The Artist & The Muse

Elias was born rich, raised in a family swimming in cash. His father ran lumber mills, raking in big money, a hard man who cared about profit over everything. His mother was a whore, plain and simple, hosting fancy parties for rich men, fucking them in back rooms while her husband knew and didn’t give a damn. As long as she brought in connections and cash, he let her do what she wanted, and she kept him fed and happy. They lived in a huge house just outside a small town.

Elias was tall and lean, built like he could hold his own but didn’t need to prove it. His hair was dark brown, messy, falling just past his ears, the kind of rough look that said he didn’t care. His eyes were gray, sharp, like they could see through you, with a hardness that came from growing up too fast. His face was strong, high cheekbones, a jaw that cut, a faint scar on his left brow from some fight he didn’t talk about. His skin was pale but weathered, hands marked with paint stains and old cuts. He wasn’t bulky, but his arms showed muscle under rolled-up sleeves, and his chest was solid under tight shirts. He moved like he owned the room, quiet but heavy.

Elias grew up with everything, big rooms, more stuff than he needed. He didn’t care about toys or games. He drew instead, scratching out trees or animals on any scrap he found. When he was twelve, he found his mother getting fucked by a rich man. She was tied with a rope, wrists bound, red marks on her skin, her face twisted in something he couldn’t name. The man didn’t see him, but she did. Her eyes locked on Elias in the doorway, and she didn’t stop, just smirked at him, like it was a game. His dad wasn’t home, probably counting money at the mills. Elias didn’t say a word. He turned, went to his room, and drew what he saw, the ropes, the rawness of it.

A week later, he completed his painting. a woman tied up, body bent, eyes burning. He tried to hide it as much as he could, stuffing it under his bed, covering it with old sheets. But his father found out about it. His dad was pissed, yelled about how sick it was, burned it in the fireplace, and made Elias kneel on the stone till his knees bled, saying he’d beat it out of him. His mother saw it too but didn’t care. She just shrugged, like it was nothing, same as when he caught her. It didn’t stop him. It stuck with him.

At eighteen he took a pile of cash with him from the vault. The kind ofmoney most would kill for,and left. He got a big loft in the city, close enough to feel the town’s hate. He painted women in ropes, leather tight, chains pulling. It came from that night, and rich people loved it. Buyers threw cash at him for every piece. He didn’t need it, but he liked their want.

He painted bodies tied up in ropes, skin tight and sweaty, leather pressing hard, chains pulling arms and legs wide open. It was all about sex. Asses spanked red, chests breathing fast, eyes begging for it. Every painting showed nakedness ready to fuck or be fucked. Rich people loved it, throwing money at him, wanting it bad. Elias didn’t need the cash, but he liked how much they craved it.

The town hated him for it. They saw his art and called it filthy, said he was a rich pervert with no shame. At first, it was just talk, people talkinh sick or disgusting when his name came up. Then the threats started,notes shoved under his loft door, written with stop this shit or you’ll regret it. Elias didn’t give a damn. He pinned the notes on his wall like medals and kept painting, each piece dirtier than the last.

One night, he went all out. He hung a huge canvas in his loft window showing a naked girl. Thick ropes were tied super tight around her wrists and ankles, pulling her legs wide open so you could see her wet vulva clearly. Her back was bent way back, making her breasts stick out, with tight clamps pinching her nipples hard until they turned bright red. Sweat dripped down her body, mixing with hot wax poured on her breasts and stomach, running down to her bare vagina where a leather strap pressed hard against her clitoris, rubbing it raw.

Her face was wild, eyes huge and crazy, mouth wide open with spit drooling down her chin. She looked like she was moaning loud or screaming, totally lost in it.

The town lost their minds. A person showed up after dark, pissed off and loud, throwing rocks at his windows. Glass smashed everywhere, and they lit a cross on fire right outside his door, flames licking up the night. Elias just sat there as he smoked a cigarette, watching all of his work going down. He didn't tried to run. He kicked the broken glass aside, grabbed the burned wood for his next frame, and started painting again, harder, nastier, like he was daring them to come back and try more.

The next day, word spread fast. People talked about the smashed windows, the fire, how Elias didn’t even flinch. Some called him crazy, others said he was asking for it. He didn’t care. He took the broken glass and worked it into his art, sharp edges glinting around a guy this time, totally naked, with rough, thick ropes tied tight around his wrists and legs, pulling his body open and helpless. His manhood is huge, stiff as hell, sticking straight up, throbbing with veins popping out, dripping sticky fluid that slides down the shaft and pools on his tight balls. Sweat’s pouring off him, running down his chest, over his hard abs, and dripping off his skin like he’s been fucked hard for hours. His muscles are tense, flexing against the ropes, showing every bulge and line of his body.

His eyes are wild and fierce, staring right at you, like he’s daring you to keep looking at his raw, dirty state. His face is flushed red, lips parted, breathing heavy, with a hungry, almost angry look, like he’s ready to break free and fuck anything in sight. The ropes dig into his skin, leaving red marks, adding to the nasty, shameless vibe. The whole thing screams hardcore sex, power, and no limits, making you feel hot and uneasy just staring at it.

Rich buyers ate it up, calling it his best yet, throwing even more cash his way. The town’s hate just made his stuff sell faster.

He kept going, night after night, painting bodies fucked raw, skin marked, ropes tight enough to bruise. Each piece was a middle finger to the town, and he loved it. The threats kept coming, notes, calls, even a brick through his mailbox one time. Elias taped the notes up, kept the brick on his desk like a paperweight, and smirked. Let them try. He’d turn their anger into his next sale.

Clara was a 28 year old woman. She's the type of person who didn't gave a fuck about anything, atleast not the way the people of the town does. She grew up on the outskirts of the town. Her mother was a tailor, but with a tongue as sharp as a blade. Her father was a trucker, who's hooked up with his work and spends the most time in his work than being at home. Both of her parents passed away when clara was 18 years old in a car accident. All that left for clara was the old house she lives in and no money at all.

Clara is tall and slim, with a body that showed she could hold her own. Her body was lean but solid, shoulders straight, arms toned, her legs long and strong like she walked miles without breaking a sweat. Her skin was pale, smooth except for a few faint freckles across her nose. Her dark hair was thick, almost black, twisted into a messy braid that fell past her shoulder blades. Her green eyes were bright, like polished glass, big and sharp, catching light so they stood out in a crowd. Her face was pretty. a straight nose, soft cheeks with a natural pink blush that deepened when she smirked. Her lips were plump, looking soft and ready to kiss. Her breasts were medium sized, firm, sitting high on her chest, round and full enough to fill a hand, nipples poking through when she skipped a bra. Her waist was narrow. Her ass was round and soft, a perfect curve that bounced a little when she moved, tight in worn jeans that hugged every inch, turning heads whether she wanted it or not. A short cotton dress, tight around her hips, flaring out at the thighs, catching eyes whether she liked it or not. She had a tattoo,a thin line of thorns, wrapping around her left forearm, black ink. Her hands were slender but rough, nails short and unpainted.

“Click here to see how Clara looks like

”

She worked at a bar, two towns over, where she served drinks for a cheap salary that couldn’t even get her through a day. The bar named Sanuu's Tavern, was a rough place, dim lights hanging low, a jukebox in the corner playing loud music, tables scratched up from years of use. The air smelled like beer and smoke, and the floor stuck to your shoes. She poured drinks, mostly beer and whiskey, for truckers in old jackets and guys from the area, their hands sometimes grabbing for more than just the glass. The money was bad, just a few bucks an hour plus whatever tips they tossed her, but it gave her days free for what she really cared about.

Clara wasn’t into anything wild yet. She spent her free time kicking back, letting her mind drift wherever it wanted, usually nowhere special. Her life was the same every day. work the bar, dodge the drunks, go home, start over. Nothing had ever really grabbed her attention enough to change that.

One night, after a long shift, she got a ride back toward town with a quiet guy from the bar who kept to himself. He dropped her off near the main road, and she started walking home under a dark sky full of stars. The air was cool. Passing through the edge of town, she saw a small bunch of people outside a tall, old loft building she’d walked by before but never stopped to look at. They were loud, sounding angry, all staring up at a big window with light coming from inside.

Clara slowed down and walked closer. She looked up to see what they were yelling about. In the window was that big painting, the woman, naked, tied up with ropes, legs spread wide. Her body was bent back, chest out, sweat and wax on her skin. Her face looked alive, eyes big and wild, mouth open like she was yelling or moaning, maybe both. The ropes held her tight, but she didn’t look weak. She looked strong, like she wanted to be there.

Clara’s stomach flipped. She stopped breathing for a second, and her hands clenched in her pockets. She had never seen anything like it before, not at the bar, not anywhere around town. Her face got warm, and her heart started beating fast. It wasn’t just the naked part, it was how the woman looked so powerful, even all tied up. Clara didn’t know what to call it, but it made her feel something new, something exciting.

Take it down!!!!! - a guy shouted from the crowd.

It’s sick!!!!! - a woman yelled.

Clara didn’t care what they said. She kept looking at the painting, her mind racing. Who made it? Why did it hit her like this? She’d never thought about ropes or anything like that before, but now she couldn’t shake it.

The crowd got louder, and some started throwing rocks and a bottle. Glass broke on the ground, and a few people cheered. Clara stepped back, not scared, just done with them. She turned and walked home, the cool air brushing her hot face. That painting stayed in her head the whole way, she couldn’t stop seeing it. She didn’t know who did it, but she wanted to. It wasn’t just some picture, it was strong, and it made her feel something deep.

When she got home, she kicked off her boots and dropped on to her bed, still in her jacket. The room was dark, just a bit of moonlight coming in. She lay there, thinking about that painting, the woman tied up tight, ropes digging in, pussy wet and open, eyes wild with heat. It made her feel warm and hot down there, her panties getting wet without even trying. She didn’t hurry. She pulled her dress up slow, letting it feel around her hips, and slid her hand down her belly, feeling her skin shiver. Her fingers slipped under her panties, brushing her pussy lips, soft and wet already. She pushed one finger inside her pussy, nice and easy, feeling how hot and wet she was, sliding it in and out real slow. Her other hand moved up, under her shirt open, feeling her left tit gently, slowly rubbing her Nipple with 2 fingers till it got hard. She moaned, picturing the ropes, the sweat, those crazy eyes, letting the heat grow slow.

Then she added another finger, stretching her pussy a little, moving deeper, still taking her time. Her hips moved a bit, matching her rhythm, and she pinched her nipple harder, making it sting just right. She started rubbing her upper walls of her pussy while the fingers was still inside. The tingling turned into a heat, pure horniness, she couldn’t hold back anymore. She started fingering herself faster, slamming her fingers in deep, hard, her wet cunt making sloppy sounds. Her free left grabbed her tit rough, twisting her nipple till it hurt good, while her right hand is fucking her pussy, and she moaned loud, seeing the painting in her head, driving her wild.

Her pussy clenched tight, and she went even harder, fucking herself with her fingers, clit throbbing like crazy. She came fast and hard, yelling out, her cunt soaking her hand with hot cum. Breathing heavy, she pulled her fingers out, dripping wet, and brought them to her mouth. She licked them slow, tasting her thick cum, sucking it off like it was the best thing ever. She lay back, panting, one hand still wet, the other on her sore tit, the painting stuck in her mind, making her want to touch herself again.

After that intense play, Clara drifted off to sleep, her body heavy and her mind still swirling with images of the painting, the woman, the ropes, the raw energy of it all. She didn’t understand why it hit her so hard, but as her breathing slowed and her hands relaxed, she slipped into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

Clara woke up the next morning with that painting still stuck in her head. She rolled out of bed, her jacket tangled around her from falling asleep in it. The room was quiet, just a little sunlight peeking through the blinds. She didn’t waste time thinking too much, she wanted to see that painting again, up close, to figure out why it hit her so hard.

She got up, pulled off her jacket, and peeled off her sweaty clothes from yesterday night, tossing them. Her skin felt sticky, thinking from the memory of what she’d done thinking about that painting. She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water started cold, then turned hot, steam filling the tiny room fast. She stepped in, and the heat hit her hard, pouring over her shoulders, running down her chest and legs. She grabbed the soap and rubbed it over her body, her hands sliding slow across her breasts, feeling her nipples harden under the touch.

The painting flashed in her mind once again. Clara’s breath got shaky, and her hand slipped lower, brushing between her thighs where she was still sensitive from last night. The water pounded her back as she pressed her fingers there for a second, heat flaring up quick. She bit her lip, rinsed the soap off, and let the water wash away the heat, but it didn’t kill the want.

She stepped out, grabbed a towel, and dried off fast, her skin pink and warm. She changed into fresh jeans, a black tank top, and her boots. She headed out into the cool morning air. The town was still waking up, streets empty except for a stray dog sniffing around.

Clara hurried back to the tall, old building, her boots tapping the sidewalk with every step.

When she reached the building, she stopped and looked up. The window was broken. The painting was gone. Instead, she saw bits of burned canvas scattered on the ground below. Clara bent down and picked up a small piece. She could still see part of the ropes from the painting. Her heart sank. She guessed the angry crowd from last night must have destroyed it.

She stood there for a minute, holding the burned scrap, feeling a mix of sad and curious. The painting was gone, but it still had a hold on her. She shoved the piece into her pocket and shook her head. She couldn’t stay, she had a shift to get to. Turning away, she walked off toward Sanuu’s Tavern.

When she got to the bar, it was the same old scene dim lights, sticky floors, and the jukebox playing loud tunes. She tied an apron around her waist and started pouring drinks for the early crowd and regulars who showed up before noon. Her hands moved fast, sliding beers and shots across the counter, but her mind was somewhere else. Every time she wiped a glass or dodged a guy’s grabby hand, she saw those ropes in her head, tight and twisted, pulling at her thoughts.

The day dragged on. She worked hard, but the painting wouldn’t leave her alone. Between orders, she’d lean on the bar, staring at nothing, wondering who made it.

She didn’t talk about it, nobody at Sanuu’s would get it anyway. But she kept that burned piece in her pocket, feeling it crinkle every time she moved. It was like a secret she wasn’t ready to let go of.

