Trent and Wren. Episode 4

This story will make much more sense if you have read the previous episodes.

Jack’s fingers trembled as he fastened the clasp of Wren’s choker in their dim hallway mirror. “You look…” His voice cracked. The peach lace stood stark against her throat, the altered dress clinging to her hips with its scandalous translucency. She hadn’t spoken since stepping into it, letting Trent’s choices silence her.

Jonny’s penthouse pulsed with bass when they arrived. Men in tailored suits appraised her with slow, hungry sweeps— their gazes lingering on the exposed curve of her back, the way the stockings’ seams drew attention to her thighs. Jack’s grip on her elbow tightened, possessive. “Stay close,” he muttered.

Wren kept her eyes lowered, the choker pressing reminders into her skin with each swallow. Her heels clicked on the honey marble— and then Jonny materialised before them, whiskey tumbler in hand. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Finally.” His fingers brushed her hip, testing the lace panel’s thinness. Wren flinched.

Jack cleared his throat. “Sir, about—”

Jonny silenced him with a raised hand, never breaking eye contact with Wren. The bass throbbed through the floor as he traced the choker’s edge with his thumb.

“Be quiet, Jack. I’ll talk with Wren later. Alone. Enjoy the party.”

Jack’s colleagues approached, a small gang. Staring at her, joshing him; some of them hard-eyed, others almost intimidated.

Some of these boys will be raping me, soon.

She was trembling, looking at the floor, feeling surreal, dissociated.

I can’t … I can’t manage this. Why isn’t Trent here?

A voice at her shoulder;

“Off you go, guys! I’ll look after Wren for you, Jack.”

Jonny’s wife, Matta— Swedish, tall, willowy, her eyes hard, knowing. She had been a Vogue cover model, twice, and a Victoria’s Secret girl.

She gestured Wren to follow her, leading her to a quieter room, the hum of the party muffled, had Wren sit while she brought a drink;

“Mostly fizzy water; you need to pace yourself.”

A long silence, Matta’s eyes on Wren, Wren’s gaze soon unable to meet the other woman’s. Then, needful, urgent, she lifted her head again, asking a question with her eyes, her face pale, fear showing as Matta readied herself to speak.

“These men will eat you alive if you let them, Wren. And your Jack is weak. A fool, for all his cleverness. Jonny knows just how to manage the Jacks of this world, have them work like dogs for him. And they even love him for it. Sure, it makes them rich— and Jonny even richer— the bank, most of all. The way it is.”

“But you, Wren. You didn’t ask for this. You’re not weak, not in the same way, but you are vulnerable. Jonny wants you. I see it. And what Jonny wants, Jonny gets, mostly. I’m just telling you, so that you know. If you don’t run, now; leave the party, Jonny will have you. I will know. Everything. You are just another little girl. A vulnerable girl who Jonny will use. Nothing more. Don’t ever get any ideas beyond that.”

“Do. You. Understand?”

Matta had her hand in Wren’s hair, then, controlling, fierce.

Wren nodded, mute— not from obedience now, but from the fear clawing up her throat. The Swedish woman’s fingers tightened, tilting Wren’s face upward.

“Good girl,” Matta murmured, thumb brushing the peach lace, letting Wren go, sitting back, taking a sip of her drink;

“You don’t appear to be running away.”

Wren wanted to. Her heart was thumping, fast and irregular in her chest, her thighs were quivering, her belly tremulous.

The silense stretched; Matta wanted an answer. Wren’s throat took a few goes to start working again, and was still husky as the words forced themselves from her;

“I … I can’t.”

More silence; than a short, bitter laugh.

“Hah. Jonny wins again. Well, at least you’re dressed for it.”

Her smile was glacial, full of suppressed pain.

“Jonny likes them innocent, needy, fresh. You’ll do nicely for him; but don’t forget what I said.”

The party’s bass shuddered through the walls. Wren’s knees pressed together instinctively, the altered hem riding high, lace whispering against bare skin. Matta’s gaze dropped pointedly. “You’ll spread them soon enough.” She gave Wren’s hair a pat, as if dismissing a dog. “Follow me.”

Matta installed Wren with the group of older wives, prominent on an upper part of the terrace. She was hardly spoken to, hardly spoke to anyone, those exchanges no more than insubstantial, fake-smile pleasantries. Matta ensured her drinks were mostly water. Jonny came round every half hour or so; made sure to take Wren’s hand, lift it, look at her cleavage, smiling pleasantly, like a shark.

