Artwork

Chapter 8 - Both

Adaline's POV:

The tip of my tongue is firm as it slides over the slit of my client's cock, my hand moving along the disappointing length and ignoring the evident scar tissue from circumcision. Christ, his moans remind me of a soprano belting out high notes from Mozart's Queen of the Night aria.

"Are you going to cum for me?" I hum and release an inappropriate chuckle that thankfully gets covered by his squeal while he nods, squeezing his eyes shut and panting as if he's a hamster tumbling in its wheel. "You'll make a real mess, isn't that right?"

Raising my brow when he doesn't answer, I rub my thumb where his frenulum would be if his parents didn't eradicate it as soon as he was born. "Isn't it impolite not to answer a question when you're asked one? You're making me think I'm not doing a good job and should stop-"

"No, no-ugh fuck, no! Don't stop, please don't stop, I'm so close!" The whines leaving his filthy mouth are more desperate than a cuckoo finding a nest of a small songbird to lay the egg and run from its responsibility as a parent. "Mistress, please," He murmurs the dominant title rather pathetically.

Confident in the fact that he isn't paying any attention to me, I allow myself a moment of disgust before flattening my tongue and gliding it from the base of his cock to the tip. My palm opens up as I do so to keep the flabby flesh pressed against my mouth, holding my breath on purpose.

When I get to the tip once again, my exhale is resolute like a soldier determined to accomplish the mission given to him no matter the consequences. My other hand kneads the soft muscles of my client's inner thigh, every stroke bringing it closer to his scrotum which raises his balls in response.

It's incredible how he can get aroused by the same scenario the two of us play out every time he selects me as his escort for the night. The lack of experimentation with stimuli makes him one of the less demanding clients I'm always willing to accept, sparing my mind and body from much greater monstrosities.

As per usual, his pants are bunched around his ankles that seem like they are drawn by an artist who found the perfect balance between german expressionism and gothic aesthetics. The thin hairs protruding from the skin of his legs rise when my fingers brush over his calves, taunting him.

Enveloping the head of his cock with my lips, I let him slide inside my mouth as I liberate the belt from the loops in a movement swift like a flutter of wings. The buckle rattles against the floor before I wrap it around my knuckles and stand, making sure to suck on his shaft until it bobs free with a pop.

Even without heels adding height to my already tall posture, the apex of my client's head would reach somewhere around my nose which complements the commanding role I have to play out to an almost hilarious extent.

Slipping into the desired mindset of my respected client, I manage to dismiss the chuckle bubbling in my throat and tilt my head to the side as dissatisfaction ploughs my brow. My stare becomes unrelenting, raking through him with freezing contempt. "I stopped. What will you do now?"

His shoulders crumple under my scrutiny, evident shudders causing his breathing to seize until I remind him of the importance of it. "Nothing, I don't deserve, I don't deserve to cum. N-no." Shaking his head he stutters, brandishing his fists until they collide with his thighs. "No."

The corner of my mouth curls until my expression turns into a scoff, my fingers untying the belt before it snaps between my hands like the first strike of thunder that quakes the ground below it. "You're right," I whisper, curling the leathery strip around the nape of his neck. "You don't."

A buzzing feeling radiates from me like the bright yellow petals of a daffodil when it emerges from the subsiding snow once I realise I'm getting better at manipulating ropes and whips of various kinds.