Months went by since Clara saw that painting get burned. She still worked at Sanuu’s Tavern, pouring drinks and dodging hands, but her mind stayed on that image. The burned scrap she’d picked up was still in her pocket, worn and faded, but she couldn’t let it go. It was like a clue to something she didn’t understand yet.

One evening, after a slow shift, Clara was walking home when she passed the big house on the edge of town. It belonged to Mr. Ramsay, a rich guy who owned half the lumber yards around. He threw fancy parties sometimes, and tonight, lights glowed through the windows, cars lined up outside. Clara usually ignored it, but something made her stop. Through the open front door, she saw people in suits and dresses, laughing and drinking. And then she spotted it, a painting on the wall in the hallway.

The painting showed a woman and a man, raw and nasty. She was naked, tied up tight with thick, scratchy ropes cutting into her wrists and ankles, leaving red marks. She was strung up on her knees, legs grabbed wide apart so her dripping pussy was fully exposed, juices running down her thighs, making a wet, sloppy mess on the floor. The guy stood over her, big and shirtless, his fist tangled in her hair, grabbing her head back so hard her neck stretched out, throat bare and vulnerable like he owned her.

Her tits were strapped down with tight leather bands, stuck together together, making them bulge out, her nipples clamped so hard they were swollen, red, and sore, sticking up like they were begging for more pain. Her cunt was soaked, glistening in the light, lips puffy and spread open, dripping like she couldn’t stop getting turned on. Her eyes were crazy, wide and wild, half terrified, half so fucking horny she looked like she would cum just from being stared at.

The guy towered behind her, muscles flexing, a long whip dangling from his hand, the tip brushing the ground. Her ass was already striped with angry red welts from where he had smacked her hard, skin bruised and raw. He looked ready to hit her again, his grip on her hair tightening, his face looked dark with control. She was caught, wrecked and loving it. Her body shaking, ready to take whatever nasty shit he would dish out next, like she was made for it.

Clara’s heart slammed in her chest. She froze, staring at it through the door. That painting hit her like a truck, same raw vibe as the one that got burned months ago. The ropes, the whip, the way the chick looked all messed up and into it, it lit something up inside her, same as before. She couldn’t walk away. She edged closer to the gate, keeping out of sight, trying to hear what the fancy people were saying.

A man in a suit walked by it, pointing.

That’s an Elias piece!!! - he said.

Costed me a fortune!! - He continued.

Clara’s ears stood up.

Elias?

Was that the guy who made it?

She didn’t know for sure if it was the same artist from that night, but her gut said yeah. Rich assholes like Ramsay were buying this stuff, so this Elias had to be big.

She headed home, legs shaky, that painting burned into her brain. When she got there, she flopped on her bed, still seeing the ropes and the man's whip. That name, Elias, kept bouncing around her head. She pulled the burned scrap from her pocket, the one she had kept all these months, and stared at it. If this was the same guy, he was out there somewhere, making shit that got under her skin.

Next day at the bar, Clara started digging.

“You ever hear of an artist named Elias?“ she asked a regular, pouring his beer. He shrugged.

“Maybe. Some rich fuckers buy freaky art like that.”

She kept asking, guys at the bar, the lady at the store, anyone who would listen.

One trucker said, “Yeah, heard that name. Sells to big shots in the city. Costs a ton.”

Clara didn’t know he was still in that loft, just a few streets away, painting away in that building. She’d walk by it sometimes after work, staring up at the broken window where the first painting got torched. It looked empty, dark, no lights, no sign of anyone. She figured he’d moved on, maybe to the city where rich folks could buy more.

But after hearing that trucker, something clicked. What if he was still here? She couldn’t shake the idea. That night, after her shift, she walked by the loft again. The broken window stared down at her, black and quiet. She stood there, hands in her pockets, the burned scrap crinkling against her fingers. She’d been wondering too long, time to find out

She walked up to the front door. She knocked hard instead, three sharp bangs. No answer. She waited, shifting her weight, then knocked again, louder. Still nothing. She grabbed the handle and gave it a try, just to see. It got open, unlocked, swinging wide like it didn’t care who came in.

Clara hesitated, then stepped inside. The air smelled like paint and dust, heavy and sharp. A skinny staircase led up into the shadows. She climbed it slow, her boots thumping on the steps, heart beating fast. At the top, she saw a big room, messy, full of canvases leaning everywhere. A lamp glowed in the corner, and there was a guy, tall and thin, bent over a table, painting something. His dark brown hair was all over the place, his shirt covered in paint stains.

The guy didn’t look up right away. His hand moved fast, dragging the brush across the canvas, leaving streaks of red and black. Clara stood there, her breath caught in her throat, watching him work. The room was a mess. Paiint cans stacked in the corners, brushes scattered, torn sketches pinned to the walls. The air felt thick, like it was holding secrets she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she couldn’t walk away from it.

He was the elias she was looking for. And now she watched him paint fast, slashing red and black across the canvas. He wasn’t going for pretty, it was raw,it was real. A woman took shape under his brush, tied to a chair, her face twisted in sick pleasure.

Clara’s stomach tightened, hands clenching. She’d seen his work before, outside this loft,

but this was different. Up close, it wasn’t just wild. It was alive.

The woman on the canvas was naked, strapped to a wooden chair with ropes around her wrists and ankles, tight, holding her still. Her tits were the focus, big and round, pierced with long thin needles stabbed deep into her nipples. Blood trickled down her chest, little red streams mixing with sweat, her nipples swollen and red, sticking out hard like she loved it. Her cunt was bare, wet as fuck, dripping pussy juice onto the chair, legs spread just enough to show how turned on she was. Her head was tilted back, mouth open, spit hanging from her lips, eyes half shut and crazy with lust, like the pain was getting her off.

“Fuck,” Clara muttered

Her cunt throbbing in her jeans, the needle stuff is making her wet. Her pussy was leaking down her leg already.

Clara’s breath hitched, her jeans soaked through, a wet patch growing where her pussy wouldn’t stop leaking. She shifted, trying to hide it, but her tits ached under her shirt, nipples hard as fuck, pressing against the fabric. The sight of those needles, the blood, the way the woman looked like she loved it, it was driving her crazy. Her cunt pulsed, begging for something…. anything, but she just stood there, fists clenched, watching.

Elias didn’t look at her, too focused on his work. He added more red, making the blood look fresh, dripping down the woman’s tits in thick streaks.

“She’s alive, huh?” he said, voice rough, not turning around. “You see it too.”

“Yeah” Clara said, voice shaky but loud.

“You’re still here” he said, voice rough, wiping paint on his shirt.

He leaned back against the table “That wetness between your legs, does it feel good? ”

She didn’t answer, just stared at the canvas . she kept quiet, lips pressed tight. He tilted his head, smiling slightly.

”Guess you don’t wanna say. Fair enough ” Elias said.

Clara stayed still a moment, eyes glued to the painting. but too turned on to leave fast. she didn't knew what to do.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know this place, and that question hit too close. Without a word, she turned, and walked out fast, boots thumping down the stairs. But she didn’t look back. She needed air, needed to think, even if she couldn’t shake the painting, or him, out of her head.

Clara walked home in the dark, her boots kicking dirt, her head full of that painting. She got to her house, and pushed the door open. She locked it, hands shaking, and leaned on the wall, breathing fast. Her pussy was wet, aching bad, soaking her jeans so much it dripped down her legs. That woman in the painting, tied to a chair, needles in her tits, blood running, loving it, stuck in her mind.

She stood there a minute, back against the wall, staring at nothing. Her heart beating hard, her tits tingling under her shirt, nipples stiffening against the rough fabric. She wanted it out of her head, but she couldn’t shake it. Instead, it pulled her deeper, making her pussy throb harder. She took a slow step, then another, kicking off her boots one at a time. she walked to her room, each step heavy. She pushed open her bedroom door, and stood there, looking at her messy bed, sheets tangled, pillow flat.

Her pussy pulsed, begging, but her mind wasn’t sure. She wanted to feel it, what that woman felt. But it scared her too.

Her hands moved, slow and unsure, to her shirt. She grabbed the edge of her shirt, lifting it up bit by bit, feeling the cool air hit her belly, then her ribs. Her tits spilled out, nice and soft. Her nipples were hard, sticking out like they knew what was coming. She dropped the shirt on the floor, her breath changing its pace, and stood there, topless, feeling exposed. Her jeans clung to her legs, wet between her thighs.

She turned to her nightstand, an old wooden thingz with scratches all over it, and opened the top drawer. Inside was her mom’s old sewing box. She lifted the lid, and saw the pins, small, sharp, glinting in the low light. Her fingers hovered over them, hesitating. Her pussy throbbed, wet and hot, but her stomach twisted too.

“Fuck” she whispered.

Voice shaky, barely audible. She picked up one pin, holding it between her thumb and finger, the point sharp against her skin. She stared at it, her heart pounding loud in her ears.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under her. Her legs spread a little, jeans tight against her wet pussy. She held the pin over her left tit, right above her nipple, and stopped. Her hand shook, the pin trembling in the air. She wanted it, wanted that sting, but it felt big, too big. She swallowed hard, her throat dry, and lowered it slow, the tip brushing her nipple. It was cold, sharp, making her flinch.

“Come on” she muttered to herself, voice low, unsure.

She pressed it just a little, feeling the tiny prick against her skin, but then her hand froze. Her breath caught, her chest tightening up. She couldn’t do it. It was too much, too scary. Her pussy was still wet, throbbing hard, but her mind screamed at her to stop. The pin slipped from her fingers, falling onto the bed with a soft tap. She stared at her tit, no blood, just a faint pink mark where it touched. Her hands fell to her sides, shaky and cold, and she sat there, heart racing, feeling lost.

She stayed still for a long time, breathing fast, her pussy aching but ignored. The sewing box sat open, pins shining. She grabbed her shirt off the floor, slow, and pulled it back over her head, the fabric rough against her hard nipples. She lay down on the bed, curling up on her side, the wet spot in her jeans cold now against her legs. That painting, the woman, Elias, it all swirled in her head, but she was too unsure, too freaked out to keep going. She shut her eyes, trying to forget, but it clung to her, heavy and loud, even as she lay quiet as she closed her eyes.

She opened her eyes, started staring at the dark wall. The room was quiet, just her breathing. That woman in the painting kept coming back, tied to the chair, needles in her tits, blood dripping, her face all twisted with sick joy. Clara’s stomach flipped, half horny, half sick. She could still see Elias too, his hands moving fast over the canvas, his voice rough, asking if it felt good. It did. Fuck, it did. But it scared her shitless too.

Clara’s eyes shut all the way, her face slack, lips parted a little. Her pussy still throbbed, faint, but sleep took over, pulling her down. The painting, Elias, the fear, the horny rush, it all slipped away, heavy and loud no more, just a shadow in her head as she drifted off.

Clara woke up slowly, her eyes opening to the dim gray light slipping through her dirty window. The bed was a mess, sheets twisted around her legs, pillow half off the edge. She lay there, curled up, her jeans still on, stiff and cold from drying sweat. Her shirt was wrinkled, bunched up under her arms, sticking to her skin. Her heart beat steady, but her head felt foggy, heavy with last night.

She sat up, the mattress creaking under her. Her boots were on the floor where she had kicked them off, one tipped over. She rubbed her face, hands cold, trying to shake the sleep off. Her mind went back to Elias, his loft, the way he’d asked if it felt good. Watching that painting, feeling her body react, but it scared her too. She didn’t know what to do with that, didn’t know why it wouldn’t leave her alone.

She stood up, legs shaky, and peeled off her jeans, the fabric rough against her skin. Her shirt came next, dropping to the floor. She grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom, the tiles cold under her feet. The shower splashed, water barely warm, but she stood under it, letting it wake her up. She washed slow, soap sliding over her arms, her chest, her legs, trying to scrub away the night .

She got out, dried off, and pulled on clean jeans and a soft shirt from her drawer. The day stretched ahead. Work at the tavern, same old shit, but her mind wasn’t on it. She tied her boots, grabbed her jacket, and walked out, the morning air sharp against her face. The walk to Sanuu’s Tavern was short.

The bar was loud when she got there, guys shouting, glasses clinking, smoke thick in the air. Clara slid behind the counter, pouring beer, wiping spills, nodding at the regulars. She kept her hands busy, her face blank, but her thoughts wandered.

A guy with a scruffy beard leaned over, tapping the bar.

“Hey, Clara, you hear about that artist? Elias?”

Her stomach flipped, but she kept her voice flat.

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Heard he’s still around, holed up in that loft. People say he’s nuts, paints all day, doesn’t talk to nobody.”

Clara nodded, pouring his beer slow.

“Yeah, I know the place.”

The guy leaned in, breath stinking of alcohol.

“You seen his stuff? It’s wild, naked chicks, tied up, all that. Rich folks pay big for it.”

She shrugged, acting like it didn’t matter.

“I’ve seen it.”

He laughed, loud and rough.

“Bet it scares you, huh? All that blood and shit.”

Clara didn’t answer, just turned to grab a rag, wiping the counter harder than she needed to. He didn’t know anything, didn’t know she had been there, seen it, felt it stick to her. The day dragged on, customers coming and going, but her head stayed in that loft, with Elias and his canvases.

When her shift ended, the sun was low, sky turning orange. She didn’t head straight home. Her feet moved slow, taking her toward the loft without deciding it all the way. She stopped halfway, staring down the street, the broken window dark in the distance. She could go back, knock again, see him. Her heart beat fast, her hands clenching in her pockets. She wanted to know more, to understand why it pulled at her, but part of her wanted to run, hide from it.

She turned away, took a few steps toward home, then stopped again.

“Fuck this,” she muttered, low, her breath puffing in the cool air.

She couldn’t keep dodging it, thinking about it, then pretending she didn’t. She turned back, walking faster now, heading for the loft. She had to face it, even if she didn’t know what she would say.

When she got there, the door was still unlocked, swinging open easy. She climbed the stairs, her boots loud on the wood, her heart pounding in her throat. At the top, the room was the same, messy, full of canvases, the lamp glowing in the corner. Elias was there, bent over a table, painting something new. He didn’t look up, just kept working, his hand moving steady.

