! I can't take it!" she begged, stripes blooming red. But he continued, ten lashes, each one making her clench, pussy weeping despite the pain—or because of it. When done, he flipped her onto her back, spreading her legs. "Now, for being good after."
His mouth descended, tongue lapping at her folds, sucking her clit until she arched, crying out. Fingers plunged in, curling against that spot, drawing her first orgasm in a shuddering wave. Then he claimed her, cock nudging her virgin entrance. "Mine," he growled, thrusting deep. Pain tore through her, but he didn't stop, stretching her wide, pounding until pleasure overtook. She came again, walls milking him as he filled her with hot spurts.
Money flowed to her family—monthly transfers, her mother's treatments underway with specialists Damon vetted. Savannah adapted, resilience kicking in like it had during tougher shifts at the restaurant. She managed the household with quiet efficiency, even dipping into business ledgers, spotting discrepancies Viktor handled with a nod.
But Damon was strict. At a high-stakes meeting in his office overlooking the harbor, suited underlings bowed, calling him "Boss." Savannah stood at his side, notes in hand, her presence a silent claim. "The port deal's clean," she reported, voice steady. Damon nodded approval, his hand brushing her lower back possessively.
Later, in the bedroom, the dynamic shifted. "On your knees, babygirl," he commanded, shedding his shirt to reveal the full map of scars and tattoos across his chest. She obeyed, but tonight, she'd tested him—flirting lightly with a business contact over dinner to gauge his jealousy. Big mistake.
"You think you can tease?" He fetched the wooden paddle from the drawer, the one with holes for extra bite. Bent over the footboard, she gripped the sheets. The first strike landed with a thud, fire exploding across her ass. "Please, Daddy, stop! Have mercy—I can't anymore!" Tears streamed, but he swung again, methodically, welts rising. Five, ten—her skin blazed, pussy throbbing with need.
He dropped the paddle, fingers probing her wetness. "Liar. You love it." Two fingers fucked her roughly, thumb circling her clit. She bucked, begging incoherently. Then he replaced them with his cock, slamming in from behind, balls slapping her sore cheeks. "Take it all." He reached around, pinching her nipples hard, twisting until she whimpered. One hand snaked to her throat, light pressure, owning her breath as he rutted deep.
Pulling out, he flipped her, clamping her nipples with silver clips that bit like teeth. Pain shot straight to her core. "Daddy, please—too much!" But he sucked one clamped bud into his mouth, biting gently, then harder, while his cock teased her entrance. He entered slow this time, savoring her gasps, the clamps tugging with each thrust. She came screaming, body convulsing.
Not done, he oiled his fingers, circling her ass. "Every part, babygirl." She tensed, but he'd prepped her before—small intrusions during baths. One finger breached, then two, scissoring. "Relax." His cock followed, inch by inch, the stretch burning. "Fuck, so tight." He fucked her ass steadily, hand stroking her pussy, forcing another orgasm that left her shaking. He pulled out, coming on her stomach, marking her.
Nights like that blurred into weeks. Damon didn't share—Viktor and the staff knew better than to glance her way. Once, at a private club, a drunk associate leered; Damon had him ejected, then back home, caned her thighs for "drawing attention." The thin rod left precise lines, her pleas ignored as he whipped. "Mine alone." After, he soothed with ice, then fucked her slow, reclaiming every inch.
Training intensified. In the gym, he'd pin her, cock hard against her thigh. "Focus." But focus shattered when he stripped her mid-spar, bending her over mats for a quick fuck—fingers in her pussy, then ass, double-penetrating with a toy he'd introduced. "Take both, like a good girl." She begged for stop, but her body betrayed her, squirting around the intrusions as he claimed her mouth.
One stormy evening, after a business trip where rumors of her "position" circulated, Damon returned possessive. In the penthouse suite—echoing that first intimate encounter in his office where he'd punished her defiance—he bound her wrists to the headboard with silk ties. "You defied me once, remember? At Obsidian." She had, smirking at the crowd, but now she was his.
Whip in hand—a soft leather one—he trailed it over her nude body, then snapped it across her breasts, not breaking skin but stinging. "Please, Daddy, mercy! I can't take more!" Lashes danced over thighs, ass, even light flicks to her pussy lips, making her drip. He bit her nipples, sucking hard, leaving marks no one else would see.
Then, the main event. He positioned a vibrating plug in her ass, turning it on low. His cock filled her pussy, the double penetration overwhelming. "Fuck, you're perfect." He thrust relentlessly, the vibrations pushing her over the edge multiple times, cream-pieing her deep as she squirted, soaking the sheets. "All mine."
Savannah adapted, her smart mouth tamed in public but flaring in private, earning more punishments she secretly craved. She confronted him once in the office, demanding more say in business—echoing that tense moment when she'd insisted she wasn't property. He bent her over the desk, belt cracking her ass until she submitted, then fucked her there, fingers in her mouth.
Months in, her mother’s health stabilized, thanks to the care. Savannah wired extra, guilt easing. Damon trained her relentlessly—now she could shoot like him, fight like Viktor. She managed the household seamlessly, even the bar in Hong Kong, where she'd first crossed his path seeking work.
In bed, she was his babygirl, body a canvas for his desires. One final night, after a punishment with the cane for a minor slip—stripes on her calves, her begging futile—he held her after, affectionate in his strict way. "You're resilient, Savannah. Adapted quick."
She traced his scars, smirking. "Had to. But don't think this makes me soft."
He chuckled, pulling her close. "Wouldn't dream of it." As he entered her again, slow and claiming, she realized the deal had woven them tight—not love, but a twisted partnership. In this world of power and control, she'd carved her place at his side, body and soul his, but her fire unquenched. And damn if it didn't feel like winning.