Chapter 5
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.
Gotta admit, it makes things a whole lot easier.
Still, I’m not here for a date, and I’m not here to be impressed. I’m here because even pretty men can be monsters, and this one is paying a premium for my… time.
I glance away from his face, trying to anchor myself in the bland opulence of the room.
Every surface gleams. There isn’t a fingerprint or a dust mote anywhere.
I feel grubby by comparison, even though I spent an extra hour at home scrubbing every millimeter of my body.
Why does he have fantasies about a maid? This place is spotless.
He hasn’t even introduced himself, and yet already he has his cock down my throat. It’s… surreal.
He looms over me, his fingers tangled in my hair. His body is like a furnace in front of me, his grasp inescapable as he directs me where he wants me.
There’s a strange comfort in being handled this way, like I don’t need to do anything or second-guess what he wants.
It’s oddly freeing to simply surrender to his will.
Maybe I can float away and leave my body kneeling on the carpet, mouth open, eyes closed, just a vessel for someone else’s desire.
It’s a disgusting thought, but also, for a moment, a relief.
His fist tightens in my hair, guiding my movements as I struggle not to gag; reminding myself why I'm here.
The money. It's all about the money. If I can just get through this, I'll be set.
I can save both Mom and me from the grip of whatever nasty little organization stupid Reggie works for and we can start to rebuild our lives.
Then as he begins to pound my throat in earnest, all my pondering goes out the window, and my focus is purely on how to catch my breath as he cuts off my airway, and vain attempts to blink away the tears now streaming down my face.
My chest burns as I struggle for air between his relentless thrusts.
But just when I think I can't take any more, he pulls back, allowing me a desperate gasp.
The reprieve is brief before he starts all over again.
His fingers tighten painfully in my hair, yanking my head up to meet his gaze.
Those icy blue eyes seem to bore into my soul, and they're filled with such hunger, I shiver in response.
"Good girl," he growls. "You're doing so well."
The praise shouldn't affect me, but an unexpected warmth blooms, nevertheless. I push the feeling aside, reminding myself this is just a transaction. Nothing more. Even if he is some sweet eye candy.
“Swallow everything I give you,” he demands, and that’s the only warning I get before he erupts down my throat.
I struggle to swallow it all, fighting against my gag reflex again as his hot seed fills my mouth.
Some escapes, dribbling down my chin. My eyes continue to water and my lungs heave as I try to catch my breath.
Finally, he releases his hold on my hair and steps back, tucking himself away and letting me suck in some much-needed air.
I remain on my knees, dazed and gasping. My throat feels raw and my jaw aches. I wipe at the tears, saliva, and cum on my face with shaking hands, feeling utterly debauched as I try to regain some semblance of composure.
"Not bad for your first time," he says coolly, straightening his tie. "We'll work on your technique."
I blink up at him, still processing what just happened.
My knees have started to ache, the floor is still hard, despite the carpet, after kneeling this long, and my jaw throbs.
Work on my technique? How can there be any technique to what basically boils down to some guy fucking my face?
Still, the thought has an unexpected effect, which I quickly try to squash. This is just business, I remind myself sternly. But there's also a building heat between my thighs I'm trying desperately to ignore.
But if I please him, that’s got to be better for me in the long run, surely? That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
"Stand up," he commands. I scramble to my feet, my legs wobbly. His eyes rake over my body once again. He seems to like doing that. Is he looking for something different this time, or is it just to unnerve me? I shove down the instinct to cover up, forcing my arms to remain at my sides.
"Turn around," he orders.
I comply, moving automatically at his command. As I rotate, I feel his eyes on me like a physical touch, assessing every curve and imperfection. My skin prickles with goosebumps. I'm not sure if it's from the chill in the room or his intense scrutiny.
When I complete the turn, I find myself face-to-face with him again. He's so close now I can feel the heat radiating off him. His scent envelops me - a heady mix of sandalwood, leather and raw masculinity that makes my head spin.
Then his hands are on me, roughly groping and squeezing, like he owns the right to touch me however and wherever he pleases.
I suppose, in this current reality, he does.
He doesn't hesitate or fumble, just grabs hold of my breasts with no preamble, squeezing hard enough that I yelp before I can suppress it.
His palms are huge, warm and a little calloused as they roam over the curves of my body, manipulating and testing as if I'm nothing more than a commodity for sale. The contrast between the silk of his suit and the aggressiveness of his onslaught makes my skin tingle, and I wonder if this is how livestock feels at auction - I’m reduced to a trembling animal, too aware of the hands appraising every inch.
He pinches one nipple, hard, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger until the jolt of pain spikes all the way through my abdomen and down into my core. For a second, my breath catches, then escapes in an embarrassingly needy gasp.
"Ah! Oh!"
He smirks at this, clearly reading every response as if I’m an open book.