Clara stood there, quiet, her hands in her pockets, watching him. Her breath was shallow, her stomach twisting, but she didn’t leave. After a minute, Elias turned, his gray eyes sharp on her.

“Back again!” he said, voice rough but calm.

“Thought you’d run for good.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “I….. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

He nodded, wiping paint on his shirt. “The painting?”

“Yeah” she said, voice shaky.

“And… what you said.”

He smirked, just a little. “About your wet pussy?”

Her face burned, but she didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

He set his brush down, slow, and leaned back against the table, crossing his arms.

“So, what do you want? To talk? To watch? Or something else?”

Clara shifted, her boots scuffing the floor, her hands clenching tighter in her pockets. She didn’t know how to say it, didn’t know how to make it make sense. Her heart was still pounding, her head full of that painting. It wasn’t just that it stuck with her, it was why it hit her so hard, why it woke something up she didn’t even know was there.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said, voice low, rough.

“I just… I need to know why I’m feeling this. All of a sudden, it’s like I can’t turn it off.”

Elias tilted his head, his smirk fading, his eyes steady on her. “Feeling what, exactly?”

She took a breath, slow, her chest tight.

“Like… I’m scared, but I’m pulled to it. Those paintings, the ropes, the needle stuffs, the way they looked, it messed me up. I’ve never been like this before, never thought about shit like that. Now it’s all I see, and I don’t get why.”

He nodded, slow, like he had heard it before but wasn’t bored.

“You’re saying it’s new?”

“Yeah,” she said, louder now, her hands coming out of her pockets, fidgeting.

“I’ve seen messed up stuff before, working at the bar, hearing guys talk. Never cared. Then I saw your painting, and it’s like something flipped. I’m freaked out, but I keep coming back. Why’s that happening now?”

Elias uncrossed his arms, resting his hands on the table behind him, calm as ever.

“Could be a lot of things.” he said, voice steady.

“Maybe you’ve always had it in you, buried deep, and this just dug it up. Or maybe it’s timing, something in your life’s shifting, and this hit at the right moment. You ever feel stuck, like you’re just going through the same shit every day?”

Clara frowned, thinking. “Yeah. Work, home, same old crap. Nothing changes.”

He shrugged. “That might be it, then. Something like this. raw, different, it shakes you out of that. Wakes you up. Doesn’t mean you’re crazy or broken. Just means you’re noticing.”

She stared at him, her hands still now, hanging by her sides. “Noticing what?”

“What you’re drawn to” he said, simple.

“Pain, control, whatever it is in that painting, it’s not the whole picture. It’s just a piece. Could be about feeling something real, something big, when everything else is not so bright..”

Clara’s throat tightened, her mind spinning. “So… it’s not weird? To feel this way?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head.

“Weird’s what everyone else calls it cause they don’t get it. Buyers come in, sure, drop cash and leave with a painting. But you’re the first one, besides them, to walk in here and actually feel it. But youre different.”

Clara blinked, her hands putting it back in her pockets, her stomach doing a little twist. “The first?”

she asked, voice shaky, not sure she heard right.

“Yeah” Elias said, nodding slow, his gray eyes locked on her.

“Rich people buy it, hang it up to look better and to show off, but they don’t feel it. You’re different, you’re the first one who’s not just passing through. You came back cause it got to you.”

She shifted, her boots scraping the floor, her throat feeling tight.

“Different how?”

He smiled, easy, resting his hands on the table behind him.

“You’re not scared off. That painting, the ropes, the pain, the needles, the blood, most would freak and bolt. Buyers don’t care, they just want to buy this to show off as i said before. But you? You’re here, asking why it’s struck you. That’s new.”

Clara’s chest squeezed, her breath catching.

“I don’t even know why I like it” she said, voice low, rough.

“That’s what’s screwing with me. It’s sudden, never felt this before. I’ve never thought about shit like that, and now it’s all I can see.”

Elias tilted his head, his smirk gone, eyes steady.

“Sudden can happen,” he said, calm.

“You’re living your life, same old routine, then something slams into you, wakes you up. That painting did it for you.”

She frowned, her hands slipping out of her pockets, twisting together.

“But why me? Why now? As i said before, ive seen nasty stuff, bar fights, blood, drunks being pigs. Never hit me like this. What’s different?”

He nodded, slow, like he was thinking it as if he was in her shoe.

“Maybe it’s not just nasty. It’s deeper, real, raw. Not some sloppy fight. Those women in the paintings, the way she owned it, that’s not chaos, it’s something else. Could be it’s touching a part of you that’s been quiet till now.”

Clara stared at him, her fingers stilling. “A part of me?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice even.

She looked down at her boots, then back up, her hands relaxing.

“It scared me too. Last night, I tried, with pins, like her, but I couldn’t do it. Got too freaked out.”

Elias’s smirk faded, his eyes softening a little.

“That’s fine. Liking it doesn’t mean you’re ready to jump in. Takes time to let it sink in, figure out what it’s stirring up.”

Clara swallowed, her stomach easing a bit.

“What do I do then? Just… wait it out?”

“You can wait” he said, shrugging.

“Or you can poke at it, look more, talk more. You’re the first one to come back like this, not just buying and running. I’ll help you dig into it if you want. No hurry.”

She glanced around the room, at the canvases leaning against the walls, the paint cans stacked messy in the corners.

“Help me how?”

He waved a hand at the mess around them.

“Stick around, look at what I do. Ask stuff. I paint what’s real to me, people, feelings, hard shit. You tell me what you see, maybe you’ll find the answer to your why.”

Clara’s eyes drifted to a canvas nearby, still covered.

“Can I… see some more? Just to look?”

“Yeah” he said, stepping back.

“Go for it.”

She walked slow to the stack, pulling the cloth off careful. It showed a woman sitting, hands in her lap, a rope loose around her wrists, no blood, no needles, nothing extreme, just quiet strength. Clara stared, her heart steady, calm now. It pulled at her, gentle but deep. She moved to another, lifting the cloth slow. This one was different, a woman standing tall, legs spread wide, a whip grabbed tight in her grip, her face sharp and steady, eyes burning with control. Her tits pushed against a thin black shirt, nipples hard, poking through like she didn’t care who saw. A man knelt at her feet, head bowed low, his bare back glistening with sweat, hands tied loose behind him with a thick cord, wrists red where it rubbed. She wasn’t soft, she fucking owned him, power rolling off her like a slow, hot wave. His cock strained against his pants, a bulge begging under her shadow, and her lips curled, smug, like she knew he would crawl for her. It felt solid, not scary, but so damn strong, Clara’s breath caught, her own skin prickling.

She turned to Elias, voice low. “These are not as extreme as i have seen before.”

“Nope” he said, watching her, leaning against his table.

“Not all of it’s about getting hurt. Some is about who’s holding the reins, who’s giving in, doesn’t matter who’s standing or kneeling.”

Clara nodded, slow, her hands loose by her sides. “I see it. That woman… she’s not weak. She’s got it.”

“Yeah” he said, calm.

“Power’s not just one way. It flips, shifts, whatever works. You don’t have to pick a side to feel it.”

She took a deep breath, her chest easing up.

“I don’t know what I feel yet.” she said, honest.

“Just want to know why it’s hitting me now.”

Elias shrugged, casual.

“Keep coming back, you’ll sort it. I’ll be here, painting. Ask what you need.”

Clara’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Thanks. For not thinking I’m messed up.”

“You’re not messed up” he said.

She nodded, hands sliding into her pockets.

“Can I come back? Look, talk?”

“Door’s open.” he said, turning to his table.

He grabbed his brush, then picked up a leather strap from the clutter, dark, worn, the kind that could bind or snap. He flipped it once in his hand, eyes cutting to her quick.

“Might need someone real to show how it moves someday. We’ll see.”

Clara’s breath got caught, her gaze catching on the strap before he set it down, casual, like it was nothing. Her stomach twisted, sharp but not bad, a flash of that woman with the whip, then herself, tangled in something she couldn’t name. He didn’t say more, just started painting, black slashing the canvas. She stood there, quiet, the air thick with paint and something unspoken.

She turned, slow, and walked down the stairs, her boots soft on the wood. Outside, the air was cool, the sky dark. She headed home, steps light, her head buzzing but clearer. She didn’t have it figured out, but she felt steadier, pulled to keep going. That strap, his quick look, it stuck, a whisper of something waiting. She’d come back, look more, ask more. Whatever it was, she’d chase it down.

Clara didn’t wait long to go back. Three days after their last talk. She started walking towards Elias’s loft. Her brain was a mess. His rough voice, that leather strip spinning in his hand, the way it wouldn’t leave her alone. She couldn’t drop it, didn’t want to. The sky was dark, packed with clouds, like it knew she was walking into something big.

The loft looked as same as ever. Her steps banged on the skinny stairs, heart thumping like it wanted to bust out. Up top, Elias was bent over a table close to the broken window while sipping a cup of coffee. Steam curled up from the mug, mixing with the cold draft sneaking through the jagged glass. His shirt hung loose, stained with old paint, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The table was a mess, scattered papers, a chipped knife, a half empty bottle of whiskey next to a pile of sketches. He didn’t look up when her boots hit the floor, just took another slow sip.

“You’re early,” he said, voice like gravel, eyes still on the table.

Clara stood there, hands jammed in her jacket, the cool breeze from the gap biting her skin.

“Didn’t feel like waiting” she said, short and rough.

He leaned back, hand on the table.

“Sit” he said, pointing at a shaky chair nearby.

She stopped, then sat, the chair creaking under her. He poured her a cup of coffee.

“Have some coffee.” He said.

Clara looked at it, then took it, pouring a little in her mouth. It burned, rough and bad. She wiped her lips on her sleeve.

“Why do you do this stuff?” she asked, nodding at the messy loft.

“These kinds of paintings. Why?”

Elias gripped his mug tight.

“It’s what I know” he said, voice low and sharp like a rusty knife.

“My old man ran those mills, cared about cash more than anything, fuck the rest, didn’t give a damn.”

“My Mother, though, she was a wild bitch. Spread her legs, played dirty, let rich pricks tie her up tight for whatever she could squeeze out of em. Caught her once, bent over, ropes slicing her wrists, some sweaty bastard pinning her, cock buried deep, slamming her hard. She saw me standing there, grinned wide, tits bouncing, eyes blazing like she got off on every nasty second. Didn’t blink, didn’t care. That shit stamped into my head. Lit the first spark for all this.”

Clara’s mind twisted, that nasty image of Elias’s mother slamming into her brain. She gripped the coffee mug, the burn still stinging her tongue.

“So that started you?” she said, voice scratched and low.

Elias took a slow sip, steam curling up around his nose.

“Damn right” he said.

“Your stuff hits deep, shakes me up. But it’s strong, too strong.” Clara said, in a muffled voice.

Elias grinned, small and sharp.

“Strong’s the point, Clara. Hits you where you feel it.”

She exhaled, setting the mug down with a thud.

“Guess so. But this… it’s got a hold. Makes me feel awake, not just stumbling through. Don’t know why it’s grabbing me now, though.”

He leaned back, boots hitting the floor. “Life’s tricky. You’re going along, half asleep, then something breaks through. Maybe you’re ready, been dull too long. Or maybe I just put it in front of you.”

He looked at her, eyes steady. “What you think?”

Clara’s throat tightened, his stare burning into her. She gulped the coffee, the heat stinging her lips.

“Don’t know” she said, voice scratched.

“Feels like something’s kicking awake. Can’t ditch it.”

Elias grinned, slow and dirty, slamming his mug down.

“Wanna feel it?” he said, low and rough.

“Not just words. Something real.”

Her chest locked, air turning thick.

“What kind of real?” she asked, short, eyes sharp.

He stood, slow, his bulk shadowing the table. “Stay there.” he said, stepping around to her.

He snatched a thick cord from the table, black, frayed, a bit heavy, and a leather strap, worn and cracked.

“Hands out” he said, voice hard, dripping heat.

Clara’s heart slammed, she is in heat under her jeans.

“What for?” she said, sharp, but her hands were already lifting, trembling, palms sweaty.

“Gonna show you” he whispered on to her ears, his breath hot on her neck.

“I’m going to give you a small taste of what you’re craving for” he said, voice low and thick, like a growl rumbling through stone.

“You tell me to stop, if you feel like im going over the top, and i will stop right then, no bullshit. Trust me, Clara, I’m steady as fire. Won’t take you past what you want. You’re safe with me, every damn inch.”

Clara’s breath hitched, his words sinking deep, lighting a spark in her gut. She nodded, short and sharp, eyes locked on his.

“Do it” she said, voice scratched, barely steady as she bring her hands towards him.

Elias grinned, dark and fast, his eyes hot. He stepped close, his chest touching hers. He grabbed her wrists slowly, the thick cord in his hands, tying it tight around them . It pressed her skin, hard, locking her hands in front. Her heart pounded, heat rushing down low, making her pussy under the jeans wet.

“Feel it?” he said, voice deep, full of heat, his breath warm on her ear.

He pulled the cord, slowlu, lifting her arms, her back bending, shirt pulling tight, her hard nipples showing through. The cord bit into her wrists, making her pussy throb, a wet rush soaking her panties.

Elias looked into her eyes, as he got close to her face as if he was about to kiss her. She could feel his breath on her lips.

“Fuck” she whispered in soft moans, voice trembling, her cunt pulsing, slick and needy.

“It’s tight, hurts good, gets me hot.”

Elias went to her ears, she could feel his hot breathing on her ears that made her sensitive, heat pouring off him.

“Yeah?“ he whispered on to her ears, sending pulses down her spine.

He pulled the the cord up again, her tits shoving forward, nipples aching from inside of her clothes, begging for his mouth. The pain in her wrists mixed with the wet ache of her pussy, her jeans sticking to her thighs. His eyes locked on her like she was something he crafted. His hands moved next, deliberate, tracing her ribs through her thin shirt. Each touch sparked, sharp and electric, racing down her spine. Her breath caught, chest heaving, and she couldn’t tell if it was fear or want,or both.

“You’re still here” he said, voice rough, close enough she felt his breath on her neck.

“Feel it?”

“Yeah” she managed, her voice shaky, raw.

“It’s… a lot.”

