Chapter 8: The Gift Basket
The silence in Genevieve’s room had a texture. It was thick and velvet, like the drapes that kept the afternoon light at bay, and it absorbed every sound—the tick of the ornate clock, the faint rush of blood in her own ears. She hadn’t left since the episode with the bedpost. A tray of untouched food sat on her vanity, a silent rebuke. She wore only a silk robe, unbelted, and it hung open as she stared blankly at the crack in her vanity mirror, the one shaped like a mocking, broken smile.
A soft knock, so deferential it was nearly inaudible, broke the stillness. Before she could answer, the door opened just enough for Elara, one of the younger housemaids, to slip inside. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the floor, her hands holding a small, deep-blue velvet box trimmed with silver. She placed it carefully in the center of the rumpled bed, on the exact spot where Genevieve had earlier sought oblivion in sleep and failed.
“From the Master,” Elara murmured, her voice a thread of sound. She didn’t curtsy. She didn’t wait for a response. She simply turned and left, closing the door with a soft, final click.
Genevieve stared at the box. It was beautiful, decadent. The kind of thing that might hold a string of pearls or a pair of diamond earrings. A bitter laugh clawed its way up her throat but died before it reached her lips. He wasn’t sending jewels. Not the kind you wore.
Her bare feet were silent on the carpet as she approached the bed. Her fingers, which had felt so alien and traitorous just hours before, now hovered over the plush velvet. It was cool to the touch. She lifted the lid.
Black silk lay within, shimmering under the muted light. Nestled in its folds were objects that glinted with cold, polished purpose. Her breath hitched.
There was a dildo, long and thick, made of clear, ribbed glass. Light refracted through it, casting faint rainbows on the silk. Next to it lay a gag, but not a simple ball. This was a realistic, silicone phallus, detailed and intimidating, with straps meant to buckle behind the head. And centered on the display, catching the eye first, was a butt plug. It was the largest of the three, made of gleaming black silicone, with a flared base that was studded with what looked like tiny, fake jewels. Its bulbous head promised a severe stretch.
But it was the bases of the plug and the gag, and the unmistakable shape of the glass dildo’s end, that made her blood run cold then hot. Each was monogrammed. Not with initials, but with a crest. The Bellweather family crest: a gryphon rampant, holding a key.
A claim. A brand.
Her first instinct was rage. A hot, cleansing fire. She would throw the box out the window. She would storm down to Ethan’s study and shove its contents in his smug face. She stood, her body trembling with the impulse.
And then she didn’t.
The memory of the garden was a cold stone in her gut. The feel of the trowel, the watching gardeners, the unspeakable climax in the dirt. The memory of the video, and her own hands working her against the bedpost. The emptiness that followed, a void more profound than any she had ever known. The rage sputtered, choked by a deeper, more terrifying understanding. He knew. He knew about the bedpost. He knew about the hollowness. He was offering, no, presenting, a way to fill it.
Her hand, of its own volition it seemed, reached into the box. Her fingers closed around the black plug. It was heavier than she expected, and surprisingly soft, yielding slightly under her grip. The silicone was cool, almost clinical. She traced the ridged crest with her thumb.
Shame washed over her, but it was a different flavor than before. This was not the hot, frantic shame of being watched. This was cooler, deeper, a sediment settling at the bottom of her soul. It was mixed with something else, a dark and curious pull. What would it feel like? That crest, inside her? A permanent, secret mark of belonging to this house, to its power, to him?
She found the small bottle of lubricant tucked into the corner of the silk. Her movements were methodical, dreamlike. She uncapped it, squeezed a generous, clear pool onto her fingers. The scent was neutral, clean.
She lay back on the bed, the robe falling open completely. The ceiling above her was a swirl of plaster and shadow. She brought her slicked fingers to her asshole, a place she had rarely touched, never with intent like this. The contact was a shock, intimate and violating. She circled the tight ring of muscle, her breath shallow. Her other hand drifted between her legs, finding her cunt already slick with a betrayal that had become routine. She slid two fingers inside herself, a mimicry of fullness that only emphasized the emptiness elsewhere.
She pressed the slick, cool tip of the plug against her back entrance.
The resistance was immediate, a tight, insistent barrier. She pushed, breathing out sharply through her nose. There was a burning sting, a stretch that felt impossible. A whimper escaped her. She paused, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was insanity. This was degradation.