Jack never came.

Wren felt like a mannequin, a trophy. The women the men’s money had bought. Except that these women, the ones she was sitting with, were sharks, too— they had pre-nups, divorce lawyers building dossiers; they were power. Wren was their trophy, too;

Look, we know that our men cheat on us with the young wives. We know that you boys let them have your women. And we’re still here.

The unspoken words hung in the air between the women as they sipped champagne, their manicured fingers curled around delicate stems. Wren felt their gazes like scalpels— dissecting her youth, her naivety, the way her dress clung to thighs still unmarked by stretch marks or varicose veins. One of them— Lydia, with her icy blonde bob— leaned in, her perfume sharp as disinfectant. “Jack’s the quiet one, isn’t he?” Her smile didn’t reach her Botoxed forehead. “Always thought he’d be the type to share.”

Wren didn’t even know what she meant— save that it was cruel. She had nothing to say but to smile, desperately, nod, signal her absence of ambition.

Lydia laughed, delighted.

“They are going to have you for breakfast, darling.”

Wren clung to her secret; that Trent already had her. That he would take far more from her than any of these parasites ever could, and that it would be real; none of this social game-playing. Just her body, her soul, in Trent’s hands.

The terrace door slid open— Jonny’s frame so bulkily masculine, his gaze locking onto Wren like a predator sighting wounded prey. The wives’ chatter died away. Matta stood, her fingers brushing Wren’s shoulder in a mockery of reassurance;

“Time to earn your keep, darling.” Matta’s nails dug in just enough to hurt.

All the wives had heard. All of them knew just what Wren was for. No-one spoke as Wren rose, took the path suggested to her by Jonny’s swivelling palm, felt his eyes on her as she walked, concentrating on the lessons she had learned from YouTube, every night since the shopping trip, heart thumping.

She felt his hand on the small of her back, steering her through the penthouse’s dim corridors, past murmuring couples and the occasional muffled moan.

“You’re trembling …” Jonny’s breath was warm against her ear, enjoying her discomfiture, “… you’re right to be nervous.”

He guided her into a private study— mahogany, leather, the scent of cigars clinging to heavy drapes. A decanter glinted amber under recessed lighting.

“Drink?”

This time it was strong— a very dry martini.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’d like you kneeling on the table.”

Her eyes flashed to his face, shocked, only to drop away again in the face of his bland, uncaring look, hard as a cliff.

God but he makes me feel like Trent does!

Careful, her obedience settled on her like a heavy weight, she arranged herself on the half-mirrored glass of the low table, sleek and modern, dark wood and polished chrome alongside the immaculate glass.

“Knees apart. Wider. I want to see the goods.”

He can see my pussy in the mirror. I’m showing myself to Jack’s boss, kneeling for him. And I’m not fighting, I’m juicing. I can feel it. Jesus how can this be me?

The martini glass pressed against her lips— cold, slick with condensation. Jonny tilted it mercilessly, liquor spilling over her tongue, her chin. “Swallow,” he commanded, watching her throat work. His knuckles brushed the soaked lace between her thighs, then withdrew.

“Jack explained your little argument, his challenge. Somehow, though, it seems as if you’ve already been changed.”

Jonny circled the table, his polished Oxfords clicking on the hardwood. Wren’s reflection stared back from the mirrored surface— her parted knees framing the sheer lace panel;

“Jack told me you’d fight, argue.”

“Well?”

It was almost impossible to get her throat to work, but his silence was demanding.

“I … I think Jack might … might have been right … about me. But … but he’s still wrong about … about women in general. He’s still parroting nonsense. It … it’s just …”

“Just that you have discovered in yourself some fascination, hmm…?”

She held her secret to herself— her knowledge that Trent was more than fascination— that he was fate, personified, irresistible, obdurate, unalterable.

Still, this Jonny was power; had power over her— she felt it, could not deny him;

“Yes … yes … it … it kept going round in my head. The thought of …”

“Of being used by many men, of having no choice, of being forced, if need be. You responded to such thoughts. You are weak.”

It was agony, to have to answer, such shame, such humiliation. Trent’s words, engraved in her mind; … your sense of self-worth will be violently degraded. You will have been damaged in your deepest self, reduced, diminished. You will know that you are weak, that you have been made into a slut, by men that are low-grade people themselves.