He smirked, and slid his fingers under her shirt. Cool air hit her stomach, then his warm hand followed, brushing higher, grazing the edge of her bra. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, nipples tightening, a spark of heat sinking low. She moaned little, in the quiet room, and he pressed harder, feeling her tits, thumb dragging slow circles over the nipples. Her knees shook, just a little, the cord holding her upright.

“Too much?” he asked, watching her face, his tone daring her to say yes.

“No” she said, fast, almost begging.

“Not yet.”

He gave it to her. His grip tightened, his other hand sliding to her hip, grabbing her closer until her bound arms strained against. Her jeans became sore, too tight now, pressing into her thighs as heat built, relentless. She twisted, wanting them gone, wanting his hands everywhere.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear, whispering,

“You’re mine to play with.”

Her pulse shivered, loud in her ears, and she nodded, lost in it, until he stepped back.

The sudden absence hit like a slap, her skin prickling where he had been. She opened her eyes, dazed, and saw him grab something from the table, a strip of black cloth. A blindfold.

“I'm going to take your sight” he said, holding it up, voice steady.

“Make you feel me sharper…..deeper.”

Her stomach dropped, a cold thread of panic weaving through the feelings.

“Wait” she said, voice cracking.

“I don’t…..”

He paused, eyes narrowing, the blindfold dangling from his hand.

“You scared?” He asked.

“I…” She swallowed, chest tight, breath coming too fast. The idea of darkness, of losing that control, clawed at her.

“Stop” she said, firm this time, the word heavy between them.

“I can’t.” She continued.

Elias nodded, instant and calm, dropping the blindfold to the floor.

“Okay” he said, stepping closer, his hand gentle now, brushing her hair.

“You’re good, Clara….”

Relief flooded her, knees weak as he untied her wrists, slow and careful, rubbing the red marks with his thumbs. Her arms fell, heavy, and she swayed, still buzzing from everything, his touch, the fear, the want.

“You alright?” he asked, softer now.

“Yeah” she said, nodding, though her legs trembled.

“Just… need a second.”

He guided her to his bed, and she sank into it, exhausted. He grabbed a blanket, tossing it over her shoulders, the warmth grounding he.

“Stay here tonight” he said, not a question, just a fact.

“It’s late. You’re not walking home like this.”

She glanced at the clock…. 1 am, glowed red. Time had slipped away, swallowed by the intensity.

“I should go” she mumbled, but it sounded weak, even to her.

“No” he said, sitting beside her, close enough she felt his heat but not touching.

“Youre staying here, ive got rooms, sleep on my bed tonight, i will sleep on the couch.”

She didn’t fight it. The thought of leaving, of facing the dark streets alone with her head spinning, felt wrong. Here, with him, it was easier.

“Okay” she said, eyes drooping, the blanket pulling her under.

“I’ll stay.”

Sunlight stabbed through the loft’s cracked window, making Clara awake. She blinked, groggy, the blanket tangled around her legs, the couch creaking under her. Then it hit her….work. She was supposed to open the bar at 10. She scrambled up, grabbing her boots, heart pounding.

“Shit, shit, shit” she hissed, yanking one on.

“I’m so late. They’re gonna fire me.”

Elias leaned against the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, watching her with that same steady gaze.

“Relax” he said, voice calm, almost lazy.

“You’re not going anywhere!!”

Clara got a good look of him as he was more visible in the day light. He was fresh from a shower, his skin clean and warm. Elias has changed his looks since he started focusing on his paintings more than ever. His long hair, fluffy waves, dark brown and soft, fell loose around his shoulders, dry and wild, framing his face. He was very, very handsome, and Clara saw it now for the first time. His grey eyes were sharp, catching hers, steady and strong. His beard and mustache, short and neat, made his jaw look tough and sharp. He wore a tight shirt and jeans, showing his lean body, not big but fit.

He sipped his coffee, calm, while she freaked out about work. His hair moved a little when he turned his head, fluffy and pretty, making him look wild and nice at once.

“Click here to see how Elias Looks like

”

Clara stopped, one boot in her hand, staring, looking it hit her hard.

She blinked, momentarily pushing back from her panic.

“What?” she managed, her voice shaky, caught between the urgency of work and the sudden awareness of him.

Elias took a slow sip of his coffee, unfazed by her panic.

“You heard me. You’re not going anywhere. That bar, those drunks… they don’t own you anymore.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, still holding that one boot.

“What are you talking about? I need that job. Bills don’t pay themselves.”

He stepped closer, his sharp beautiful grey eyes steady, locking hers in place.

“Not anymore” he said, voice low and sure.

“You’re done with that shit. Work for me.”

She frowned, her heart still racing, the boot dangling in her grip.

“Work for you? Doing what?”

“Be my assistant” he said, simple, like it was obvious.

“Help with the paintings, whatever I need. Pays better than that bar. You won’t miss it.”

Clara stared, her mind spinning. The bar was a grind, sticky floors, loud jerks, late nights, but it was her work, steady in its own messed up way. Now Elias stood there, all calm and handsome, offering something else. His long, fluffy hair shifted as he tilted his head, those sharp grey eyes cutting through her doubt. She couldn’t look away from him, his lean body in that tight shirt, the neat beard framing his tough jaw. He looked wild and strong, like he could carry this whole thing on his own.

“You’re serious?” she asked, voice rough, still shaky.

“Yeah” he said, setting the mug down with a soft clink.

“Dead serious. You’re not meant for that bar crap. You’re meant for this.” He nodded toward the loft, the paintings stacked against the walls, the life he lived.

Her stomach twisted, half excited, half scared.

“I don’t know anything about art” she said, dropping the boot to the floor.

“What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t” he said, stepping even closer, his voice steady like a rock.

“I’ll show you. You’ve got the fire for it, I saw it last night. Trust me, Clara.”

She swallowed hard, his words hitting deep. Last night, the cord, the strap, the way he had held her, flashed in her head. She had felt alive, more than she ever had pouring drinks. And now he was here, looking at her like she belonged in his world, not that old one. His fluffy waves moved again, catching the light, and damn, he was so good looking it threw her off.

“What about money?” she asked, practical even through the haze.

“I’ve got you” he cut in, calm but firm.

“You help me with the paintings, whatever I need. I’ll give you a cut from every one I sell, plus a salary every month. No worrying about that stuff anymore.”

Clara’s eyes widened, her grip loosening on the boot still in her hand.

“A cut? Like… part of what you make?”

“Yeah” he said, nodding sharp.

“Every painting that goes, you get a piece. And the salary keeps you steady. More than that bar ever gave you.”

She let the boot drop, thudding soft on the floor. Her mind flowered, picturing it, working with him, hands deep in paint, watching those wild pieces come alive. And money from it, real money, not just tips from drunks. His grey eyes held hers, steady and sure. He wasn’t messing around.

“You’re not kidding right?” she said, voice low, testing it.

“Nope” he said, stepping closer.

“You’ve got something, Clara. Put it here, with me. We’ll make it work.“

She stood there, boots forgotten, the weight of it pressing down. Her old life, the bar, the grind, the same old shit, felt like a shadow slipping away. Elias was real, solid, his voice pulling her in like the paintings did. Her hands clenched, then relaxed, the panic fading into something hotter, sharper.

“Okay” she said, voice scratched but firm.

“I’ll do it.”

Elias’s lips curled, a quick, dark grin that made her stomach flip.

“Good” he said, turning back to the table.

“Call that bar, tell themm you’re out. Then have a cup of coffee with me now and relax a bit.”

Clara nodded, pulling her phone from her bag with hands that didn’t shake anymore. She dialed Sanuu’s, the ring loud in the quiet loft. Sanuu picked up, his voice a pissed, off growl.

“Clara, where the fuck…..”

“I’m done” she said, cutting him off, her voice flat and hard.

“Not coming back.”

He laughed, rough and bitter.

“You’ll crawl back when you’re broke, girl. Don't expect mercy from me then”

She didn’t bother answering, just hung up, the phone clicking shut in her hand. Her chest felt tight, but lighter, like she had dropped a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying. She tossed the phone onto the bed, letting it bounce once, and turned to Elias. He was already pouring coffee, the dark liquid steaming as it hit the chipped mug. He slid it across the table toward her, his grey eyes catching hers for a second, steady and sharp.

“Sit” he said, nodding at the shaky chair near the table.

“Drink.”

Clara stepped over, her boots still scattered on the floor, and sat on the chair. It creaked under her, wobbling a little, but held. She grabbed the mug, the heat burning her fingers, and took a sip. It was bitter, rough, scalding her tongue, but it woke her up, cutting through the haze in her head. Elias leaned back against the table, sipping his own coffee, watching her like he was sizing her up.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

“Just… feels weird. Quitting like that.”

He shrugged, his fluffy hair shifting with the move, catching the sunlight streaming through the broken window.

“Weird’s fine. Means it’s real. You’re out of that shithole now.”

Clara nodded, slow, the coffee warming her chest. She glanced around the loft, the canvases stacked messy against the walls, paint cans piled in corners, the air thick with that sharp, chemical smell. It was chaos, but it felt alive, more than the bar ever had. Her eyes landed on the table, on the cord sitting there from last night, dark and worn, coiledlike it was waiting. Her stomach flipped again, heat sparking low, but she didn’t look away.

Elias followed her gaze, his lips twitching into that dark grin again.

“Thinking about it?” he asked, his voice dipping, teasing but heavy.

She swallowed, the coffee sticking in her throat.

“Maybe…” she said, rough, not meeting his eyes.

“Last night was… a lot.”

“Yeah” he said, setting his mug down with a soft thud.

“It was. You handled it, though. More than I thought.”

Her head snapped up, meeting his stare.

“What do you mean?”

“Means you didn’t run”

he said, crossing his arms, the tight shirt pulling across his chest.

“Most would’ve. You stayed. Took it. That’s why you’re here now.”

Clara’s hands tightened around the mug, the heat stinging her palms. She thought about the cord on her wrists, the strap snapping against her skin, the way it had lit her up, scared her shitless but made her feel alive.

“Didn’t feel like I had a choice” she said, voice low.

“It… stuck with me.”

“Good” he said, leaning forward now, his elbows on the table, close enough she could smell the soap on him, mixed with coffee.

“That’s how it starts. Sticks with you, then you chase it.”

She looked at him, those grey eyes cutting through her, his fluffy hair framing his face like some wild, handsome bastard who knew too much. Her heart kicked hard, her cunt twitching under her jeans, still sore from last night but awake again.

“Chase it how?” she asked, voice scratched.

He smirked, slow and dirty.

“You’ll see. We’re starting today. Coffee’s done. Time for both of us to put some work”

Clara blinked, caught off guard, the mug still warm in her hands.

“Now?”

“yeah, now” he said, standing up straight, his shadow falling over her.

“You’re in this, Clara. No halfway shit. We paint, we work, you feel it. That’s the deal.”

She set the mug down, the clink loud in the quiet, and stood up, her legs steady now. The panic was gone, replaced by something hotter, something that burned in her gut, licking up her spine. She wiped her hands on her jeans, the rough fabric catching on her palms, and looked at him.

“Alright” she said, voice low, rougher than she meant.

“What do I do?”

Elias stepped over to the table, dragging a fresh canvas onto it, the wood scraping loud against the surface. He grabbed the leather strap from the clutter, flipping it once in his hand, the snap cutting through the air. His eyes locked onto hers, grey and piercing, a slow heat building behind them.

“Work’s not just paint”

he said, voice dropping low, thick with something heavy.

“i need something real. I need a model, Clara. Someone who gets it, who’s got it in her. I want you strip down, let me paint you, right here, today.”

Clara stood still, her heart pounding loud in her chest, the coffee mug warm in her hands. Elias’s words hit her hard, his grey eyes staring right at her. He held the strap from last night, flipping it in his hand, and it felt like a promise. The loft was messy, paint on the floor, canvases leaning everywhere, cold air sneaking in through the broken window. The room felt heavy, like something big was about to happen.

“Strip” he said again, his voice deep and rough.

Her breath stopped for a second, her body already reacting, heart beating fast, a wet heat starting on her pussy. She put the mug down, the sound loud, and nodded.

“Okay” she said, her voice shaky but sure.

Elias grinned quick and dark, his eyes full of want.

“Good. Take it all off. Now.”

Her shaky hands grabbed her dress, tight on her hips, loose at the thighs. She pulled it up slow, letting it rub her skin, sliding over her skinny waist, then up past her juicy tits. She ripped it off, dropping it to the floor with a thud. No bra her tits popped out, high and bouncy, round and full, nipples hard as fuck, pink and sticking up, begging to be sucked, already stiff from the cold and Elias’s look.

She kicked her boots off, loud bangs on the floor, then shoved her thumbs into her panties. They hugged her pussy tight, clinging to her hot, ready lips, peeling off slow to show her sexy slit. She dragged them down, the cloth brushing her thighs before hitting her ankles. She stepped out, buck naked now, tall and slim, her tight body screaming sex, like she could fuck all night and still want more.

Her pale skin looked soft in the low light, smooth and ready to be grabbed. Her tits shook with every breath, nipples so hard they hurt, pink, dying for a tongue or a rough pinch, teasing you to bite them. Her ass was fucking perfect, big, soft, and round, jiggling a little when she moved, the kind you’d slap hard and watch bounce, juicy enough to fuck raw.

Down there, her pussy was a filthy tease, covered in wild bush of dark hair, curling over her tight, pink lips like a sexy jungle. Her hairy cunt looked untouched,just a peek of pink hiding under bush, begging to be parted with fingers or a cock, hot and ready, the dark fuzz making you want to grab it, spread it, and fuck it till she screamed.

Elias stood there, his grey eyes burning into her, the leather strap swinging loose in his hand. His breath got heavy, chest rising fast, like he could already see her tied up and begging.

“Fuck” he growled, low and rough, stepping closer.

“You’re it, Clara. My canvas.”

Her heart slammed hard, a dirty thrill running down her spine. She nodded, too turned on to talk, her nipples aching, her pussy hot. Elias grabbed the thick black cord from the table, the same one from last night that bit her wrists and made her feel alive.

“Hands up” he said, voice thick, and she lifted them fast, wrists together, ready for it.

