“Say it.” Her gaze never wavered.
“I can stop at any time.”
Nerys nodded, kissed two fingers, and tapped them to his sternum. “Good bull.”
Kiera turned to the second man by the chaise. “Name?”
“Dorian,” he said, grinning like this was his favorite part of the job. Then she asked the same consent questions that Hale had answered.
“And what do you want today, Dorian?”
“Your mouth,” he said, straightforward and starving. “And your hand when I’m close.”
Kiera’s grin sharpened. “Your wish shall be granted, Dorian. Good bull.”
“Please.”
My skin tightened. There it was again—that single syllable I’d never thought about during anything but depositions and contracts. Please. I wanted to hear the word on Ivy’s lips as I brought her to the brink of orgasm. Or from myself as I whispered it to her as she pulled my cock free from my jeans.
“You are not cattle,” Agnus was intoning. I almost missed it with my daydreaming. “You are HuBulls. Your spend is collected and made into a medication that keeps all the demonesses young and beautiful. It’s a symbiotic relationship. You need your demoness to milk you, and we need your milk. Some demonesses prefer to be fucked, but that will not be a part of this demonstration. Do you understand?”
We were not cattle.
I might be a bastard, but even I knew the difference.
“Yes, ma’am!” We all repeated in unison.
Nerys helped Hale settle against the cradle—hips forward, back supported. She angled him so we could see, then lifted the tube. Up close, the sleeve inside looked like clear velvet, ribbed with faint spirals, slicked with something that wafted over towards us, smelling faintly of clove and heat.
“Pressure begins gently,” she said. “Think of a slow hand wrapping you and stroking in a steady rhythm. You tell me if you want more, less, or different.” Her hand circled the base of his shaft, not squeezing, just gentle pressure, and then she lowered the tube.
It sealed with a soft hiss.
Hale’s head dropped back, a sound punching free. The sleeve pulsed. We saw it. We heard it—soft, liquid, obscene. The tube had just enough vacuum to pull against him, then release; pull, release; pull, release—each cycle slow as it learned him. The tipflared inside the clear sleeve, smearing pre-cum in shimmering whorls.
“Fuck,” someone muttered behind me. Clearly, we all sucked at the swearing policy.
Nerys glanced at the monitor, then at Hale. “How is that pressure?”
“Good,” he said quickly, then: “More.”
She adjusted a dial. The pulsing deepened. Hale’s hands clenched on the cradle’s edge. His thighs trembled. The tube huffed and drank, and the man who’d walked in tall and proud let himself be held, used exactly the way he’d asked to be used. No shame. Just need.
In the next stall, Kiera went to her knees.
I don’t know why that hit me the way it did—the simplicity of it, the reverence. Maybe it was because I had just thought of Ivy in the same position, but it punched me in the gut.
She didn’t perform for us. It was as if she were there for her own pleasure as much as collecting the sample. She touched Dorian like he was a feast and she’d waited all day to sit down.
Her palms slid up his thighs, thumbs dragging back down the inner seam where his leg connected to his pelvis. Dorian’s cock jerked, heavy and glossy. She leaned in, breath ghosting over him, and licked a stripe up one full, aching ball to the soft ridge where the sack met the shaft. Dorian swore, chest heaving. She smiled against his skin and licked again, slower, tongue working him up and under until his hips flexed helplessly.
“Hold,” she murmured, and he did—hands knotted in the cushion, forearms braced, body shaking while she teased the underside of his shaft with cat-tongue flicks. She avoided the head on purpose. Every time he lifted, seeking her mouth, she dropped lower, lavishing attention at the base, cupping his balls, slicking her palm along the seam while her lips kissed the thickroot of him. She worshiped the places men forget: the pelvis, crease, tendons, the veins. She was slow, greedy, and focused.
Pre-cum spilled from his tip, shining like sin. He groaned. “Kiera?—”
She looked up, lips swollen, the tip of her tongue wetting a freckled mouth. “Do you want my mouth on your head?”
“Yes,” he said, immediately. Then, because he’d been taught, “Please.”
