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“Do you understand what sort of a man I am Sansa?”
She paused to really think for a moment before responding. “Yes, I think that I do understand,” she said in measured tones.
“I’m not sure that you do Sansa. The payment that will be required for what you’re asking. What it really means to be indebted to a man like me.”
As he regarded her, Petyr shifted forward to lean with laced fingers upon the desk separating them. She shrank under his scrutiny, studying the gilt buttons on his suit for a moment to avoid his dark gaze.
“Do you know what a sadist is Sansa?” The way that he kept repeating her name was very pointed, grounding her to this conversation so that there could be no uncertainty that it was her to whom he was speaking.
“I do,” she replied, breath hitching as his eyes bored deep into her core, their usual grey turned to black by shadow or something worse. She wondered now at the darkness of his office, two isolated lamps providing the only sources of light in the massive space.
“How experienced would you say you are you sexually?” he asked her, unmoved by the almost imperceptible blush that stole across her cheeks at his words. “On a scale from 1 to 10,” he prompted unhelpfully.
“I’m not sure I’d know how to rate it,” she said, reflecting upon a brief history of less than exemplary sexual encounters with skepticism.
“One would be run-of-the-mill single partner intercourse, whereas something higher than a five, let's say, might be a forced or restrained multiple partner situation. Painplay. Humiliation.”
Sansa tried to hide her surprise at how calmly he spoke of such things. “A-a two then,” she said with a quiet stammer. She had never been especially adventurous, but Margaery had used her ass a few times when they'd been together.
“And you know that I would do things to you that you most definitely will not want me to? Things that will hurt you. Things that might make you incredibly ashamed of yourself. Things that might ruin you for anyone else.”
“Yes,” Sansa tried to say, but when no sound came out she merely nodded. The way he spoke to her was overbearing, ruthless as he cut her with sharp reminders of her own youth and naïveté.
Petyr regarded her for a few moments in silence before addressing her again. “I think you should go Sansa.”
“Please no,” she begged, spurred into action by his dismissal. “Whatever you want from me, I’ll do it.” Then more firmly: “Whatever you do to me, I’ll take it.” There was a resolve upon her face that she did not feel, an awareness that she was making a promise she didn’t know if she could keep. But conviction had coursed through her, forcing her to rise to her feet as she spoke.
Now Petyr was standing too, rounding the desk to encroach upon her with anger. Sansa looked up into his face with wide-eyed terror, desperately struggling to swallow a mouthful of air even before his hand closed around her throat. His long, elegant fingers impossibly strong. She froze under his grasp, his face scant centimetres from her own when he addressed her.
“Are you afraid of me?” A question that Sansa took for rhetoric eventually demanded to be answered by the lengthening tableau playing out between them. Unable to vocalize a response she nodded against his grip with some difficulty.
“Good. You should be. Because you are so unbelievably out of your depths,” Petyr snarled, punctuating the last few words with violent jerks of his arm that shook her whole frame. “Coming here to whore yourself out to pay your debts; you disgust me. Do you know what sorts of things I could do to punish you? That if I wanted inside of you right now I could just take you. Fuck you wherever and however I wanted, even without your consent. Use you until you were so sore you could barely walk. That it would give me the same amount of pleasure either way,” he spat harshly, eyes glittering with malice.
Tears were now rolling freely down Sansa’s cheeks. Her fingers struggled uselessly against his chokehold which he only released once she had stopped resisting. While she tenderly massaged the bruised column of her throat, Petyr returned to his desk.
“Go home little cat,” he commanded firmly, his allusion to her mother not lost on her.
“Uncle Petyr I–“ The look he silenced her with was venomous and she almost complied without even thinking twice. But remembering the very real stakes of her success, Sansa tried to muster all the dignity her tearstained face could convey before she spoke again. When she did it was to express an unwavering commitment unaffected by the hoarse rasp that resulted from her partially crushed windpipe. “Failure isn’t an option for me. I’ll beg. Cry. Get on my knees if I have to,” her provocative choice of words a strategic innuendo to move him. “You are the only way I can get myself out of this. My family can never know, so I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Petyr looked thoughtful, shutting his eyes and drawing a deep breath as he decided her fate. He was so close to everything he’d ever wanted, but this girl, he knew, could undo him. “There will be a great many rules,” he said calmly.
“Naturally.”
“And you will do everything I tell you to. You will belong to me absolutely.”
“I’m yours,” she affirmed quietly. Knowing that she had completed the mission she set out to achieve, there was now more room for fear to blossom within her. Speculation on the inescapable certainty of an unknown future.
“Say it again,” he said. Lost in reflection, it took her a moment to realize what he wanted.