He tied the cord tight, the rough rope scratching her skin, then grabbed her arms high, stretching her tall body until her tits stuck out, nipples hard and begging. Her toes barely hit the floor, and she gasped, the pull making her ass clench, her pussy tingling. He dragged her to a chair in the middle of the room, old and wooden, creaking as he shoved her down onto it. He pulled the cord up, tying it to the backrest, stretching her arms over her head, her slim frame shaking, every inch of her screaming to be touched.

Her ass sank into the chair, soft and juicy, spreading out a little, begging to be slapped. Elias grabbed more rope, kneeling fast. He yanked her legs apart, tying her ankles to the chair legs, spreading her wide. Her pussy opened up, that wild bush fanning out, her tight pink lips peeking through, hot and ready, teasing him to dive in. She couldn’t move, her tits heaving, nipples sticking up, her cunt on full display, making her feel dirty and hot as fuck.

He stepped back, flipping the leather strap, eyeing her, her bouncy tits, her spread ass, that hairy tease of a pussy.

“Last night” he said, voice low, leaning in so his breath hit her face.

“you took all of it, and fucking loved it. I need that again, nastier, harder. You in?”

“Yeah” she said, quick and horny, her voice rough, her body on fire.

He swung the strap, a loud smack on her thigh. It stung hard, her skin turning red, and she moaned, slutty and loud, her head tipping back. Her pussy twitched, a wet drop starting to form.

“More” she begged.

Elias made her stand a little as her ass was visible, then he cracked it on her ass next the sound sharp, leaving a hot red mark on her juicy cheek. Her tits jiggled, nipples screaming, her body rocking the chair, horny as hell.

He dropped the strap and grabbed a small box from the table. Inside were two shiny metal clamps. Her eyes widened, her breath catching, but her pussy pulsed, craving it. He squeezed her tits, rough and hard, then snapped the clamps on her nipples. The bite was mean, stabbing through her, and she yelled,

“FUUCKKKK!!!!!” half pain, half heat, her cunt tightening, wetness growin.

Elias snatched a brush, dipped it in red paint, and hit the canvas hard. He worked fast, painting her, ropes tight, tits clamped, hairy pussy spread wide on the chair. Clara watched, her body burning, the clamps digging in, the ropes holding her still. Every slap of the strap, every tug of the rope, he threw it on there, making her look like a dirty queen, wild and ready to fuck.

He kept at it, coming back to smack her thigh with the strap, flick the clamps, making her moan and squirm, her pussy dripping now, soaking her bush. The canvas got filthy, her tied up, marked, horny as fuck, just like last night but more. Finally, he stepped back, brush down, staring at her and the painting, his eyes dark and pleased.

“That’s it” he said, voice rough.

“That’s you.”

He untied the ropes on her ankles first, letting her legs fall free, then loosened the cord on her wrists, slow and careful. Her arms dropped, heavy and sore, red marks crisscrossing her skin where the rope had bit in. He pulled the clamps off her nipples last, the sharp sting making her hiss, her tits bouncing free, nipples swollen and red, throbbing like crazy.

Clara slid off the chair, her legs shaky, ass sore from the strap, pussy wet and pulsing. She felt raw, like her skin was buzzing, every nerve lit up from the pain and heat. Her body ached, but it was good, dirty and alive, like she had been fucked without being touched. Her breath came fast, her tits heaving, and she rubbed her wrists, feeling the sting, loving it. She was horny as hell, her cunt begging for more, but mixed with it was something else power, like she’d owned every second of it.

“Look” Elias said, nodding at the canvas, his eyes dark and proud.

Clara turned, still naked, and stared. The painting was her, but wilder, nastier than she had been. She sat on the chair, ropes tight around her wrists and ankles, her hairy pussy spread wide, dark bush matted with wet, her pink lips swollen and dripping cum down her thighs. Her tits were huge, clamped hard, nipples red and stretched, chains hanging from them, pulling tight like they would rip her apart. Red leather straps crisscrossed her thighs, strap marks glowing angry and hot, her skin shiny with sweat. Her face was twisted, eyes half shut, mouth open in a slutty moan, like she was cumming hard, lost in it. Elias had added more, leather cuffs on her wrists, a thick collar choking her neck, a whip coiled at her feet, ready to strike. It was her, but fucked up and perfect, a horny fantasy straight from his head.

“Fuck” she whispered, her voice scratched, her pussy clenching at the sight. She felt hot all over again, seeing herself like that, tied, marked, wilder than she had ever been. It was dirty, nasty, and so fucking hot she could barely stand it.

“Thats what I see”

She turned her head, catching his eyes, still dark with that hungry spark. Her body pressed against his, her sore tits brushing his chest, her wet pussy touching his jeans. She felt the heat off him, and her cunt throbbed, dripping more.

“It’s fucking perfect” she said, voice low and rough, a dirty grin tugging as she bites her lips.

“Me, but more.”

Elias smirked, his hand sliding down her back, grabbing her juicy ass hard, making her gasp.

“Yeah” he said, squeezing, his fingers digging in.

“You’re mine now, on canvas and off.“

Her heart jumped, her pussy screaming yes, and she nodded, slow and sure, the sting in her skin and the heat in her gut telling her she would never go back. This was her… raw, fucked up, and free… and she was all in.

His hand stayed on her ass, kneading it slow, his rough fingers sinking into her soft flesh. She moaned soft, her tits pressing harder against him, nipples still red and sore, scraping his shirt. He leaned in, his breath hot on her neck, lips brushing her skin, sending a shiver straight to her cunt.

“You feel so fucking good” he growled, his other hand sliding up her side, slow and teasing, tracing the curve of her waist.

Clara’s breath got shaky, her pussy tingling, her whole body buzzing from his touch. His fingers on her ass squeezed harder, pulling her closer, her naked skin rubbing his. She could feel his a bulge from his pants into her belly. She whimpered, soft and horny, her sore nipples scraping harder, sending little stings through her tits that made her cunt throb. He kissed her neck, slow and wet, sucking the skin, leaving a hot mark as if he marked her as his. She could feel pulsing.

“Fuck… Elias” she whispered, voice rough, her hands grabbing his shoulders, nails scratching his shirt.

His hand slid up from her waist, cupping her tit, squeezing it rough, his thumb rubbing her swollen nipple. She gasped, loud and needy, her body jerking against him, the mix of pain and heat making her pussy ache bad. He growled low, his lips moving to her ear, biting the lobe soft, his breath making her shiver more.

“You’re so fucking hot” he said, voice thick.

His hand on her ass slipping down, fingers brushing the edge of her hairy pussy, teasing her tight lips. She squirmed, horny as hell, her cunt begging for him to touch it, to shove inside. His fingers dipped lower, brushing her bush, feeling the heat there, and she moaned again, her hips pushing toward him, desperate.

He pulled back a little, grey eyes dark and wild, staring into hers.

“I will fuck you” he said, low and dirty, his hand sliding full onto her pussy, cupping it hard.

His fingers pressed her tight pussy lips, feeling how hot she was, her cunt twitching under his grip.

“Right here. Right Now.”

Her heart slammed, her pussy clenching, a hot wave rushing through her. She nodded, fast, too horny to talk, but he didn’t move, just smirked, his fingers teasing her bush, brushing her tight pussy lips slow, not going in. She squirmed, her cunt begging, the heat building, but he held back, his thumb grazing her clit, light and tensed.

“Say it” he growled, voice thick, his fingers circling her pussy lips, teasing the edge of her hole, making her hips twitch.

“Tell me you want it. I want to hear it from you.”

“Fuck” she moaned, voice cracked, her thighs shaking.

“I want it, Elias. Please.” Her pussy ached, her pussy on his hand, desperate for more.

He grinned, nasty and slow, his thumb pressing her clit harder, rubbing it just enough to make her gasp, but not enough to get her off.

“Not good enough” he said, his other hand grabbing her tit again, pinching her nipple sharp, making her moan.

“Beg for it, Clara. Beg for it.”

She groaned, horny as hell, her body trembling, her pussy so hot it hurt.

“Please” she said, louder, her voice rough and slutty.

“Fuck me, Elias. I need your cock…. please, shove it in my wet pussy.” Her hips bucked, trying to grind on his hand, her tight pussy parting a little, showing how bad she wanted it.

“That’s it” he said, voice low.

His fingers sliding down, spreading her pussy open, teasing her tiny hole with just the tip of one finger.

She moaned loud, her cunt clenching, dripping now, the wet starting to soak. He pushed the finger in slow, barely inside, stretching her tight, and she whimpered, her head tipping back, horny but needy for more.

“More” she begged, her voice shaking, her tits heaving.

“Please, Elias, fuck me, I need it bad.”

Her pussy twitched around his finger, so tight it hugged him, begging for his cock instead.

He pulled his finger out, slow and teasing, leaving her empty, her cunt throbbing.

“Good girl” he growled, stepping closer, his jeans brushing her thighs.

He unzipped fast, his thick cock springing free, long, fat, veins bulging, the tip shiny, way bigger than anything she ever had while playing with herself. Her eyes widened, her pussy clenching hard, a mix of horny want and sudden nerves hitting her.

Clara’s breath hitched, her heart slamming, her pussy dripping under that wild bush. She stared at his cock, so fucking huge, and her voice shook as she spoke.

“Elias” she said, low and rough, biting her lip.

“I’m a virgin… never had a cock. Just my fingers…. nothing like that.”

His eyes flared, dark and wild, a dirty spark lighting them up.

“Fuck….” he groaned, his voice thick with heat, his cock twitching hard, jumping in front of her. The tip of his cock leaked more, shiny and wet, his fat shaft throbbing even bigger, veins pulsing like it couldn’t wait to rip her open.

“A virgin you say?” he said, grinning nasty, stepping closer, his jeans rough on her thighs.

“yeah” she said quietly.

“Shit, Clara, that makes me even more fucking horny.”

Her pussy clenched again, wet and tight, her pussy glistening as she squirmed, horny but scared.

“Yeah” she whispered again, her voice shaky, her tits heaving.

“Never… just me, touching myself.” Her eyes flicked to his cock, huge and ready, and her cunt ached, wanting it bad even as her nerves screamed.

Elias growled low, his hand grabbing his cock, stroking it slow, making it swell even more, the tip brushing her hairy pussy lips.

“Fuck, that’s hot” he said, voice rough, his grey eyes locked on hers.

“Your tight little virgin cunt’s mine now. I’m gonna stretch it, fill it, make you scream.”

His other hand grabbed her hip, pulling her ass closer to the table’s edge, her juicy cheeks spreading, her pussy opening up more.

He leaned in, his breath hot on her face, his cock teasing her pussy lips, rubbing slow, spreading her wetness all over her pussy.

“Gonna take it slow” he growled, his tip nudging her tiny hole, stretching it just enough to make her gasp.

“Till you’re begging for every inch.” His hand slid up, grabbing her tit, squeezing hard, thumb flicking her sore nipple, making her moan, her cunt twitching under him.

“Fuck, Elias” she moaned, her head tipping back, her pussy so tight it hurt just from his tip, but so horny she couldn’t stop.

His cock throbbed harder, pulsing against her, turned on like crazy knowing she would never had anyone, knowing he would be the first to fuck her raw. He pushed a little more, the fat head stretching her virgin hole, and she whimpered, her body shaking, horny as hell, ready to take him even if it split her open

Her pussy gripped his tip, so tight it burned, the stretch stinging like hell, but her pussy dripped wet, begging for more. Elias growled deep, his hands clamping her hips, fingers sinking into her soft skin, keeping her placed.

“Gonna break you open” he said, voice thick and dirty, his grey eyes wild, locked on her.

He pushed harder, his fat cock shoving in slow, stretching her virgin cunt wider, hitting that thin wall inside her. She gasped, sharp and loud, her body jerking as his thick head tore through her hymen. A quick, sharp sting ripped through her pussy, and she felt it give, a small pop, then a trickle of warm blood leaking out, mixing with her wet, dripping down her hairy lips onto the table.

“FUCKK!!” she cried, her voice shaky, her tits heaving, the pain sharp but fast, fading into a hot, full ache.

Her tight hole stretched around him, sucking his cock in, her pusyy matted with wet and a little red.

Elias groaned, low and nasty, his cock throbbing harder inside her, turned on by the blood, the proof he had taken her first.

“Fuck, that’s it” he said, voice rough, his hands gripping her tighter.

“Your virgin pussy’s mine now.”

He pushed deeper, slow and steady, his fat shaft sliding in, filling her up, stretching her so wide it hurt but felt so fucking good. She moaned, loud and slutty, her head tipping back more, her body shaking as her tight cunt took him, inch by thick inch.

Her pussy burned, the sting mixing with horny heat, her walls clenching him hard, like they didn’t want to let go. She felt every vein on his cock, every pulse, her pussy lips spread wide, dripping wet and a little bloody, soaking the table under her ass.

“Fuck, it’s big” she whimpered, her voice cracked, her ass squirming, her tits bouncing with every breath.

The pain was there, sharp and real, but the horny ache drowned it out, making her want him deeper, harder. He leaned in, his breath hot on her face, his cock buried halfway now, stretching her tight pussy to the limit.

“You’re taking it” he growled, one hand sliding up to grab her tit, squeezing rough, thumb flicking her sore nipple. She moaned loud, her cunt clenching around his cock, making him moan slightly.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna make you love this.”

He pulled back slow, his cock sliding out, shiny with her wet and a smear of blood, then thrust in again, deeper this time, hitting spots her fingers never reached. She screamed

“Shit!” her pussy splitting, burning, but so fucking full, the heat exploding through her. Her hairy cunt leaked more, wet and messy, her body shaking, horny as hell, loving the way he broke her open, claimed her raw.

Elias growled, his grey eyes in heat and wild, his hands clamping her hips tight, fingers sinking deep into her soft flesh.

“Take my fucking cock” he said, voice rough and nasty, slamming his fat shaft all the way in, his balls slapping her juicy ass loud.

Her tight pussy stretched wide, burning like hell but so good, the pain melting into a hot, horny wave that made her scream,

“FUCKK…. YESS!!! ” Her tits bounced hard.

