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She swallows and wipes her lips. “No.” She shakes her head.
“An honest whore.” I sigh. “Well, I guess, not a whore until tonight. What a wonder you are.” I smile while brushing my fingers over my tender tip. I don’t know if she’s drawn blood, but it stings a little. I like it, but I’m not sure if it can handle more damage. As I reach down to cup her chin roughly and run my thumb over her lips, her warm breath mists my fingers, and I groan. “You’re my whore. All mine.”
I’d known it before that no other man had the pleasure. But there was still a chance that it could all have been an act. Tonight has proven that it wasn’t, and the confirmation urges me to dominate her, truly use her as my special whore. Mine and mine alone. I almost feel bad ruining her chastity, the only genuine chaste woman I’ve ever met. But all women become no more than loose skirts after a while. She’ll lose her novelty eventually. I’m happy to be the first of many. Although, while she’s with me, she can have no other.
“Don’t bite and don’t scrape your teeth against me. Unless I ask you to.” I smile, and she shudders. “Loosen your jaw. Can you do that?” Uncertainty fills her eyes, so I press my fingers into her cheek and push down on the lower teeth beneath her skin. She nods, moaning. Her eyes shift in confusion, and she swallows from the air filling her mouth.
Having her surrender completely to my guidance pushes me over the edge, and I fill her mouth once again with me, inserting my tip in that tiny hole in the back of her throat. She gags, and I shove myself against it, needing it to squeeze my tip, but I don’t want to kill her. Not yet. So, I pull myself from her mouth. All my nerves catch fire, and I can barely hear her coughing as I shut my eyes and throw my head back. It’s ripping me apart to hold back and when I narrow my eyes back at her, she swallows as if she knows that this time, I won’t stop anytime soon.
My rod is filled with the blood pounding from inside, red and bulging. She opens her mouth again without instruction when I grip the back of her hair. And I press into her. There are teeth at first, and I swear, tugging against her scalp until she moans and slackens her jaw. The candlelight grows larger and smaller, rapidly as I lose all sense of where I am. The pressure is fleeting, building, and evading, forcing me to chase it as I shove myself against the wet softness of her tongue. Her heat rises through her body, past her throat, setting my tip ablaze. It’s like the sweet end is so close, yet so far away, and I wonder if it’ll ever be reached.
Pounding her head against me, I groan, thrashing my other hand about the table as I demand my release. Glasses, ceramic plates, and metal utensils crash to the ground, shocking my nerves ever so slightly, but it’s the slightness that causes me to jerk so viciously against her gagging mouth. Her muffled moans stifle any other sound, and I can only hear her.
Soon, the pressure is constant. It grows rapidly, until my already tender tip strains against the fullness. My balls slapping against her chin is filled with such rippling that my legs don’t know what to do with themselves. They freeze, and I can’t feel my feet. I grip the table in desperation, needing it to support my weight. I’m certain I might fall as the tiny hole stretches to expel a flood of seed into the back of her throat.
I growl aloud as both pain and pleasure leave my body buzzing like a bee. I feel like the wings of a hummingbird, too quick to catch hold of. That must have been the hardest release I’ve ever had. My body is filled with more power than I ever thought possible. Staying inside her mouth after that is like being struck with an arrow through the heart, signing my death certificate. I pull myself from her, needing to regain stability and the sense of my surroundings. When I can make her out again, she stares up at me in horror.
Clearing my throat, I pull my pants up and turn away from her. I’m not sure what to feel, whether it’s guilt or elation and dominance. “You’re dismissed,” I grumble before hearing her feet scramble from the room.
Chapter Thirteen
Olivia
“Olivia?”Gloria,standingoutsidemy bedroom door, reaches out for me as I run past her.
I keep belching up the taste of him, and I bend over, dry heaving. She hurries in behind me and runs for an empty bucket in the bathing room. I grab it from her and chuck up the contents of my stomach. Mainly his seed. The sounds that escape me are horrifying as I choke on air, and my body juts forward, pushing bitter bile from my stomach. Gloria strokes my messy hair. Some of the accessories that once held my curls together must still be on the floor of the dining room. Others are boring into my scalp. She moves her hand to rub my back, soothing me.
“Was it something you ate? Did the food go bad?” Gloria asks.
I shake my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She jumps up from beside me and fills a small bowl with water. She returns with a cool, damp washcloth pressed against my forehead. She wipes my face before handing me the cloth to wipe my hands.
“Thank you,” I croak. My throat is sore from heaving and his pounding. Falling backward into the bed, I sigh, and she brings me a cup of water.
“Rinse your mouth out with this. Can’t have your teeth going bad and ruining that beauty of yours.” She smiles and brushes her thumb across my cheek.
Leaning up on my elbows, I do as I’m told before hovering over the side of the bed to spit in the bucket. I’m about to flap backward into the bed again when she catches me and cradles the back of my head. “Drink some of it too. It’ll make you feel better,” she says. My head feels heavy as I gulp the water down into my empty stomach. I can hear it echo as it settles in my belly. Another sense of nausea arises but this one is accompanied by a rumbling in my aching stomach. I’m hungry.
“Did the boss get sick too?” Gloria asks.
“It’s not the food. I barely ate anything,” I tell her as my cheeks grow hot. I can still feel the way he filled my mouth. My tongue still remembers the heaviness of him resting on it and the movement of his velvet skin along his shaft. The metallic saltiness of him is embedded now in the molecules of my saliva.
“Oh, dear. Well, of course, you’ve thrown up. You haven’t eaten all day. Why would you refuse all that food?” Her eyes widen, and she licks her lips.
Guilt slams into me. I imagine the servants only get to stare at that food longingly while they feed on dried bread and leftovers. Much of those leftovers were flung off the table during the beast’s moments of passion. She must think me haughty and wasteful to refuse such a feast, especially as her fellow servants toiled over the food.
“I should’ve eaten, but I didn’t want to give him that power over me. Not that it helped. He ended up succeeding anyway,” I say, covering my face.
I watched him as he bit his lip and groaned, as his veins bulged, and his hand fisted as if in torment. In some ways, I also felt powerful as he lost control of himself, yielding to the sensations my mouth provided him. He whined and whimpered, and I knew that if I wanted to, I could tear into his skin just as I would meat. But I didn’t want to. And sickeningly, not wanting to, had nothing to do with my hate for him but because being the reason for his pleasure, pleasured me. It’s abominable! I groan.
“What do you mean?” she asks. I’m sure the servants who stood outside the dining room doors know what happened. I’m sure it’s already been spread among the rest of the staff. She must not yet have heard it or is playing coy. There’s no sense in hiding it.
“He forced me to… well, he didn’t exactly force me; he gave me a choice. But it wasn’t really a choice; it was a threat. I told him I’d prove my obedience to him, and he told me he had the perfect way for me to prove it,” I say, muffled behind my hands.
When she doesn’t say anything, I look through my fingers to see her staring at me the way I read an interesting book. As if she needs to know more, and she’s waiting for the reveal. Her eyes also frown, in a way, like lips do in anticipation of bad news. I bring my hands down, only covering my mouth now, holding her gaze.
“It’s so embarrassing,” I say. “He uh… I uh…we um…” I stutter.
She presses a soft palm to my upper arm. “Did he force you to have sex?” she asks. Her voice is a whisper, as if she’s afraid to ask the question.