“I… I… did respond. I had dreams, waking thoughts … I wake up wet, excited…”

She was surprised she had not died of the shame of it, but instead a part of her was opening up to him, to this. He was affecting her as Trent did; Am I really so weak, so vulnerable, that any strong greedy man who knows what he is doing can do this to me? That I’ll respond to it like this? Needy, wanting?

Because she was wanting; she could feel it between her legs. Active anticipation of being roughly fucked. and it was as good as it was shaming… it terrified her, how easy she seemed to be, how easy it was going to be for this Jonny to enjoy her.

I’m not going to fight at all, am I?

Jonny’s fingers traced the edge of the choker, pressing just enough to make her breath hitch.

“You’re already wet for me, aren’t you?”

His voice was soft, almost amused. The mirrored surface beneath her knees reflected the slickness between her thighs, the lace clinging obscenely.

She couldn’t answer. Her pulse hammered in her throat, each throb pressing against Trent’s collar like a silent plea. Jonny’s thumb brushed the hollow beneath her jaw, tilting her chin up.

“Words, little Wren.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

The shame closed her throat, seized her heart. It was going to happen.

I’m going to become a slut.

The mirrored table showed her everything— the flush creeping down her chest, the way her nipples strained against lace. Jonny exhaled— a slow, satisfied sound— as he unbuttoned his cuffs with deliberate precision.

“Jack said you’d cry.”

His cufflinks clicked onto the table beside her knee.

“Beg. But you seem to be of stronger stuff.”

His sleeves rolled up, he dragged the table toward him with sudden violence, then sat back in the heavy leather lounger, opening his trousers.

“Come.”

Wren’s knees slid forward on the polished glass, her stockings catching slightly against the surface with a whisper of friction. Jonny’s scent was expensive, masculine, suffocating. His fingers tangled in her hair, not forcing yet, just testing the give. Her scalp tingled in anticipation;

“Hands behind you, little cunt, spread those legs even wider, then lean down slow, take it all, slowly, but no stopping.”

Obedience was shockingly easy, resistance unimaginable.

Who am I, now?

“Hssss—” She gasped as her lips met heat, the salt-bitter taste flooding her senses. Her fingers flexed in her distress as he pushed deeper, her throat convulsing. Tears welled— not from resistance, but from the visceral shock of her own body betraying her, throat muscles fluttering greedily around him.

Jonny chuckled, fingers tightening in her hair.

“Jack said you were inexperienced— near frigid.”

His thumb traced her stretched lips.

“But look at you— taking it like a dockside whore.”

The crudeness should have repelled her. Instead, her sex clenched violently, arousal dripping onto the mirrored surface beneath her, her hands gripping her wrists convulsively.

Trent knew. Trent always knows.

The thought burned through Wren’s humiliation like a brand as Jonny’s hips jerked forward, forcing her nose against the crisp fabric of his trousers. Her gag reflex triggered— wet, ugly sounds— but she didn’t pull back. The martini’s gin burned in her sinuses, mingling with the musk of his skin. Jonny’s free hand slid down to pinch her nipple through the lace, the pain sharp and bright.

Welcome.

Wren’s vision blurred as Jonny’s grip tightened, her knees slipping wider on the glass— forced into obscene display. The mirrored surface reflected everything: the tremble of her thighs, the lace plastered to her flushed skin, the way her throat was being stretched by him, how it filled her, shocking, obscene, painful, degrading; the centre of her existence. A whimper escaped, but she didn’t resist, didn’t even try. Jonny’s chuckle vibrated through her skull.

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb swiping a tear from her cheekbone. “You’re learning fast.”

The door clicked open— Matta’s stiletto heels tapping across hardwood. Wren froze, humiliation scalding her, but Jonny didn’t release her.

“She’s pretty like this, isn’t she?” he mused, stroking Wren’s hair almost fondly.

Matta’s silence was worse than laughter. Wren squeezed her eyes shut, against the shame at the older woman’s bitter ‘Hm’ of acknowledgement; Wren’s skin crawled, knowing she was being watched as her chest convulsed, in her abject submission to Jonny’s cock.

Jonny pulled her off with a wet pop, grip still tight in her hair. “Look at her,” he told Matta, turning Wren’s face toward his wife. Tears streaked her makeup, lips swollen. Matta’s gaze lingered on Wren’s trembling thighs, the slick mess staining the mirrored table.

