Page 48 of Bred By the Tsar

"Oh—"

"I know." He presses, slow, a slow merciless circle, watching my face the whole time. "You're so wet I can feel your heartbeat. That's not shameful, kotyonok. That's the most honest thing in this house." He pulls the cotton aside and touches me bare and I sob into his neck.

"Sir," he corrects, gently, devastating. "When I'm touching this pretty cunt you call me sir."

"Sir," I gasp. "Sir, please—"

"Please what?"

I don’t even know. I don’t have the words. He does.

He leans in until his mouth brushes the shell of my ear, voice low and unhurried, almost conversational, like he’s telling me a secret instead of destroying me.

“I’m going to open you up on my fingers, kotyonok. Slow. You’re tight—I can already feel how tight you are just from the outside—and you’ve never had anything inside this pretty cunt before, have you?” His thumb keeps working those tight, merciless circles over my clit through the soaked cotton, and I shake my head against his throat, unable to speak. “Good. Then you’ll take exactly what I give you. Two fingers first. I’m going to push them into you while you’re dripping all over my hand, and you’re going to feel every inch of the stretch. It’s going to burn a little. That’s all right. That’s how I know it’s mine.”

He pulls the cotton aside. Cool air hits me for half a second before his fingers are there—thick, calloused, slick with me. He rubs the tips through my folds, gathering wetness, then presses two against my entrance and holds.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Open for me.”

I try. He pushes.

The first inch is pressure, then a sharp, unfamiliar burn as he sinks in. My body clenches hard around the intrusion and a broken sound tears out of me. He’s thick. Even two fingers feel massive, stretching virgin muscles that have never been asked to give like this. He doesn’t stop. He eases deeper, slow and relentless, until I can feel the knuckles of his hand against me and the full length of both fingers buried inside.

“There,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction. “Feel that? That’s you taking me. You’re so fucking tight it’s almost painful. Squeezing my fingers like you don’t want to let them go.” His thumb finds my clit again, bare now, and starts those same tight circles—firmer, wetter. “Ride them. Rock your hips. I want to feel this little virgin cunt learn how to fuck itself on my hand.”

I do it without thinking—small, helpless rolls of my hips that drag his fingers in and out by half an inch. Every movement sends sparks up my spine. The stretch is constant, the burn fading into a deep, aching fullness I’ve never felt alone in the dark. His thumb works faster. The pressure builds and builds with nowhere to go, coiling tighter than anything I’ve ever managed by myself.

“That’s it,” he growls against my ear. “Look at you. Soaking my hand, fucking yourself on my fingers like you were made for it. You’ve been holding this in your whole life—all that need, all that empty ache—and I’m going to take every last drop of it. Come for me. Let me feel this tight little cunt break open.”

The coil snaps.

I shatter.

I actually cry—humiliating, perfect, uncontrollable—shaking apart on his hand with my face buried in his throat. My walls clamp down hard around his fingers in pulsing, rhythmic spasms I can’t stop, wetness flooding out of me in messy pulses that covers his palm and drip onto his trousers.

He doesn’t pull away. He keeps working me through every last wave, murmuring filthy praise into my hair. “That’s it, good girl, give it all to me, feel how hard you’re coming on my fingers.” He only gets gentle when I go limp and trembling in his lap, still fluttering weakly around the thick intrusion of him inside me.

When I can think again, I'm aware of him hard as iron beneath me, of how easy it would be, of how badly I want—

"Not in a chair," he says, rough, almost to himself, and lifts me clean off his lap.

For one cold second I think he's stopping. That he's going to do the careful thing, the controlled thing — send me back to my narrow bed to ache until some respectable hour.

Then he stands. With me in his arms, like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees and one at my back, and he starts walking.

"Wait— where?"

"My room." He doesn't slow. Doesn't lower his voice for the dark sleeping house, doesn't care who hears it, what hour it is, what anyone would make of the Tsar carrying the help through his own halls at two in the morning. "I told myself I'd give you a day. Let you be sure." His jaw is tight, his eyes fixed ahead. "I lasted about four seconds. I'm done waiting, Hazel."

He stops at a tall dark door and looks down at me, and for all the iron in him there's a question in it. One last one.

"Tell me no and I put you down right here and nothing happens — say it and mean it." A beat, low. "Or stop shaking and let me take you to bed."

I think about every version of myself who learned to fold the wanting up small and sit on it until it stopped kicking.

"Don't put me down," I whisper.

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