"Good girl," I purr, relishing the mix of dismay and the tiniest spark of want in her eyes. "Now, let's see how well you can serve me."
I unzip my pants, freeing my cock, which has been hard since I woke up this morning, and is now aching from anticipation. Her eyes display her unease as she looks, her throat working as she swallows. I trace the head along her lips, smearing pre-cum across them.
"Open," I command, and she obeys, her mouth parting like the good girl she wants to be. I thrust forward, burying myself in the wet heat. She gags, unprepared, but I hold her head steady.
"Relax your throat," I instruct, a dangerous edge to my voice. "Take all of me."
She struggles to accommodate me, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Seeing her like this only fuels my arousal. I begin to move, thrusting deeper into her mouth with each stroke. Her gagging intensifies, but I don't relent. I want her to feel used, to understand her place.
"That's it," I grunt, tightening my grip on her hair. "Take it all like a good little slut."
Tears are streaming down her face now, her black mascara running in dark rivulets down her smooth cheeks. The sight spawns a thrill of morbid excitement. This is what I've been craving - the power to break someone, to push them past their limits.
And this little sweetheart is so untried, it’s easy to push her to places she’s never been. Hell, I’m pretty sure no man has fucked her face before, and I am more than happy to debauch her, and instruct her on how to handle each and every depraved thing I plan to do to her.
It makes her even more perfect than I ever could have dreamed.
Chapter
Five
Linnea
Well, this isn’t what I was expecting. Not even remotely. And let me tell you, dozens of different scenarios ran through my mind when I imagined this day.
None of them were like this.
His home is nothing short of opulent, so different from my usual surroundings. Okay, I knew he was rich, obviously, but this is next level.
The plush carpet cushions my bare knees, which I’m grateful for, and I try to focus on the luxurious details - the gilded mirrors, the crystal chandeliers - anything to distract me from the task quite literally at hand.
Or rather, at mouth.
I’m not at all experienced at any of this. Not even giving a blow job. Mr. Smith said it didn’t matter, that my inexperience held its own charm, but I wasn’t certain I believed him.
I’m still not.
Added to that, the man looming over me is nothing like I pictured. Chiseled jawline, piercing blue eyes, muscles rippling underneath his tailored shirt. He’s hot!
Somehow, I didn’t expect that.
It’s so off-script I almost laugh out loud. Well, maybe if my mouth wasn’t full of his ginormous cock!
It’s so freaking big. Okay, so I haven’t checked out that many dicks, but none of the ones I’ve seen before were this size, and my aching throat can attest to the fact.
The whole way here, I built up a conclusive hypothesis of what my Primal Fantasies client would look like. What did I come up with?
A pasty white complexion with a wobbling gut, sausage fingers, stains on his undershirt, a comb-over glistening with flop sweat. The kind of desperate who pays for a girl not simply for kink, but through necessity. A socially inept loser who’d never look me in the eye.
I’d been ready to deal with that, to power through my disgust with gritted teeth and mental arithmetic—one installment of Mom’s medical bill debt per hour spent on my knees. If I’d gotten lucky, maybe he’d have had a heart attack before he could even unzip.
But that’s so not what’s in front of me.
Instead, this guy could be on the cover of a men’s magazine. No joke. I think his suit alone cost more than my entire last year of college. He’s got the sculpted, square-jawed look of someone who spends as much time at the gym as at the office, and his features are sharp in a way that makes me think he’s always a little angry, even when he smiles.
Not that he’s smiling. He’s watching me, appraising, abstracted, as if he’s mentally rearranging all the ways he could break me down and rebuild me again. I can smell his cologne—something expensive, subtle, nothing like the choking clouds of Axe my high school ex used to drown himself in.
If I passed him in the street - if he does anything as mundane as walking down the street - I’d have done a double-take and drooled a little bit.