“Pathetic,” she murmured, but her fingers twitched— envy or disgust, Wren couldn’t tell.

“Do you want my come, darling?” Jonny’s voice was easy, relaxed, enjoying the tension between the two women.

Wordlessly, Matta all but yanked Wren’s head away from her husband’s cock, kneeling, holding her hair back with one hand, sinking onto him smoothly, practiced. Wren saw Matta’s cheeks, too, glowing pink. There was no joy in seeing another woman humiliated; it simply deepened her own. Her throat tasted of ashes.

How much purer was Trent’s dominion than this sick interplay.

Wren watched Matta swallow Jonny effortlessly, her practiced movements making Wren’s clumsy efforts seem even more debased. When Matta pulled back— lips glistening, throat working— she wiped her mouth with deliberate elegance before turning to Wren.

“You’ll learn,” she said, voice cool, but her pupils were dilated.

Jonny reclined, lazily stroking himself, watching them both. “Take off your your dress,” he ordered Wren. Her fingers fumbled, but the slip flowed up her body easily, her breasts falling free, what was in her hands almost insubstantial, leaving her naked but for shoes and choker.

Jonny’s gaze pinned her, satisfied. “Now kneel beside her.”

Matta stiffened— this wasn’t part of their usual script. Wren obeyed, her knees pressing into the plush rug, the contrast of cold air and burning shame making her skin prickle. Jonny’s fingers traced Matta’s jaw, then Wren’s, comparing. “Open,” he commanded. Matta hesitated— a fraction too long— before parting her lips, and Jonny chose Wren first. Matta’s face twisted, before she controlled herself.

Wren’s mouth flooded with saliva as Jonny guided himself between her lips, the head brushing first her tongue, then Matta’s. Matta’s perfume clashed with the musk of sex; Wren could taste gin, lemon, quinine. Jonny groaned when Wren’s tongue flicked upward instinctively, her submission outpacing Matta’s calculated compliance.

“You,” he rasped, pushing deeper into Wren’s mouth while Matta’s lips grazed his shaft. The hierarchy was clear— Wren’s throat took the brunt, Matta’s pride relegated to secondary service. Wren’s fingers dug into her own thighs, nails leaving crescents, knowing she must restrain herself from touching him as Jonny fucked her face with leisurely thrusts. Tears dripped onto her breasts. It hurt, but she would not fail him; for Trent.

Matta’s manicured hand suddenly gripped Wren’s hair, forcing her down further, the woman finding a way to have some power. Wren gagged violently, saliva pooling on Jonny’s trousers as Matta hissed, “Don’t you dare choke.” The contradiction was exquisitely demanding— ordered to deepthroat but forbidden from reacting. Her body convulsed, yet Wren stayed locked in place, the tears almost spurting from her tightly shut eyes.

Jonny’s groan was low, approving. “Look at you,” he murmured, watching Matta dominate Wren’s movements, making the pretty innocent their sex toy. Wren’s vision blurred at the edges, her lungs screaming, but she didn’t pull back. The pain was a crucible, burning away hesitation. Trent will ask. I want to tell him how well I took it. The thought coiled hot in her gut.

Jonny’s fingers tightened in Wren’s hair, dragging her away with a wet sound. “Enough,” he said, though his breathing was ragged. Wren gasped, drool slicking her chin, but he didn’t release her— just guided her head back down, his other hand pressing Matta’s palm against Wren’s nape.

“Show her how to swallow it all.”

Matta’s nails bit into Wren’s skin as Jonny’s hips jerked, his groan rough. The first hot spurt hit Wren’s tongue, bitter-salt, and she choked— but Matta’s grip was iron, forcing her to stay. Wren’s throat worked desperately, tears streaming, as Jonny emptied himself into her. When he finally pulled back, Matta tilted Wren’s face up, inspecting her like a disobedient pet.

“Clean him,” she ordered, pushing Wren forward until her lips brushed the softening flesh, her tongue swiping away the last traces.

Jonny chuckled, buckling his trousers with one hand while the other stroked Wren’s flushed cheek.

“You passed the test, cutie.”

“So we’ll do it— make you take Jack’s challenge, though it appears you’ve already lost. Three weeks from now we’ll have closed the Franken deal. You’ll be the reward. That place near Marlborough, Matta— You’ll arrange it all, as usual. Jack, of course, and everyone in the team who’s managed over £500k in the last month. Could be as many as eight, little girl, but the stats say it will be four or five. Plus me of course. Sir Harry may put in an appearance, use your ass; he likes to do that— mark his territory, the old git.”