“I’m yours,” she said, emphasizing both syllables, heart still fluttering in a throat that was already beginning to show the mark of his handprint. A florid stain of dominion upon the ivory expanse of her skin.
“Take off your clothes,” he commanded, voice a low growl.
“What?” Sansa’s eyes went wide as she felt herself launched back into peril.
“You heard what I said. Consider this a probationary task.”
When Sansa made no movement to comply, Petyr brought a palm down upon the desktop. She regarded him plaintively, visibly shaking.
“Take. Off. Your. Clothes,” he repeated with menace. “Because I can assure you that you will not like it if I have to come around this desk again to do it for you.”
Her black trench coat came off first. Then the black velour top. Dark wash jeans. Leather boots. Sheer trouser socks. When she was down to her matching dark green underwear set she hesitated, feeling the sense of nervousness she usually associated with having a lover see her naked for the first time. Despite herself, Sansa felt a thrill of anticipation. Petyr’s eyes never left her during the entire process.
“Jewellery too,” he directed after she had slid her panties to the floor. She placed a watch, a ring, and a fine gold chain neatly at the corner of the enormous desk.
Once he was satisfied that she was completely divested of every ornament he leaned back heavily in his chair.
“Come sit on the desk in front of me.”
There was still apprehension, but now less hesitance when she obeyed each command. An aptitude for following instructions that she could already sense was pleasing to him. Once she had hoisted herself gracelessly onto the tabletop she watched him and waited for further direction. She made no move to cover herself, blush only deepening as Petyr appraised her. Without preamble, he adjusted her legs so that her heels rested on the edge of the desk and she was spread open for him.
“Touch yourself,” he said calmly.
“Wh-Where…?” she asked, not wishing to displease him by making the wrong move as she raised herself awkwardly onto one elbow, the better to see him comfortably framed between her knees.
“Your cunt.”
Her breath came shakily when she inhaled. She registered excitement at the detached way he spoke to her, his clinical demeanour present even now. Sansa brought her fingers up to her lips to moisten them, an action that was unnecessary when she reached down into her folds and found them already slick with arousal.
A moan escaped her after the first few caresses, eyelids flickering closed.
“Look at me,” Petyr said, and when she did his expression only heightened her pleasure. Made her gasp as she teased herself, imagining that it was him who pressed firmly at her clit, him who breached the tight entrance of her cunt and fingered her steadily.
She felt an orgasm build swiftly within her and without thinking anything of it, let climax overtake her, falling back onto the polished surface of the desk as she lost control. When the crescendo began to ebb away Sansa sensed danger as she registered the figure now looming above her prostrate form. In one fluid movement he yanked her arm so roughly she felt thankful her shoulder did not dislocate. She teetered on the edge of the desk, upper arm still trapped in the cage of his fingers.
“Don’t you ever cum without my permission,” he said finally. "Not when we're together, not when we're apart." The anger in his voice was chilling. She worried that if his grip tightened any more her bones might fracture. Her heart raced with genuine terror and before she fully mastered the feeling he brought his other hand back and slapped her full in the face.
Shock flooded Sansa’s body. But being hit in the wake of a sexual act also flooded her with something else which was more difficult to identify.
“Get on your knees,” Petyr commanded. Sansa slid down onto the plush carpet without a second thought. “Open your mouth.”
The hard length of his cock forced its way between her lips and into her throat, both hands now knotted in auburn to steer her movements. Sansa went wide-eyed as she choked at the intrusion, but Petyr didn’t relent. He fucked into her viciously. Spit poured copiously from her open mouth as she spluttered with distress and struggled to breathe though her nose, eyes going red as they watered with exertion. Her hands clawed at his thighs in futility.
After what felt like hours she eventually felt his pace stutter. Then he was sheathing himself deeply within her as he came, the salty taste of him exploding on the back of her tongue.
When he pulled out, strings of drool and semen stuck to her chin and sluiced from his shining cock as he stood over her like a conqueror. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish he proceeded to clean himself off before tucking his softening cock back into his trousers.
Petyr regarded Sansa with a mask of disdain, the pitiful hump she now lay collapsed in repulsive to him. A hollow ringing moved from her ears to her entire body as shame welled up from within. When he finally did address her it was cruel and dismissive, tone a promise of the many torments to come, words typical of the degrading relationship that would grow between them.
“Put on your clothes and get out. I don’t allow whores in my office.”
Sansa made her way home in a whirlwind of conflicting emotion, barely able to vocalize due to the brutalization she had endured. She had secured her loan and Petyr's confidence, but at what cost? Most troubling of all, Sansa kept lingering not on the trauma of the violence that had been exercised upon her, but rather on a growing desire to explore where the continuation of these encounters might bring her.