Chapter 10: The Aftermath of Worship
The scars on his back were a stiff, raised map against the cool Egyptian cotton. Leo woke to their dull ache before he opened his eyes. The memory surfaced instantly: the stiletho’s point, the hot trickle of blood, the taste of Elias Thorne. He took a shallow breath. The perfume was still there, layered now with the smell of her sleep-warm skin beside him.
Her foot pressed against his stomach, then slid lower. It was damp from her morning shower. Her toes, precise and strong, found his morning erection through his boxers and curled around it. She squeezed, not gently.
“You’re hard,” her voice came, low and sleep-rasped. “Dreaming of your work last night?”
He opened his eyes. She was propped on one elbow, watching him, her hair a stunning mess on the pillow. The green of her eyes was almost glacial in the early grey light.
“No,” he whispered.
“Liar.” She increased the pressure with her foot. “Look at my toes. I missed a spot when I dried off. Clean it.”
She lifted her foot, bringing it to his face. The second toe bore a faint, almost invisible smear of something dark—maybe yesterday’s mascara, maybe city grime from the hallway floor. He took her foot in his hand, the arch high and taut, and pressed his mouth to the pad of her toe. He licked, the taste of clean skin and expensive soap.
“Not like that,” she chided, her voice sharp. “Like you mean it. Like you’re starving for it.”
She shoved her foot past his lips. He gagged as her toes pressed against his tongue. He sucked, laving between each toe, cleaning the narrow spaces with the tip of his tongue. Her foot tasted of salt and almond oil. He heard her sigh of satisfaction.
“Good boy.” She withdrew her foot. “Now the other one. And use your hands. Don’t just lie there.”
As he lifted her other foot to his mouth, she shifted, reaching across him. Her hand closed on his belt, coiled on his nightstand like a sleeping snake. He froze, her big toe resting on his bottom lip.
“Keep going,” she said, her tone conversational.
He obeyed, licking the length of her instep as she pulled the leather belt free with a soft hiss. She doubled it, buckle dangling. He watched, his mouth still working on her foot, as she sat up, straddling his hips. Her bare cunt pressed against his boxer-clad erection. She was already wet. The heat of her seeped through the cotton.
“You forgot the necklace,” she said, leaning forward, her breasts brushing his chest. “That was a failure. Failures need correction.”
She looped the belt around his neck. The leather was cool and smooth. She threaded the tongue through the buckle but didn’t fasten it. She simply held the two ends, forming a loose, controlling circle.
“You like it when I mark you,” she stated, pulling the ends gently. The circle tightened. “You like the proof. But marks fade. I want a different kind of proof this morning.”
She began to rock against him, her wetness soaking through the fabric. At the same time, she pulled the ends of the belt. The pressure on his trachea was immediate. He gasped, his licking faltering.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, her movement becoming a slow, grinding roll. “And don’t come. You don’t come until I say.”
He focused on her foot, trying to ignore the building pressure in his groin and the decreasing air in his lungs. She increased the tension on the belt. His vision speckled at the edges. The sensations crashed together: the ache in his back, the taste of her skin, the glorious friction of her pussy on his cock, the terrifying, gradual closing of his windpipe.
She released the pressure just as black spots began to swim. He dragged in a raw, grateful breath.
“Who do you belong to?” she asked, her rhythm steady, relentless.
“You,” he choked out.
“Louder.”
“I belong to you, Vivienne.”
She tightened the belt again, harder this time. His hands, which had been holding her foot, dropped to the sheets, gripping them. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking deeper contact. She denied him, keeping her grind shallow and maddening.
“Call me Goddess,” she commanded, her own breath starting to hitch.
“Goddess,” he wheezed.
The belt bit deep. The air was gone. His body thrashed beneath her, a primal alarm ringing in every cell. She leaned down, her lips against his ear. “Would you die for me, Leo? Would you let me take your last breath right here, while I milk your cock with my cunt?”
He couldn’t speak. He could only manage a frantic, desperate nod.
She released the belt. Air flooded back in, a painful, glorious fire. He coughed, his body convulsing.
“Say it.”
“I would die for you,” he rasped, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Goddess.”
“Prove it.”
She shoved his boxers down, freeing his aching cock. In one fluid motion, she lifted her hips and sank down onto him, taking him inside her in a single, devastating plunge. She was impossibly tight, impossibly hot, and so wet he saw stars. She moaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure possession.
Then she pulled the belt tight again.
This time, she didn’t relent. She set a brutal pace, riding him with the powerful, piston-like drive of the athlete she was. Each downward slam drove the air from his lungs, and the belt ensured none came back in. The world narrowed to a tunnel. At the end of it was her face, flushed with exertion and pleasure, her green eyes locked on his, watching him unravel.
His body was a battleground. Pleasure coiled, thick and urgent, at the base of his spine. His hips hammered upward to meet her drives. His lungs screamed. His vision blurred, then darkened at the edges, then began to fade to grey. The sound of their bodies slapping together, wet and obscene, filled the room.
“You’re mine,” she grunted, her rhythm becoming erratic, frenzied. “This life, this breath, this fucking cum… it’s all mine to take.”
He was dying. He was sure of it. The grey was swallowing everything. The pleasure was a white-hot spear about to shatter him. He felt his orgasm detonate, a silent, seismic eruption forced through a body with no air. It ripped through him, wave after wave of excruciating release, his cock pulsing deep inside her as the darkness consumed him.
Just before he completely blacked out, he felt her own climax. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in a vicious, rhythmic spasm, milking his final spurts. A raw, shredded cry tore from her throat.
And then she let go of the belt.
Air. It was a battering ram. It crashed into his lungs, a painful, hacking, glorious invasion. He spasmed beneath her, coughing, gasping, weeping. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her own body slick with sweat, her heart hammering against his. They lay there, a tangled, spent wreck.
After a long time, she pushed herself up. She looked down at him, his face blotchy, his neck ringed with an angry red burn from the leather. She leaned down and kissed him, softly, on his swollen lips. He could taste himself on her tongue.
“You didn’t die,” she murmured, almost to herself. She dismounted, the loss of her warmth immediate. She picked up the belt, looking at the imprint on his neck. “But you wanted to, for a second there. I felt it.”
She stood, walked naked to the window, and looked out at the awakening city. Leo lay paralyzed, his body humming with aftershocks, the ghost of the belt still pressing on his throat.
“The letter on the nightstand,” she said without turning. “It’s from Marcus Cole. The trainer. He’s coming for dinner Friday. To discuss… boundaries.” She finally glanced back at him, her expression unreadable. “Wear a turtleneck.”
She padded out toward the kitchen, leaving him alone with the rumpled, stained sheets, the ghost of suffocation, and the slow, dawning terror of what ‘discussing boundaries’ with a man like that might truly mean.