Chapter 11 The Devil’s House #4
Gerald stopped at a door near the back of the house and opened it, gesturing for me to enter first. “A moment, if you don't mind. There's a matter we should discuss before you leave.”
The room was small—a study or office, lined with bookshelves and dominated by a heavy wooden desk. A single lamp cast warm light across leather furniture that looked expensive and well-used. Gerald closed the door behind us with a quiet click and turned the lock.
The sound of the bolt sliding home made my stomach tighten.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, keeping my tone professional even as my mind raced through exit strategies.
“Not a problem, no.” Gerald moved to stand in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something understated and expensive. His eyes travelled down my body slowly, assessing. “Though I must say, you look rather... disheveled for someone who's been cleaning.”
“It was thorough work.”
“I'm sure it was.” His mouth curved slightly. “I could hear it. These old houses have excellent acoustics when one knows where to listen.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck.
“Mr Harrow's business is his own,” I said carefully.
“Indeed it is.” Gerald took another step closer, and now there was barely a foot of space between us. “But what interests me is that you walked into this house as a cleaner and walked out of that bedroom looking like you've been thoroughly used. That suggests a versatility I find... intriguing.”
“I aim to provide comprehensive service.”
“How professional of you.” His hand came up and his fingers traced along my jaw—the same place Harrow had gripped earlier, still tender. “Though I wonder if you're quite finished providing service for the evening.”
My breath caught. “I should be going.”
“Should you?” His thumb pressed against my lower lip, and I could see something shifting in his expression—the courteous house manager dissolving to reveal something darker underneath.
“You seemed quite eager upstairs. Quite willing to be used. I thought perhaps you might extend that same... courtesy to me. Privately.”
“I don't—”
“You smell like sex,” Gerald interrupted, his voice dropping lower.
“You smell like Mr Harrow's release and your own sweat and desperation.
And you're still hard.” His other hand moved down and pressed against the front of my trousers where my cock was straining against the fabric, still half-erect despite everything.
“So don't pretend you're not interested.”
I should have pushed him away. Should have insisted on leaving, should have maintained the professional distance that was already shattered beyond repair. But the mirroring device was in my pocket, the mission was complete, and refusing Gerald now would raise questions I couldn't afford to answer.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked quietly.
“Nothing as elaborate as what Mr Harrow did to you.” Gerald's hand tightened on my cock through the fabric, making me inhale sharply. “I'm a simple man with simple tastes. I just want to see if that arse is as good as it looked bent over Mr Harrow's bed.”
“Here?”
“Here. Now. Quietly.” He released me and moved to the desk, clearing a space among the papers and books. “Bend over. Hands flat on the desk. And don't make a sound—we wouldn't want to disturb Mr Harrow's evening.”
I moved to the desk and bent forward, pressing my palms flat against the polished wood. The position pulled at muscles that were already sore, already used, and when Gerald moved behind me and gripped my hips I couldn't suppress a quiet hiss.
“Still tender?” His hands moved to my belt, unbuckling it with unhurried confidence. “Good. That means you'll remember this.”
He pulled my trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion, baring my arse to the cool air. His hands spread me open and I heard him make a low, approving sound.
“Look at that. Still wet. Still open.” A finger pressed against my entrance and slid inside easily, meeting no resistance. “Mr Harrow did thorough work. Though I suppose I should thank him for the preparation.”
“Please—” The word slipped out before I could stop it, though I wasn't sure if I was begging him to stop or continue.
“Please what?” Gerald added a second finger, fucking me slowly with them. “Please use you? Please fill this greedy hole that's still clenching around my fingers like it wants more?”
“Yes.”
“Good boy.” He withdrew his fingers and I heard the sound of a zip lowering, fabric rustling. “Stay quiet. Stay still. And take what I give you.”
His cock pressed against my entrance—still slick with Harrow's release and the lubricant that hadn't fully dried—and pushed inside in one long, steady thrust. The stretch was different from Harrow, the angle sharper, and my body clenched involuntarily around the intrusion.
“Relax,” Gerald ordered, his voice rough now. “You've already been broken in. This should be easy.”
He was right. My body accepted him with far less resistance than it should have, still loose and open from what Harrow had done, and Gerald groaned quietly as he buried himself completely.
“Fuck. You feel incredible.” His hands tightened on my hips hard enough to bruise. “So hot. So wet. Like a bitch in heat.”
He started moving—deep, methodical thrusts that dragged his cock against my prostate on every stroke and made my own cock throb heavily between my legs. The desk creaked slightly with each thrust, papers rustling beneath my hands, and I had to bite down on my lower lip to keep from making noise.
“That's it,” Gerald breathed. “Take it quietly. Like the good little whore you are.”
His rhythm increased, harder and faster, one hand leaving my hip to fist in my hair and force my head down against the desk. The new angle drove him deeper and I couldn't stop the quiet whimper that escaped my throat.
“I said quiet.” His hand released my hair and came down hard across my arse—a sharp, stinging slap that made me jerk forward. “Or do you want Mr Harrow to hear what his house manager is doing to his cleaner?”
I shook my head mutely, biting down harder on my lip until I tasted copper.
“Better.” Gerald's thrusts grew rougher, less controlled, his breathing harsh in the quiet room. “Going to fill you. Going to add my seed to Mr Harrow's and send you home dripping with both of us.”
He thrust deep one final time and came, his cock pulsing inside me as he added his release to Harrow's. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to guarantee bruises that would match the ones Harrow had left, and his body shuddered against mine as he emptied himself completely.
When he finally pulled out, I felt the combined release of both men leak from my hole, warm and obscene, trailing down the inside of my thighs.
“Don't move yet.” Gerald's hand pressed between my shoulder blades, keeping me bent over the desk. “Let me look at what we've done to you.”
I stayed frozen—chest pressed to the desk, arse in the air, used and dripping—and heard him make a satisfied sound.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Absolutely ruined.”
He stepped back and I heard him tucking himself away, the sound of a zip rising, fabric being straightened.
When I finally pushed myself upright and turned around, Gerald looked exactly as he had when I'd first arrived—immaculately dressed, perfectly composed, every trace of what had just happened hidden behind professional courtesy.
“You can clean yourself up in the washroom down the hall,” he said, his tone polite and distant now. “Second door on the left.”
I pulled my trousers up with shaking hands, my body aching in new ways now, and moved toward the door. Gerald unlocked it and held it open, gesturing for me to precede him into the corridor.
“This way, please.”
He led me to a small washroom and waited outside while I cleaned myself up as best I could—wiping away the evidence of what both men had done, though I could still feel them inside me, could still smell sex on my skin despite the soap and water.
When I emerged, Gerald was waiting exactly where I'd left him.
“The side entrance is just ahead,” he said, leading me back through corridors I'd memorised on the way in. The side entrance appeared ahead of me like something I'd been holding my breath for, and Gerald opened it to cool evening air that hit my face like a clean slate.
“Good evening, sir. I trust we'll see you again if Mr Harrow requires further services.”
“Perhaps,” I said, stepping out onto the street. “Have a good evening.”
The door closed behind me with a quiet, definitive click.
I walked. One block and then two, my legs unsteady but keeping their rhythm, not letting myself stop or think until I was far enough away that turning back wasn't an option any part of me could seriously consider.
Three blocks, then four, and finally I turned into a narrow alley between two buildings, pressed my back against the cold brick, and pulled out my phone.
The notification was already waiting.
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