My first instinct is to shrink away from his roughness, but something stubborn in me refuses to give him the satisfaction.
So I force myself to stand still, though my knees threaten to buckle as his hands travel lower, tracing the seam of my ribs and the soft give of my stomach before sliding around to seize my butt.
He lifts and molds it, making a show of evaluating its shape and heft, his fingers digging deep enough that I feel their phantom presence after he moves on.
I try to keep my face blank, but a flush climbs my cheeks, the heat blooming under his unrelenting stare and the ferocity of his grip.
Every nerve ending is on high alert, the entire expanse of my skin hyper-aware of where he might go next.
There’s a rawness to the way he handles me, a total lack of gentleness, and it grates against something inside me that still wants to be cherished, even as I know I sold that right the minute I entered this property.
He walks around behind me, keeping one broad palm firmly pressed between my shoulder blades as if to remind me who’s in control, then slides the other down the back of my thigh, massaging and kneading as if sculpting me out of clay.
I bite back a whimper, refusing to let him see just how much he’s getting to me.
I’m here for the money, I tell myself, over and over.
I can handle this. I can handle anything he can dish out.
He pinches and slaps, alternating between sharp, stinging torment and the gentle brush of fingertips that almost feels affectionate by comparison.
It’s a rhythm, a push and pull that keeps me off balance, never sure if the next sensation will make me want to scream or moan.
I try to parse his intentions, undecided whether this is some elaborate test or just another way to remind me who’s in charge, but the truth is, I don’t think he cares.
He’s playing with me because he can, because he likes seeing me react.
And that realization sends a weird shiver through me, part dread and part something else.
Eventually, he circles back in front of me, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
The air sours with tension. His breathing is a fraction heavier now, betraying a hunger he can't quite reel in, his gaze even colder and more predatory as he stares at me the way I imagine a shark must eye a wounded fish. The chill I’m feeling only amplifies when he bends down, his warm breath grazing my ear, though he doesn't waste time with words.
Instead, one hand finds my hip, steadying me, while with the other he trails his knuckles down the line of my stomach, slow enough to make me shiver from suspense and dread in equal measure.
I brace myself as his fingers skate over my mound, parting me with clinical precision, like he's opening a letter addressed to someone else. Every nerve down there lights up, hypersensitive from fear and the faintest echo of an excitement I don't want to claim. He toys with the lips of my pussy, tracing the seams, sometimes dragging a single fingertip along the slickness he finds, other times pressing in just enough to hint at what he might do but never quite committing. The tease is excruciating. I want to close my legs, to crush his hand between my thighs and remind him that I’m more than just an object for inspection, but I hold myself rigid, refusing to flinch. If there’s one thing I can control, it’s my reaction. Mostly.
He keeps his eyes locked on my face, feeding on every expression.
When my breath hitches, he quirks an eyebrow.
When I squeeze my fists at my sides, he lets the silence stretch, poised, letting me wonder whether he’ll praise or punish.
His thumb circles my clit once, slow and deliberate, and the involuntary gasp that escapes me is enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch in satisfaction.
Okay, maybe I can’t control my reactions as much as I’d like.
Humiliation floods me—because I want him to stop, and I want him to keep going, and most of all I want to know how far he’ll push me before I fracture.
His fingers withdraw with maddening slowness, gathering the wetness as proof of my body's betrayal, then he lifts his hand to my lips, smearing his trophy across my mouth.
"Whatever else is going on in that pretty little head of yours," he mutters, as if he’s already won this game we’re playing.
"Your cunt is an honest little slut." The words hit me with both waves of shame and unwanted arousal, and when his tongue darts out to taste the residue on his finger, I nearly lose myself.
He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up so I can't avoid his eyes. There’s a flicker of amusement there, and I know he’s pleased with what he’s found. Pleased with my unwilling reaction, despite everything.
” You’ll do," he says, his voice rough. "For now."
I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. Before I can decide, he grabs my wrist, his grasp firm but not painful.
"Come," he commands, pulling me over to a door I hadn't noticed. "We're not done yet."
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I follow him. What else does he have planned? And why am I feeling... anticipation?
Nope, it's just my imagination playing tricks on me.
As we cross the threshold, I can't help staring at what lies before me.
The bedroom is even more opulent than the previous room, if that's possible.
A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in rich fabrics that shimmer in the low light.
But it's not the luxury that makes my breath catch - it's the array of implements laid out on a nearby table.
Whips, floggers, cuffs, and things I can't even name glint menacingly and my stomach lurches with a punch of expected anxiety. But there's also something darker, more primal, that I don't want to examine too closely.
He releases my wrist and moves to the table, running his fingers over the various tools like he's selecting a weapon, while I stand rooted to the spot, unsure if I should run or stay put. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he must hear it.
I need to remember this is what I signed up for. Now I just need to get through it.
Three weeks has never seemed so long.