The black limousine glides like a shadow over the estate’s gravel drive. Leather seats cradle me, cool and supple against my thighs under the little black dress. Too tight, hugging every curve I wish hidden tonight. A replacement for Chloé, at her future boss’s dinner. Fuck.
The chauffeur, ebony-skinned and ancient, offers his gloved hand. I step out, Miss Daisy in this antebellum monstrosity—columns soaring white against manicured lawns, stables whispering of thoroughbreds. No cotton fields, but the air reeks of old money.
The Privilege
Announced as Madame Juliette G, friend of absent Chloé. Eyes slide past me. I snag vodka from the rustic bar—pure, no ice. Tasteless swill in a crystal tumbler. Revives my spite. Guests chatter: ‘Oh darling, yes!’ Laughter like breaking glass. No one sees me. Invisible in my simple sheath amid their diamonds and Botox.
The butler—tall as death, skeletal, pallid—warns: thirteen at table. Superstition. I’m the thirteenth. My lucky number. Hunger gnaws.
Upstairs, the dining room dazzles. Mahogany table thick as my thigh spans three meters. Silverware labyrinth, crystal goblets brimming ruby wine—warm, flat vintage. Lustres drip false candlelight. No appetizers. Starving, I sip the dreck.
Obese ancient across from me. Witch-laugh to my left, blade-face eyes bulging. Plastic-titted Cruella right, tapping knife on empty glass. Agony.
‘Welcome!’ Booms the voice. Hannibal. He leans over my shoulder, breath hot on my neck. ‘Chloé’s absence? No loss—you’re delectable, Juliette.’ Plastic bitch whines for food.
‘You exist for me now,’ he murmurs. Guests stare. Silence thick. ‘Don’t play with the food.’ Eyes devour me. Lamb to slaughter.
Dinner drags—caviar finally arrives, pearls bursting salty on my tongue. But Hannibal’s hand brushes my knee under damask cloth. Signals ripple. Guests smirk, complicit.
The Excess
He leads me away mid-course. Private wing. Double doors swing to a chamber of excess: four-poster bed swathed in silk, walls paneled walnut, fire roaring in marble hearth. Champagne chills in silver bucket—real this time, crisp bubbles exploding golden.
‘You replace her perfectly,’ he growls, stripping my dress. Fabric whispers down, pooling black. His fingers—strong, veined—grip my hips. I hate it, crave it. Elite game.
He shoves me onto silk sheets, cool against fevered skin. Mouth claims mine, tongue invasive, whiskey-sharp. Hands everywhere—pinching nipples hard, twisting till I gasp. ‘Thirteenth slut.’ I buck as he spreads me, fingers plunging deep, wet sounds obscene in opulence.
Cock massive, veined like the table legs. Rams in raw—no mercy. I claw his back, nails drawing blood on starched shirt. Thrusts brutal, bedframe groaning like the mansion’s ghosts. Sweat slicks us; his grunts animal. I come screaming, walls clenching, juices soaking Egyptian cotton.
He flips me, ass high. Slaps echo—red welts bloom. Fucks harder, balls slapping. Fills me hot, spilling down thighs. Collapses, spent.
Whispers of more guests later. But now, quiet. He dresses, leaves cash—insulting, thrilling. Butler escorts me to a guest suite: marble bath steaming, robe plush. Vodka refills, perfect now.
Dawn breaks over the estate. Limousine waits. Secret sealed in these walls—thick, unyielding. No glass, but mirrors reflect my flushed triumph. Chloé’s job secured. Mine? Eternal hunger.
