“That’s it,” I grind out, my hips moving in a shallow, involuntary rhythm against her mouth. “Such a good little pet, taking your master so well.”
She moans around me, the sound a vibration that travels straight up my spine. The feeling is incredible. Her enthusiasm is palpable, genuine. She loves this. She loves the taste of me, the feel of me, the privilege of being used for my pleasure. Her own arousal is a slick, hot scent in the air around us, mingling with the smell of my cologne and her shampoo. She rubs her thighs together, trying to ease the need in her own body with the friction.
I watch, mesmerized as she devotes herself entirely to the task. A string of saliva connects her lower lip to my cock for a second before breaking. Her eyes are closed in concentration, her brow slightly furrowed, a portrait of blissful servitude. My control, which is usually an iron cage begins to melt under the relentless, heated suction of her mouth. The pressure builds low in my gut, a coiling, tightening spring of pure sensation.
My breathing becomes ragged. The professional calm of my office is gone, replaced by a primal, throbbing energy. The only sounds are the wet, soft sounds of her mouth on me, my own guttural groans, and the creak of my chair as my body tenses.
“Don’t stop,” I command, my voice thick and strained. “Take it. You’ve earned it.”
She increases her pace as her head bobs faster, her hand coming up to cradle my balls, rolling them gently, adding another layer of exquisite sensation. She is pulling me over the edge expertly, eagerly. I can feel the orgasm gathering, a tidal wave of release. My grip tightens in her hair, holding her firmly in place as my hips jerk forward, fucking her mouth in a final, desperate rhythm.
With a raw, animal groan, I come. The release is violent, overwhelming, a surge of blinding pleasure that empties me into her waiting, accepting throat. She takes it all, swallowing every pulse, every drop she can. Her moans as she drinks me down are the most erotic sounds I have ever heard; genuine, ecstatic, as if the taste of my climax is triggering her own. Her body shudders against my legs, a sympathetic, blissful tremor.
For a long moment I am utterly spent, boneless, riding the last waves of sensation. She continues to gently suck and lick, milking me, ensuring not a drop is wasted, prolonging the aftershocks until they become a faint, sweet echo.
Slowly, I relax my grip on her hair. She finally stills, but doesn’t pull away. She rests her head on my thigh, my softening cock still held gently in her lips as if she’s reluctant to let go of her connection to me. Her breathing is as ragged as mine.
I lean forward, every muscle languid and satisfied. I look down at her. Her eyes are glazed, her lips are swollen and glistening, and her cheeks are flushed. She is the very picture of well-used, well-loved perfection.
I reach out with my thumb and gently wipe a stray bead of moisture from the corner of her mouth. She nuzzles into my touch, her eyes closing in contentment.
“What a good pet you are,” I murmur, my voice soft with genuine approval. The words are simple but in our language, they are the highest praise. They are everything.
She smiles a slow, blissful smile and presses a soft, grateful kiss to the pad of my thumb.
Day of auction
The scent of lavender and something sharper, something chemical, is the first thing that registers. It claws at the back of my throat, a cloying promise of the day to come. My eyes are still heavy with a sleep that was more like a temporary escape, a brief ceasefire in the war against my own reality.
But the women are here, and the ceasefire is finally over.
There are two of them, their faces set in masks of bland efficiency. They don’t look at my eyes, only at the task before them. Overseeing it all, a statue of cold judgment, is Mrs Vale. She stands just inside the door, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her gaze is a physical weight on my skin, stern and impatient, as if she’s waiting for me to break a rule I haven’t even been told yet.
I move like a doll, my limbs stiff and uncooperative. They lead me into the bathroom where steam is already beginning to fog the edges of a huge, sunken marble tub. The water looks impossibly hot, sending tendrils of vapour into the cool air.
They don’t ask, they simply divest me of the simple cotton shift I slept in. The air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. I want to cover myself, to hide from their clinical eyes and Mrs Vale’s piercing stare, but my arms remain at my sides.
There is no point.
Modesty is a currency I spent long ago, and when tonight comes…no, I cannot think on it. Even now. I cannot.
I step into the water and it is scalding, a shock that steals my breath. I gasp, but the sound is small and swallowed by the tiled room. I sink down, the water closing over my shoulders and for a blissful second the heat is a blanket, hiding me. But it doesn’t last.
The two women kneel on the tiled floor, taking up rough-textured cloths and bars of soap that smell aggressively of lemon and rosemary. They scrub. There is no gentleness to it, it is a scouring. They work over every inch of me as if trying to erase the very top layer of my skin, the one that still feels like it belongs to me. They scrub my back, my arms, the soles of my feet. The cloth rasps over my skin, turning it a bright, angry pink.
I close my eyes, trying to retreat inside my own head. I thought I had made peace with this. In the weeks of training, the endless lessons on posture and etiquette and obedience, I had built a wall of numb acceptance. I told myself it was just a transaction. A new life. A duty. I had recited it like a mantra until I almost believed it but now, as the scrubbing continues, that wall begins to crumble. The reality of what this day means is being rubbed into my skin, along with the harsh soap. This isn’t a transition. It’s an erasure.
They wash my hair next, tipping me back to wet it, their fingers digging into my scalp. They lather it not once, but three times while the suds sting my eyes. The scent is overpowering, a floral assault meant to mask any natural scent, any lingering hint of the person I was.
Rinsed and raw, I am helped from the tub. Water streams from me onto the mat, and I stand there, shivering violently despite the warm room. One maid wraps my hair in a towel while the other begins to pat my body dry with a towel so fluffy it feels absurd against my abraded skin.
Then Mrs Vale speaks. “Thoroughly, now. Everywhere.”
One of the maids produces a razor and a bowl of white, slick cream. The fear, which had been a low hum in my veins, suddenly screams into a siren.
“Please,” I whisper, the word escaping before I can cage it.
Mrs Vale’s eyes snap to mine. “The word ‘please’ is for requesting a privilege, Grace. This is not a request. It is a requirement. You must be properly cleanedand made presentable, so our Lords can have a good look at you. So that you will be ready for your new owner immediately upon purchase.”