He fucked her hard, no mercy, his thick cock pounding her virgin hole fast and deep, stretching her raw with every thrust. The table shook, paint cans rattling loud, her ass sliding back and forth, her pussy gripping him tight, sucking him in. She moaned loudly.

“HARDER , ELIAS…. FUCK ME!!!!” Her voice broke, her body rocking, her hairy cunt throbbing, loving the brutal way he slammed her.

“You’re mine” he growled, fucking her faster, his cock slamming deep.

Her pussy burned and pulsed, wet slapping sounds filling the loft, her pussy soaked, her tight walls squeezing him like a fist. She felt it building, hot, wild, a pressure in her cunt ready to explode.

“FUCK… ELIAS… IM GONNA!!! ” she gasped, her head tipping back, her thighs shaking hard, her pussy clenching tighter.

He thrust even harder, his cock ravaging her, his thumb dropping to rub her clit fast and rough. That did it, she screamed.

“FUCKKK!!”.

Her pussy bursting, cumming hard, a hot flood gushing out, soaking his cock, her pussy, the table, her whole body shaking and shivering like crazy, her legs trembled, her cunt contracted around him, tight and wet, her tits bouncing wild, her moans loud and sloppy as she rode it out, horny as fuck.

Elias moaned slightly, his cock throbbing inside her, feeling her cum squeeze him, but he wasn’t done. He fucked her through it, hard and fast, her pussy still twitching, making her whimper..

“FUCK, FUCK, SHIT… THATS TOO MUCH!!“ she screamed.

But he grinned, dark and dirty, his breath heavy.

“Not yet” he said, slamming deep a few more times, her tight hole milking him, pushing him close.

Then he pulled out fast, his fat cock shiny with her wet, throbbing hard.

“FUCKK!!! ” he moaned, grabbing his shaft, stroking it quick right over her.

Clara watched, panting, her pussy still pulsing, her body wrecked. He aimed at her tits, his cock exploding, thick, hot cum shooting out, splattering her sore nipples, dripping down her bouncy tits, coating her pale skin in sticky white ropes. She moaned soft, loving the dirty feel, her cunt clenching empty, still horny from her cum.

He milked every drop, his cock jerking, cum drooling between her tits, sliding down her belly.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful!” he said, voice rough, his breath slowing.

His grey eyes locked on her messy, cum covered chest. Clara grinned, tired but hot, her body buzzing, feeling wild and owned.

She slid off the table, legs shaky, ass sore, pussy aching from his fat cock breaking her open. Elias caught her, pulling her close, his hands softer now, wrapping around her back. He took Clara on his arms.

“Come here” he said, voice low, guiding her to the bed in the corner. They collapsed together, naked and sweaty.

He pulled her in tight, his arm over her, her head on his chest, his heartbeat thumping under her ear. She pressed into him, her sore body melting, the sting in her cunt fading to a warm ache.

“Fuck, that was…” she mumbled, voice scratched, too tired to finish.

He smiled soft at her, his hand stroking her back, fingers tracing her spine.

“Yeah” he said, quiet now, his breath slowing.

“Sleep, Clara. You’re mine.” She nodded, eyes heavy, her body curling into his heat, the wild, fucked up night pulling her under.

They cuddled close, tangled and messy, drifting off together, raw and satisfied.

The next morning, Clara woke up early. Sunlight came through the broken window in Elias’s loft. She was in bed with Elias, their bodies close under the sheets. Her wrists hurt a little, her chest felt sore, and her body ached from the night before. But it felt good. Elias’s arm was around her, warm and heavy. She moved a bit, and he woke up slowly.

“Morning” he said, his voice sleepy. His gray eyes opened and looked at her.

“Hi” Clara said, stretching and blushing.

Her wrists had red marks from the ropes. Her chest had dried cum crusted on it from last night, and her hairy pussy felt sticky but happy. She smiled a little, thinking about everything that happened.

Elias sat up, his fluffy dark hair messy. He rubbed his face, his beard scratching his hand.

“Shower time” he said, grinning rough.

“You’re a mess, and I like it.” He continued.

Clara laughed, her body buzzing.

“Yeah, I need it.”

He grabbed the sheet off, showing her naked body, tits bouncing, ass jiggling. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her up hard.

“Come on” he growled, his voice thick and horny.

They stumbled to the bathroom, a small, beat up room with chipped tiles and a shower in the corner. Elias turned the water on, cold at first, then hot, steam filling the air fast. He shoved her in, not gentle, but not so harsh. Water poured over her, soaking her hair, running down her tits, dripping off her hard nipples.

“Fuck, you’re hot” he said, stepping in, his naked body pressing hers.

His cock was already hard, thick and long, brushing her thigh. He grabbed her wet hair, pulling her head back rough, making her gasp. Water splashed her face as he kissed her hard, his tongue shoving in, his beard scraping her lips raw.

Clara moaned loud, her hands grabbing his shoulders, nails digging in. He pushed her harder against the wall, his cock grinding her pussy, teasing her wet lips.

“You like it rough, huh?” he growled, biting her neck, leaving a red mark.

“Yeah” she gasped, her pussy throbbing, dripping wetter than the shower.

“Fuck me hard.” She said while biting her lips hard.

He didn’t wait. His hand slid down, grabbing her tit, squeezing it tight, twisting her sore nipple till she screamed.

“Shit!” Pain shot through her, but it made her cunt ache more.

He smirked, nasty and wild, then shoved his fingers into her pussy, two at once, stretching her tight hole fast. She screamed,

“FUCK!” her legs shaking, the water splashing loud as he fingered, fucked her rough, slamming in deep, her wet bush rubbing against his hand.

“You’re so fucking tight” he said, his voice low and dirty, his fingers pounding her, hitting deep spots that made her moan like a slut.

Her pussy clenched around him, leaking hot juice down his wrist. She grabbed his cock, stroking it hard, feeling it pulse, big and fat in her hand.

Clara’s eyes locked on his cock, thick and throbbing. She licked her lips, horny as hell, and dropped to her knees fast, the shower tiles hard under her. Water poured over her, soaking her hair, dripping off her tits as she grabbed his cock tighter.

“Suck it” Elias growled, his voice rough, grabbing her wet hair hard, pulling her head toward him.

“Take it deep.” He groaned.

She opened her mouth wide, her lips stretching around his fat tip, tasting the salty precum already leaking. She sucked hard, her tongue swirling the head, and he groaned loud.

“Fuck, yes.” His hand tightened in her hair, shoving her down rough, forcing his cock deeper into her throat.

Clara gagged, her eyes on tears, but she didn’t stop. His cock filled her mouth, big and heavy, hitting the back of her throat fast. She moaned around it, the sound muffled and slutty, her pussy dripping onto the tiles as he fucked her face. He thrust hard, no mercy, his balls slapping her chin, water splashing loud with every push.

“Deeper!!!” he growled, his gray eyes wild, watching her choke on him.

He grabbed her hair tighter, slamming his cock all the way in, her nose smashing into his wet pubes. She couldn’t breathe right, her throat burning, spit drooling down her chin, mixing with the shower water. But she loved it, her cunt throbbing, wet and needy, turned on by how rough he was.

“Fuck, you’re good” he said, voice thick, his hips pumping fast.

Her hands grabbed his thighs, nails digging in, holding on as he used her mouth like a toy. She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue working the underside of his shaft, feeling every vein pulse. He groaned deeper, his cock twitching, getting even bigger in her throat.

He pulled her off sudden, her lips popping free, spit drooling from her mouth to his dick. She gasped for air, panting, her face red and wet.

“More… please” she begged, voice scratched and horny, looking up at him with big, needy eyes.

Elias smirked, nasty and dark.

“Open wide” he said, grabbing his cock, slapping it hard against her cheek.

The wet smack echoed, stinging her skin, and she moaned, opening her mouth again. He shoved it back in, rougher this time, fucking her throat deep and fast, his hand gripping her hair like a leash.

“Take it all” he growled, thrusting so hard her head banged the tiles behind her. She gagged loud, choking, her throat squeezing his cock tight, but she kept sucking, desperate to please him. Her pussy pulsed, leaking more, the heat building as he got rougher.

“Fuck, I’m close” he grunted, his voice shaking, his dick swelling in her mouth. He slammed in one last time, holding her there, her nose buried in his pubes, throat stuffed full. She felt him twitch hard, then hot cum exploded down her throat, thick and heavy, flooding her. She swallowed fast, gulping it down, but some spilled out, dripping down her chin, mixing with the water.

He pulled out slow, his cock shiny with her spit and his cum, still hard. Clara coughed, catching her breath, her lips swollen, face messy. She grinned up at him, wrecked and happy, her pussy aching for more even after that.

“Fucking hell” Elias said, panting, his hand loosening in her hair, stroking it soft now.

“You’re a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” He grinned.

“Yeah” she said, voice scratched, wiping her chin with a shaky hand.

“And I love it.” She continued.

He pulled her up, water still pouring, and kissed her hard, tasting himself on her tongue.

“Good girl.” he muttered, his hands grabbing her ass rough again.

Elias turned off the shower, the steam thick around them. Clara stood there, dripping wet, her lips swollen, her body buzzing from sucking him off. He grabbed a towel and tossed it to her, rough but playful.

“Dry off” he said, his voice still low.

“We have got a paintingbto sell!”

She caught the towel, wiping her face and tits, grinning.

“Yeah”

They dressed fast. Clara pulled on tight jeans and a shirt, no bra, her nipples poking through. Elias threw on a dark hoodie, pulling the hood up to cover his face, and a scarf to wrap around his mouth.

“I have to stay low” he said, grabbing the painting, now packed in a black case.

Clara nodded, her heart beating fast. They left the loft, stepping into the cool morning air. Elias waved down a taxi, a beat up yellow car that screeched to a stop. They climbed in, the painting with a covering between them on the seat.

“To the city auction house” Elias told the driver, his voice muffled under the scarf. The driver grunted and drove off.

The ride was bumpy, the city rushing by, cars honking, buildings tall and gray. Clara peeked at Elias, his gray eyes sharp under the hood, watching the road. She felt the heat from the shower still in her bones, her pussy sore but alive. The painting sat quiet, but she knew what was inside, herself, tied up, wild, and dirty.

They got to the auction house, a fancy place with big glass doors and rich people walking in. Elias paid the driver and stepped out, keeping his hood up, face hidden. Clara followed, her boots loud on the pavement. Inside, it smelled like money, perfume, smoke, and polished wood. The room was full, people in suits and dresses chatting loud, holding drinks.

Elias handed the painting to the workers, whispering something Clara couldn’t hear. They took it away, and he pulled her to the back of the room.

“Stay close” he said, his voice low.

The auction started, the crowd buzzing. A skinny man with a loud voice stood up front, banging a hammer. Paintings went fast, some pretty, some weird, selling for thousands. Clara watched, her stomach flipping. Then it was their turn.

The workers brought out the painting and pulled off the cover. The room went quiet, then exploded with gasps and whispers. There she was, Clara, tied to a chair, ropes tight on her wrists and ankles, her hairy pussy spread wide, wet and dripping. Clamps bit her nipples, red and swollen. Her face was wild, mouth open, eyes screaming heat.

“Starting at fifty thousand euros!” the auction man shouted.

Hands flew up.

“Sixty!”

“Seventy five!”

“One hundred!” The numbers jumped fast.

Clara’s heart pounded, her breath short. Elias squeezed her arm, his hood still up, hiding his grin.

“Two hundred!” a fat guy yelled, sweating.

“Three hundred!” a woman in a shiny dress called, her voice sharp.

It climbed higher, four hundred, five hundred, People shouted over each other, eyes locked on the painting. Clara felt hot, seeing how bad they wanted her on that canvas.

Then, a woman stepped forward. She was tall, dressed in black, a mask covering her face black lace, hiding everything but her eyes. She raised a hand, slow and calm.

“One million euros” she said, her voice smooth, cutting through the noise.

The room froze. Everyone stared. Clara’s jaw dropped, her legs shaky.

One million! The auction man blinked, then banged his hammer hard.

“Sold! One million euros to the lady in the mask!”

The crowd clapped and whispered, but the masked lady didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at the painting, her eyes glinting behind the lace. Elias leaned close to Clara, his breath warm on her ear.

“Thats it”

They got the money later, a big check, minus the auction’s cut, still more than Clara could imagine. The masked lady took the painting, disappearing into the crowd, silent and mysterious. Clara watched her go, her mind spinning. Who was she? Why that much?

Back at the loft that night, Elias pulled off his hood and scarf, tossing them aside. He poured two drinks, handing one to Clara.

“To a million euros” he said, tapping her glass, his gray eyes shining.

“To us” she added, smiling, her body still buzzing from the day, the shower, the sale, the mystery lady.

Elias set his glass down, the clink loud in the quiet loft. He pulled the check from his pocket, a big number scribbled on it, one million euros, minus the auction’s share. He looked at Clara, his gray eyes steady, and grinned.

“You’re getting a cut” he said, voice rough but warm.

Clara blinked, her drink halfway to her mouth.

“A cut? Ah yes, how much is it? 500 euros? 1000?”

“Two hundred thousand euros.” he said, leaning back against the table.

“You earned it. That painting’s nothing without you.”

Her jaw dropped, the glass shaking in her hand.

“Two hundred thousand?” she repeated, her voice high and shaky.

“That’s… fuck, Elias, that’s real? Are you insane?”

“Yeah” he said, nodding.

“It’s yours. I’ll get it to you tomorrow, cash, bank, whatever you want.”

Clara put the glass down fast, her hands trembling. Two hundred thousand euros. She did the math in her head quick, years at Sanuu’s Tavern, pouring beers, dodging drunks, scraping by on a few bucks an hour and shitty tips. All that time, she had maybe made ten thousand euros total, if she was lucky. This was more money than she had ever seen, more than she had dreamed of in her whole life.

“Holy shit” she whispered, her eyes wide, a big smile breaking across her face.

“That’s more than I ever got from that damn bar. Way more.”

Elias laughed, low and rough.

“Told you this was better than that shithole. You’re in my world now.”

She stood up, her legs wobbly, and walked over to him, her heart pounding loud.

“Two hundred thousand euros.” she said again, like she needed to hear it out loud.