Still trying to calm her throat, Wren made herself speak.

“And Trent.”

Jonny paused mid-button, his gaze sharpening. “Who?”

Matta’s fingers tightened in Wren’s hair— a silent warning.

Jonny leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “The slaughterhouse guy, Jack’s friend he talks about?” His laughter was sharp, incredulous.

“Guy sounds like some sort of no-hoper dirtbag. You think I’d let some blue-collar psycho watch my team fuck you? What’s he got to do with it anyway?”

The words hung in the cigar-scented air like a challenge. Wren’s pulse throbbed against the choker— Trent’s collar— as if it might strangle her.

She persisted, her voice weak, hoarse, shaky, but determined, too;

“If you want me, you invite Trent. He will keep me safe.”

Jonny’s smile froze, his eyes flickering to Matta’s grip in Wren’s hair before settling back on her swollen lips. “Safe?” He repeated the word like it was a joke in a foreign language. His thumb brushed her cheekbone— too gently.

“Little slut, you won’t find safety where we’re taking you.”

Wren’s breath caught when Matta yanked her head back, exposing her throat.

“She doesn’t understand yet,” Matta murmured, fingernails tracing the choker.

Jonny stood abruptly, his shadow swallowing Wren as he towered over her. “Stand up.”

Her knees protested as she rose, stockings whispering against each other. Jonny circled her slowly— inspecting, assessing— then suddenly grabbed her wrists, wrenching them behind her back. The position thrust her breasts forward, nipples hardening under his scrutiny.

“Safety?” His breath was hot against her ear as he forced her toward the full-length mirror beside the bookshelves. “Look.”

Wren flinched at her own reflection— lips bruised, mascara smudged, collar stark against her reddened throat. Jonny’s fingers dug into her hips, pressing her back against his erection. “This is what you are now.” His palm slid up her ribs to squeeze a breast roughly.

“A fucktoy for men who earn more before lunch than your Trent makes in a month.”

Matta materialised behind them, her reflection smirking as she undid Wren’s choker— Jonny’s fingers replaced the lace, constricting her windpipe.

“But you want his approval, don’t you?” His thumb stroked her frantic pulse. “Tell me why.”

Wren’s vision swam at the edges. The mirror showed Matta stepping aside, pouring herself a drink with deliberate calm.

“He—” Wren choked, her toes curling against the hardwood. Jonny eased the pressure just enough for speech. “He knows what I am.”

Jonny’s fingers twitched against her throat.

“And what’s that?”

His whisper was lethal. The answer tore from her like a confession:

“I’m his.”

His grip tightened— approval or punishment, she couldn’t tell— but Matta’s glass hit the table with a sharp clink.

“Pathetic,” Matta sneered, striding forward. Her manicured fingers replaced Jonny’s, twisting the collar tighter. “You think some butcher owns you?”

Wren’s breath hitched as Matta forced her chin up, nails scraping her jaw.

“Look at you— whimpering for a man who isn’t even here.”

The cruelty was calculated, probing for fractures.

Jonny stepped back, lighting a cigar with slow deliberation. Smoke curled between them as he studied Wren’s trembling form.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “does Jack know you belong to Trent?”

The question slithered under her skin. Wren’s stomach lurched— Jack’s oblivious face flashing behind her eyelids— but Jonny didn’t wait for an answer.

“No matter. The answer is no.”

It was such a strange feeling, thought Wren, to be so weak, so degraded, and yet to feel so powerful. Trent’s power, acting through her;

“No Trent, No Wren. There is no other answer.”

Jonny exhaled a slow stream of smoke through his nose, his expression shifting from amusement to something colder. Matta’s fingers stilled against Wren’s throat, nails poised like a guillotine.

“Your type doesn’t negotiate, cunt” Jonny said softly, tapping ash onto the polished floor. “You don’t make demands. You kneel, you take cock, you say ’thank you.’ That’s the deal.”

“Nevertheless.” said Wren, feeling Jonny’s weakness.

Matta’s nails dug deeper— blood welled along Wren’s collarbone. Jonny crushed his cigar into a crystal ashtray, the embers hissing;

“Fine,” he said. “Bring your pet killer.” His smile showed teeth. “He can watch from the corner while my team ruins you.”