Too many feelings. Too many sensors. Too many rabbit-holes with too many right and wrongs.
You’re giving up so soon? They killed your mother! They’ve broken your father’s heart.Could I not stomach some unpleasantness and confusion in order to find a way to repay them?
Disappointment weighed my heart. I thought I’d have more endurance.
No. I won’t give in.
This is nothing. Be that kite. Cut your strings again.
Bracing my shoulders, I moved closer to Mr. Hawk without being asked.
His eyes widened, then a grin spread his lips. “Good girl, indeed.” Bowing his head, his arm wrapped around my waist, tilting me back a little. “You’re proving to be a testament to my son’s training.”
My waist height was almost perfect for a lowered mouth to latch onto the front part of my sex.
And that was when I felt the strangest, wettest, alluring,disgustingthing of my life.
His tongue slid along my clit, wriggling softly, drenching me in saliva.
My stomach clenched, my hands balled, and I wobbled in his arms.
The disgusting element didn’t leave. I waited for my body tobetray me, tolikeit, but all I felt was grotesque impatience for it to be over.
And then...it was.
My first experience with a tongue down below, and it’d been done by a man older than my father. If I didn’t have an empty stomach, I would’ve thrown up all over again. There was nothing sexy or erotic about that.
Tapping my behind, he murmured, “Proceed.”
Swallowing hard, I collected the dessert tray and crossed the small distance to Orange Tattoo. He crooked his finger, beckoning me closer. Locking my jaw, I held the desserts high and did as he requested. His orange hair tickled my thighs as he leaned down, running his tongue over the private bundle of nerves.
Luckily for me, I wasn’t sensitive, nor did I enjoy it.
Once he’d taken his trifle and tasted his fill, I left to serve the next.
And the next.
And the next.
Some men forced my legs to spread, angling their faces deep. Some men barely touched me, their hot breath wafting between my thighs.
I would like to say I managed to turn my brain off—to do what I promised and fly free, but every tongue kept me locked in the world I lived in. Every lick made my body turn to stone while my tummy twisted and ached from clenching.
I delivered dessert, but I was the ultimate sweet. The men took their time, firm fingers holding my hips, dragging their foul tongues. And after every violation, they’d wipe their glistening mouths and say, “Thank you, Ms. Weaver.”
Thank you.
As if their appreciation was enough to stop me from feeling like dirt. Their treatment never changed. They remained courteous and gentle. Obeying boundaries and not doing anything but licking me in a place they had no right.
Their pleasantness made all of this seem so normal. So terribly normal. And my hatred slowly switched back to acceptance. The small flutter I’d felt from my nipples being sucked returned—frightful, tentative, but softening my hate tongue by tongue.
They weren’t hurting me. They weren’t making me do anything that had the potential to shatter my mind.
They just tasted.
A little taste.
That’s all.