“I could… fuck, I could do anything. No more sticky floors, no more asshole truckers grabbing my ass. I’m free.”

“Yeah.” he said, pulling her close, his hands on her hips, firm and warm.

“Youre feee…., Clara. But i own you now. And this is just the start.”

Her smile grew, wild and happy, her chest tight with excitement. She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him hard, her tits pressing into his chest.

“Thank you…” she said, her voice cracking a little.

“This is insane. I can’t believe it.”

He hugged her back, his beard brushing her cheek.

“Believe it” he growled, squeezing her ass playful but rough.

“I am the Artist, and you, Clara, you are my muse, my partner”

The loft was dark now, city lights shining through the broken window. Clara and Elias sat close, the whiskey still warm in their throats. The check for a million euros sat on the table. Clara felt excited from the day, the shower, the sale, the mystery lady, and her two hundred thousand euros. She kept smiling, her green eyes bright, her chest full of joy.

Elias put his glass down, making a loud clink. He looked at her, his gray eyes dark and eager, his messy hair falling over his face.

“You did something nice for me this morning” he said, his voice low and rough, moving closer.

“Now it’s my turn.” Elias looked at her as he said.

“To return the favour.“ He continued.

Clara’s heart beat fast, her pussy getting warm quick.

“Oh yeah?” she said, teasing, but her voice shook a bit, her cunt already wet in her jeans.

“Yes” he said, standing up fast. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her off the chair hard, making her gasp.

She bumped into him, her tits touching his chest through her dress. He grinned, wild and mean, then pushed her to the bed.

“Get on” he said, his voice deep and horny.

“Strip” he continued.

She climbed on quick, her knees on the soft bed, breathing fast. She took her clothes off as his commands. Elias picked up a black rope from the floor, the one he used for his art, and moved fast, grabbing her wrists. He pulled them up over her head, tying them tight to the top corners of the bed. The rope bit her skin, leaving, and she couldn’t move her arms at all. Clara moaned quietly.

“Fuck” the sting making her pussy wetter.

“Stay still” he said, his voice rough.

He grabbed more rope, moving to her legs. He pulled her ankles apart, wide, tying each one to the bottom corners of the bed. The ropes were tight, holding her legs open, her body stuck flat on the mattress. She tried to move, but she couldn’t, her pussy spread wide, wet and bare for him. Her heart pounded, her cunt dripping, the helplessness turning her on more.

He stood back, looking at her tied up, his eyes with heat.

“You’re all mine” he growled, kneeling between her legs, his breath hot on her pussy.

Her legs stayed wide, the ropes pulling tight, her wet bush glistening in the dim light.

He grabbed a leather strap from the table and snapped it loud in the air. He dragged the strap slow over her belly, teasing her pussy, then smacked it light on her inner thigh. It stung, and she gasped.

“Ouch!” her body stuck, the heat mixing with the horniness in her pussy.

Then he dropped the strap, his hands grabbing her thighs hard, fingers digging in. He put his face in her pussy fast, his tongue going deep, licking her wet hole rough.

Clara yelled.

“FUCK, ELIAS!” her hips trying to move but locked by the ropes.

His beard scratched her skin, rough and itchy, as he sucked her clit hard, pulling it into his mouth.

Her pussy shook, leaking wet all over his face, her bush soaked and messy. He growled into her, the sound shaking her clit, making her moan loud and dirty.

“Yes, yes!” she shouted, her tied hands pulling at the ropes, her ankles fighting the ties, but she couldn’t budge.

He sucked more, his tongue flicking fast, then slow, playing with her clit until her whole body burned.

“You’re so wet” he said, his lips shiny with her juice, his gray eyes looking up at her.

He pushed two fingers into her pussy, quick and deep, stretching her tight, moving them fast while his mouth kept on her clit. His beard scratched more, and she loved it, her moans getting louder, her body stuck but shaking inside.

“Fuck, Elias!” she gasped, her pussy dripping, her legs wide and helpless.

He sucked harder, his tongue flicking her clit, his fingers going in and out fast. Her cunt tightened, the heat growing big, her breath turning into short cries.

“I’m gonna cum!” she yelled, her voice breaking, her body straining against the ropes.

“Do it” he growled, sucking her clit even more, his fingers pushing deep.

She burst, her pussy spilling wet cum, soaking his face, dripping onto the bed.

She screamed.

“FUCK YES!” her body shaking hard, the ropes holding her still as she came, over and over, wrecked and wild.

Elias kept licking, slow now, his fingers staying inside, making her shake more. She breathed hard, her pussy sore but happy. He pulled back, his face wet, beard dripping, eyes full of heat. He wiped his mouth with his hand, smiling.

“Good girl” he said, voice rough, climbing up to untie her wrists slow, rubbing the red marks soft.

Then her ankles, letting her legs fall free, shaky and weak. She lay there, panting, her body buzzing, wet still leaking from her pussy.

“Damn, Elias” she said, grinning tired but happy.

“You’re too good.”

He laughed, low and dirty, lying next to her, his hand on her belly.

“Just paying you back. And making you mine” he said, kissing her neck soft.

She turned her head, kissing him, tasting herself on his lips.

“I’m all yours” she said, voice scratched.

They laughed together, close in the dark, the night warm around them.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the loft’s broken window, waking Clara and Elias.

They had crashed hard after the wild night, the whiskey, the sex, the sale still buzzing in their heads. Clara stretched, her body sore but happy, her eyes catching the light. Elias rolled over, his messy dark hair falling into his eyes, grinning at her.

“Morning” Clara said while blushing looking into his eyes.

“Have you slept well?“ He asked.

”More than I can explain.“ She said while biting her lower lip.

They got up slow, pulling on clothes. They were sipping coffee, the check for a million euros sitting on the table, when a loud knock hit the door. Clara jumped a little, coffee splashing. Elias frowned, setting his mug down.

“Who’s that?” he muttered.

He opened the door, and a tall man in a dark suit stood there, his face hard, his accent thick, Russian, Clara thought.

“Mr. Elias?” he said.

“Yes, what do you want” Elias answered.

“My boss wants to see you. She’s outside.”

Clara stepped closer, her heart beating fast.

“Your boss?” she asked.

“The lady who bought your painting” the man said, moving aside.

“She has something to talk about. Come.”

Elias looked at Clara, his eyes curious but careful.

“What’s this about?”

“She’ll tell you” the man said.

“This way.”

They grabbed their jackets and followed him out, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling up. A shiny black car waited at the curb, and there she was, the lady in black from the auction.

She wore a long coat, dark glasses hiding her eyes, looking strong and mysterious. She smiled a little.

“Elias” she said, her voice smooth with a Russian edge.

She looked at Clara.

“You must be the woman who's in that art piece”

“My name is clara” she said

The black ladies eyes rolled on to Elias.

“I’m Anastasia. Thanks for coming. I have a job for you, something big.”

Clara’s stomach flipped.

“What kind of job?”

Anastasia pointed to the car.

“Let’s talk inside. My place is close.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other, Clara unsure, Elias intrigued, but they got in.

The car sped off, taking them to a fancy house outside the city, surrounded by gates and trees. Inside, it was rich and dark, art on the walls, some sexy, some strange. Anastasia led them to a room with big chairs and poured vodka into glasses.

“Your painting got to me” she said, handing them drinks. It’s raw, strong, special. I want you to make more, Elias, with Clara in them. Darker stuff, wilder than before.”

Elias’s eyes lit up.

“More paintings? For what?”

“A secret club I’m starting” Anastasia said.

“Private, for special people who like danger and fun. Your art would make it stand out, hot, bold, one of a kind.”

Clara liked the idea, but something felt off.

“What kind of club?” she asked.

Anastasia’s smile got tight.

“A place where art meets secrets. But there’s more. I need your help with something… for me.”

Elias leaned in, interested. “What?”

She took a sip of vodka, then looked at them hard.

“My husband’s a big deal, too big. He’s in the Russian mafia, runs bad things. I want to leave him, but I need something to use against him. Your paintings can do that.”

Clara’s breath stopped.

“How?”

““Put secret messages in them” Anastasia said.

“Codes, hidden so he won’t see, about his crimes, money stuff, bad deals. If I get those to the right people, I’m free.”

Elias grinned, excited.

“Codes in the art? That’s crazy.”

“You can do it” Anastasia said, sure.

“I know your work, Elias. And Clara, you make it too good to ignore. He’ll never guess.”

Clara’s head spun.

“But if he finds out”

“He won’t,” Anastasia said fast.

“Not till it’s done. You’ll get lots of money, more than before, and I’ll keep you safe. Plus, your names will get big in art.”

They sat quiet, the air heavy. Elias didn’t say anything, his face hard to read.

Clara bit her lip, nervous.

“It’s dangerous.” she said.

“We don’t know this world.”

Anastasia nodded slow.

“I know it’s a lot. I don’t need an answer now. Think about it, talk it over. If you want in, I’ll make it worth it. If not, we part here.”

She pulled a small card from her coat, black, with a gold phone number on it.

“Take this” she said, handing it to Elias.

“Call me when you’re ready. Day or night, I’ll pick up. But don’t wait too long, I’m running out of time.”

Elias took the card, holding it loose, still silent. Anastasia stood up, finishing her vodka.

“Let’s go” she said.

“I’ll drop you back.”

They followed her out, the big house feeling darker now. The car ride was quiet, Anastasia staring out her window, Clara and Elias side by side, the card between them. The city rolled by, loud and bright, but inside felt heavy. The car stopped at their loft, the broken window glowing above.

“Think hard” Anastasia said as they got out.

“You’re special, I need that. Call me.” She nodded, and the car drove off, gone in the night.

Back inside, Clara kicked off her shoes, her mind buzzing. Elias tossed the card on the table and sat on the bed, staring at it.

“Russian mafia” he said, voice low, no grin this time.

“That’s a whole new game.”

Clara sat next to him, pulling her knees up.

“She’s not kidding, Elias. Codes in paintings? Taking down her husband? That’s not just risky it’s crazy.”

He rubbed his face, his beard scratching his hand.

“Yeah” he said, his gray eyes lighting up a little.

“But it’s not about the money for me. It’s the rush, hiding secrets in art, playing with danger.“

“But I won’t drag you in unless you’re sure.”

She squeezed his hand back, her heart racing.

“Let’s sleep on it” she said.

“Think it through. It’s your thrill, but it’s my life too.”

“Fair” he said, pulling her close, his arm around her.

“We decide together.”

The next afternoon, the loft felt stuffy, the air thick with their thoughts. Clara got up, stretching, her body still buzzing from everything. She walked to the kitchen corner, looking for something to drink. The whiskey bottle was empty, just a drop left. She sighed, shaking it.

“We’re out of drinks” she said, turning to Elias.

He looked up, grinning a little.

“Guess you’re making a run then.”

Clara rolled her eyes but smiled.

“Yeah, fine. Sanuu’s it is. Need anything?”

“Just you back quick” he said, his voice low, teasing.

“Don’t get lost in your old life.”

She grabbed her jacket.

“I wont…” she said, heading out.

The walk to Sanuu’s Tavern was short, the familiar street loud with trucks and dirt. The old bar looked the same, grimy, smoky, a hole she had escaped. Her boots hit the wooden floor, and the smell hit her, beer, sweat, and stale fries.

Behind the counter wasn’t her old boss or anyone she knew. It was a girl, young, maybe 18, with big blue eyes and soft blonde hair tied back loose. She wore a tight apron over a simple dress, her hands shaky as she poured a beer. She looked innocent, like she didn’t belong, soft cheeks, a nervous smile, no edge to her. Clara’s stomach twisted. That used to be me, she thought.

“Hey” Clara said, stepping up.

“You new here?”

The girl jumped a little, spilling some beer, then blushed.

“Oh, um, yeah” she said, her voice small and sweet.

“I’m Lily. Started last week. You want something?”

“Whiskey”

Clara said, leaning on the counter.

“Bottle, not a shot.”

Lily nodded quick, turning to grab it from the shelf, her hands fumbling. Clara watched her, feeling a strange mix of pity and memory. She was so green too pure for this dump. The bar was almost empty just 2 truckers laughing loud, their eyes already on Lily like wolves.

Lily handed over the bottle, her fingers brushing Clara’s.

“Here” she said, smiling shy.

“That’s… um, 20 euros.”

Clara pulled out cash, her eyes scanning the room. Two big guys in check shirts sat close, their beers half gone, staring at Lily’s ass as she turned. One of them, a bald guy with a thick beard, grinned nasty, nudging his friend. Clara’s jaw tightened. She knew that look.

“Thanks, Lily” Clara said, pocketing the change.

She didn’t move yet, watching. Lily wiped the counter, clueless, her dress hugging her hips too tight for this place.

The bald guy stood, swaggering over, his boots loud.

“Hey, sweetheart” he said, voice rough and slimy.

“You’re new, huh? Real pretty too.” He leaned close, his hand sliding onto Lily’s arm, gripping it light but firm.

Lily froze, her blue eyes wide, a scared little laugh slipping out.

“Oh, um, thanks ” she said, stepping back, but he didn’t let go. Her innocence made it worse she didn’t know how to push back.

Clara’s blood heated, her fists clenching. She remembered those hands, grubby, entitled, grabbing her ass when she worked here. The other trucker laughed, egging it on.

“Come on, girl, don’t be shy” he said, standing too, moving behind Lily.

His hand brushed her waist, then lower, squeezing her hip.

Lily squeaked.

“Please, I…. I’m just working” her voice shaking, her face red.

She tried to twist away, but they boxed her in, the bald guy’s fingers digging into her arm now, the other one pressing against her back.

“Aw, relax” the bald guy said, his breath stinking of beer.

“We’re just having fun.” His hand slid down, grabbing her ass hard, making her gasp.

Clara snapped.

“Hey!” she barked, stepping forward, her voice sharp.

“Back the fuck off her.”

The bald guy laughed, loud and nasty, stepping closer instead of backing off.

“Oh, you’re a tough one, huh?” he said, his voice slimy.

His buddy, a big guy with a scarred face, moved fast, grabbing Clara’s arm hard. She swung the bottle, but he caught her wrist, twisting it till she dropped it. The glass smashed on the floor, whiskey splashing everywhere.

“Let me go!” Clara yelled, kicking at him.

But the bald guy lunged, grabbing her hair tight, yanking her head back. She gasped, pain shooting through her scalp as he dragged her toward the back of the bar, her boots scraping the wood.

Lily screamed.

“No!” her voice high and scared.

But the scarred guy turned on her, snatching her blonde hair in his fist. She stumbled, crying out as he pulled her along, her small body no match for his size.

“Stop, please!” she begged, tears streaming down her soft face.

“Shut up” the bald guy growled, shoving Clara against the bar’s back wall.

He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her, his thick fingers digging into her skin. He pulled a dirty rope from his pocket and tied her hands tight, the knots biting hard. She yanked against it, but it held, her arms stuck, her chest heaving.

“Watch this, you cunt.” he spat, his breath smelled like shit on her face.

“Your little friend’s ours now.”

Lily sobbed, thrashing as the scarred guy pinned her to a table nearby, her apron tearing as he grabbed at it.

“No, no, please!” she cried, her innocent blue eyes wide with terror.

He ripped her dress open, buttons popping off, showing her pale skin and plain bra. She tried to cover herself, but he slapped her hands away, laughing low and cruel.

“Pretty little thing.” he said, his hands rough on her shoulders, pushing her down harder.

The bald guy turned back to Clara, smirking, grabbing her chin to force her to look.

“See? You can’t stop us.”

Clara’s heart pounded, rage and fear mixing hot in her chest.

“You bastards!” she shouted, pulling at the ropes, her wrists burning.

Lily’s whimpers filled the air, her dress half off, the truckers’ hands greedy and mean. The bar was empty nobody to help, just the smoke and the stench of beer.

The scarred guy tugged at Lily’s bra, snapping a strap, her soft cries turning into choked sobs. “So innocent” he mocked, his fingers tracing her skin, making her shake.

Clara’s stomach twisted, she had been here before, helpless, but now it was worse, watching Lily break.

“Stop it!” Clara yelled again, her voice cracking, kicking at the bald guy’s leg. He snarled, slapping her face hard, the sting sharp, her cheek red.

“Keep quiet” he warned, his hand hovering like he would hit again.

The scarred guy held Lily down on the table, her torn dress hanging off her shoulders, her pale skin shaking under his rough hands. Her blonde hair was a mess, pulled loose from his grip, and her blue eyes were wet with tears, wide with fear.

“Please, stop” she whispered, her voice small and shaky, her hands pushing weak against him.

“Quiet” he growled, his scarred hand covering her mouth, cutting off her cries.

He tugged her bra down slow, the straps already broken, letting it slip past her chest, showing her soft breasts, pale and trembling. She squirmed, her legs kicking, but he pressed his knee hard between them, pinning her still.

“So pretty” he said, his voice low and mean, his fingers brushing her neck, then sliding lower, squeezing her breast hard. She whimpered into his hand, her body stiff with panic.

Clara grabbed at the ropes, her wrists raw, her voice rough.

“Let her go, you animals!” she shouted, her green eyes burning, her cheek red from the slap.

The bald guy smirked, grabbing her hair again, twisting it tight to make her watch.

“She’s ours now” he said, his breath sour, stepping closer to Lily.

He grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg wide, her dress ripping more, sliding up to show her thighs and the edge of her underwear. Lily sobbed louder, her cries muffled, her body helpless as the scarred guy leaned over her, his hand moving down her side, tearing the dress further until it hung off her waist.

The scarred guy pulled his hand from her mouth, letting her gasp, and gripped her chin hard, forcing her face up.

“Look at me.” he snarled, his fingers digging into her jaw, leaving red marks. His other hand slid to her belly, then lower, hooking the edge of her underwear, tugging it down just enough to bare her hips.

“You’re too sweet for this.” he mocked, his knee pressing harder, spreading her legs more as he shifted his weight, his belt clinking as he started to undo it.

Lily’s voice broke.

“No, please, I…I can’t” her words fading into sobs, her body limp now, too scared to fight. The bald guy laughed, his hand running up her thigh, squeezing, his eyes flicking to Clara like it was a game.

“Watch this,” he said, his voice thick, stepping back to let his buddy take over.

Clara’s chest heaved, her rage choking her.

“You’re dead!” she screamed, pulling at the ropes until her skin tore, her heart slamming.

Lily’s soft cries filled the smoky bar, her breasts exposed, her dress a ruin, the truckers hands all over her, stripping her down. The scarred guy grinned, his belt loose now, his pants shifting as he leaned closer, his breath heavy, ready to force himself on her….

He took his penis out, and Lily sobbed louder, her innocence crushed by the reality of men like this. He started touching her breast, his fingers rough and greedy, and the other trucker grabbed her thigh, his hand sliding up, pushing her leg wider.

Clara pulled and pulled, her wrists bloody, the rope tearing into her.

It was hopeless. They were gonna rape Lily and get away with it, the world too sick and brutal for someone sweet.

A scream built in Clara, her rage turning into fury, her blood hot and thick, her body shaking, her hands twisting

A loud bang cut through the air. The bar door slammed open, and there she was, Anastasia, the lady in black, her long coat swirling, still with her face mask on, only her eyes was visible, her eyes sharp and cold. Behind her stood the tall Russian man from before, his hand on a gun at his hip, his face hard. The truckers froze, the scarred guy’s hand still on Lily, his belt half undone.

“Enough” Anastasia said, her voice like ice, cutting the room dead.

She stepped forward, her heels clicking, her presence filling the bar.

“Let them go. Now.”

The bald guy blinked, his smirk fading fast.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, but his voice shook. The scarred guy stepped back from Lily, his hands up slow, fear creeping in.

Anastasia’s eyes flicked to the truckers, hard and mean.

“Touch them again, and you won’t walk out of here” she said, her Russian accent thick with threat.

The tall man stepped closer, his gun out now, pointed low but ready. The truckers backed off fast, muttering curses.

Clara held Lily, her eyes fierce but soft for the girl.

“You’re okay” she whispered, helping her sit up, covering her with the ripped apron. Lily nodded, trembling, her face buried in Clara’s shoulder.

Anastasia turned to Clara, her voice cold and flat.

“I’ve been watching your steps” she said, her eyes narrow.

“I won’t always have your back, Clara. You should take care.” Her tone was a warning, sharp and distant, like she knew more than she let on.

Clara’s breath caught, her anger mixing with a chill.

“You were watching me?” she asked, her voice low, holding Lily tight.

Anastasia didn’t answer, just handed her a fresh card, black, gold numbers glinting.

“Think about my offer” she said, her gaze hard.

“Call me, or don’t. Your choice.” She turned to leave, her man following, his gun still out, the truckers shrinking back as she passed.

Then she paused, glancing at the driver, a stocky guy in a dark cap waiting by the door. She leaned close, whispering low so Clara couldn’t hear.

The driver nodded, his face blank, stepping forward.

“Come” he said to Clara, his voice rough but steady.

“I take you home.”

Clara pulled Lily up, her legs wobbly, wrapping the torn apron tight around her.

“You’re with me” she said, her voice firm, grabbing the whiskey bottle still whole somehow.

Lily clung to her, nodding fast, her soft face wet with tears. They followed the driver out, the bar’s stink fading as the cold air hit them. The black car waited, engine humming soft, and they slid in, Lily pressed close to Clara, shaking.

“Drop them to that loft. I have a matter to solve”

Anastasia went back to the two truckers who had dared touch Lily and the Russian man.

She looked at the guy who was with her with the gun.

"Make them suffer while torturing them I want to see them getting tortured." she said.

"I will make sure they get what they deserve." the Russian man said.

"Good, It will be a special treat." Anastasia said.

The truckers tried to run, their boots sliding on the wet floor, but the Russian was too quick.

He grabbed the bald guy by the neck, his big hand squeezing tight, and smashed his face into the bar counter. The wood broke with a loud snap, and the guy’s nose cracked, blood shooting out everywhere. He screamed.

“No, wait!” his voice loud and scared, but the Russian didn’t stop.

He pulled a long, thin knife from his belt, old, rusty, and sharp enough to hurt bad. He took the bald guy’s hand, pressed it flat on the counter, and pushed the knife in slow. It went through the skin, deep into the meat, scraping the bone. The guy yelled, his voice all shaky and wet, blood coming out thick and red, dripping down. The Russian twisted the knife, real slow, making it hurt more, tearing the inside of the hand. The guy’s fingers shook, blood pooling on the floor, his cries turning into loud sobs.

“You like touching? Huh?” Anastasia said, while enjoying the show, cold voice, cold eyes, sitting on a chair, legs crossed on each other.

He pulled the knife out, blood splashing, and grabbed a hammer from backside of the bar, heavy, and rough. He smashed it down on the guy’s other hand, slow and hard. The bones broke with a loud crunch, turning to mush under the skin. The bald guy screamed, his arm jumping, the hand all smashed and bloody, bits of bone sticking out. The Russian hit again, then again, taking his time, letting the pain grow big. The guy’s yells turned to choking noises, blood and spit dripping from his mouth.

The scarred guy tried to fight, throwing a punch, but the Russian grabbed his arm and twisted it hard. It popped loud, his shoulder broke right out of place. The guy yelled and fell, but the Russian kicked his knee sideways, snapping it with a big crack, the leg bending all wrong.

He dragged him up by the hair, smashing his head into the wall, dust falling, then pulled out some slim iron wire, sharp and rusty. He wrapped it around the scarred guy’s wrists, pulling it tight and slow. The spikes cut deep, ripping the skin open, blood running down fast. The guy cried, his hands shaking, the wire digging into the bone.

“Sit” the Russian said, cold, pushing him into a chair.

He took some old pliers, dirty, with rough edges, and grabbed the scarred guy’s ear. He squeezed slow, twisting hard, pulling the ear off with a wet sound. Blood poured down the guy’s neck, his screams high and broken, his whole body shaking from the pain.

The Russian stepped back to the bald guy, who was crawling, dragging his smashed leg, crying.

“Please, no more!” The Russian grabbed his hair, yanking him up, and smashed his face into the counter again, teeth breaking, blood splattering. He took that thin wire, sharp and shiny, and looped it around the guy’s neck, pulling it tight, real slow. The wire cut in, skin splitting open, blood bubbling out. The bald guy gagged, his eyes popping big, his tongue sticking out as he choked. The Russian pulled harder, the wire sinking deeper, tearing through, blood pouring like a river. The guy shook hard, then went still, his neck all cut up, a messy, bloody hole.

Back to the scarred guy, the Russian grinned dark. He took his knife and stabbed it into the guy’s leg, slow, twisting it in the muscle. Blood soaked his pants, the guy crying weak now. The Russian pulled it out and stabbed again, higher, letting the pain build. Then he grabbed a broken bottle from the floor, the glass sharp and jagged, and slammed it into the guy’s chest, twisting it deep. Blood sprayed out, the guy gasping, his eyes rolling back. The Russian yanked it out and stabbed again, slow, ripping the skin wide, guts showing through the hole. The guy shook one last time, then fell dead, blood all over, the glass stuck in him.

Anastasia stood there, her mask hiding her face, her eyes cold and sharp through the slits. She watched the Russian man step back, his hands red, the knife and pliers dripping, his boots leaving bloody prints. She nodded once, slow, then turned to him, her voice icy and calm.

“Arrange a car for me” she said, her Russian accent cutting through the silence.

“And clean up this mess before someone comes in.”

The Russian man wiped his hands on his coat, leaving dark smears, and grunted.

“Yes, boss.” He pulled a phone from his pocket, barking quick words in Russian, his voice rough. Then he grabbed the bald guy’s legs, dragging him toward the back, the body leaving a wet red trail on the floor. He kicked the scarred guy’s chair over, the corpse thumping down, and started pulling him too, the blood smearing wider, bits of glass crunching under his boots.

Anastasia didn’t wait. She walked out, her heels clicking loud, her long coat brushing the floor, leaving the bar behind like nothing happened. Outside, the black car rolled up fast.

She slid in, her mask still on, her eyes forward, already thinking about the next move. The car sped off, disappearing into the night, the bar’s mess left for the Russian to fix.

Meanwhile, back at the loft, the driver’s car pulled up to the curb, the broken window glowing faint above. Clara helped Lily out, her legs still shaky, the torn apron barely covering her. The whiskey bottle dangled in Clara’s hand, her wrists bloody and raw from the ropes. The driver didn’t say much, just muttered.

“Out” his cap low, his face blank. He drove off quick, leaving them standing there, the cold air biting.

Clara pushed the loft door open, slamming it shut behind them. She dropped the bottle on the table with a loud clunk, her breath fast and hard. Elias jumped up from the bed, his sketchbook falling,ropes, dark lines, her shape, his gray eyes wide as he saw her, then Lily.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice steady but tight, standing slow. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for Clara’s arm, touching it light, his fingers brushing her bloody wrists. His eyes flicked to Lily, her torn dress, her soft face wet with tears, her blonde hair tangled, then back to Clara, worry creasing his brow just a little.

Elias’s grin came slow, dark, but it stayed small, his eyes serious. He nodded, his hand sliding to her cheek, rough but warm, resting there a second.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone low, not pushing, just checking.

“Yeah” Clara said, letting out a long breath, her green eyes tired but sharp.

“I’m fine. But Lily’s not. She’s staying here, done with that place.” She grabbed a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around Lily, who sat quiet, curling into herself, her big blue eyes staring at nothing.

Elias watched her do it, his jaw tight, his hand dropping from Clara’s face.

“Those assholes” he muttered, low, looking at Lily, then back at Clara.

“You sure you’re good? Your wrists look rough.”

“They’ll heal.” Clara said, flexing her hands, wincing a bit.

“Just rope burns. I’m more mad than hurt.” She sat next to Lily, pulling her close, protective.

Elias nodded again, sitting across the table, his eyes moving between them.

“Glad you’re back” he said, his voice calm but real, a quiet worry there.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle, unscrewing it slow, pouring two cups.

“Drink.” he said, sliding one to her.

“Looks like you need it.”

Clara took it, her fingers brushing his, giving him a small, tired smile.

“Yeah” she said, sipping, the burn cutting through her nerves.

“Lily’s safe now. That’s what matters.”