She thought of the gardeners’ averted eyes. Of Old Tom’s blank nod. Of Elara’s downcast gaze as she delivered this velvet condemnation. They all saw her. They all knew. And in that knowing, there was a perverse kind of recognition. She was seen, not as Genevieve, but as something that belonged to the estate. A part of its machinery.
With a low, guttural sound, she bore down.
The plug’s bulbous head popped past the tight ring of muscle. The pain was sharp, bright, a white-hot lance that made her cry out into the silent room. It subsided into a deep, throbbing ache, a feeling of being stretched to a terrifying limit. She breathed, shaky and wet, as she slowly, inch by impossible inch, worked the plug deeper. The flared base, with its jeweled Bellweather crest, settled firmly against her skin, a heavy, undeniable seal.
A strange calm descended. The frantic, skittering panic that had lived in her chest since the garden was… quieted. The void was filled. The pressure was immense, overwhelming, but it was definitive. It was an answer.
But it wasn’t enough. The plug filled one channel, a dark, shameful one, but her cunt still clenched around nothing, a raw and hungry mouth. Her gaze drifted back to the box. The glass dildo winked at her.
She took it. It was cold and smooth, the ridges like promises. She didn’t bother with more lube. Her own wetness was ample, dripping from her. She guided the glass head to her entrance, already gaping slightly from her fingers. She pushed it inside.
The feeling was utterly different from the plug. This was a smooth, hard fullness, the ribs catching deliciously on her inner walls as she sank it to the hilt. A broken moan tore from her lips. She lay there for a moment, impaled on both ends, a skewered offering. The sensation was devastating. She was packed, owned, utterly occupied.
Her hand found the small, discreet silver controller that had been nestled beneath the silk. A single button. She pressed it.
A vicious, buzzing hum erupted from the base of the glass dildo. The vibration wasn’t a gentle thrum; it was a violent, rattling oscillation that traveled straight up her spine. Her entire body jolted. Her cunt convulsed around the rigid glass, the ribs suddenly alive, fucking her from the inside out.
“Oh, god… fuck!” The curse was ripped from her, loud and unchaste.
She dropped the controller as if burned, but the device didn’t stop. It buzzed relentlessly, a mean, impersonal stimulation that offered no rhythm, no tenderness, only ruthless efficiency. Her hips began to buck helplessly against the bed, fucking herself back onto the vibrating intrusion. Each movement shifted the plug in her ass, a brutal counterpoint. The dual sensation short-circuited her thoughts. There was only the deafening buzz, the deep stretch, the crest branding her from the inside, the cruel, clever ridges of the glass sawing in and out of her dripping cunt.
She came fast and hard, a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Her back arched off the bed, her mouth open in a silent scream as the vibrations milked the orgasm from her in relentless, shocking waves. It didn’t stop. As she came down, trembling and oversensitive, the goddamn thing kept buzzing, sending fresh jolts of unbearable sensation through her spent body.
“No, no, no, please,” she sobbed, scrambling for the controller. Her fingers fumbled, slick with sweat and her own juices. She found it, pressing the button frantically.
Silence. Blessed, shocking silence.
She collapsed back onto the sheets, both objects still buried inside her. The aftershocks twitched through her muscles. Her body was a map of surrendered territory. The plug in her ass ached dully, a permanent, claiming weight. The glass dildo was a cold, hard truth in her cunt.
She stared at the cracked smile in the mirror across the room. Her reflection was a stranger—flushed, tear-streaked, hair plastered to her forehead, robe hanging open to reveal the obscene, jeweled base of the plug nestled between her ass cheeks. She looked used. Ruined.
A quiet, unthinkable thought surfaced through the wreckage: This feels like peace.
This was her place. Not as a sister, not as a daughter, but as this. A vessel for the house’s will. An object marked with its crest. The shame was still there, but it had mutated. It was warm now, heavy, like a fur mantle. It felt like belonging.
There was another knock, this one firmer. She didn’t move, didn’t cover herself. The door opened.
Ethan stood there, framed in the doorway. His eyes took her in, the open robe, the glint of glass and black silicone, the mess between her thighs, the crest pressed against her skin. His expression showed no triumph, no cruel smile. It was merely observational, like a gardener noting the bloom of a peculiar flower.
“Dinner is in half an hour,” he said, his voice flat. “You will attend. You will be presentable.”
Genevieve met his gaze in the mirror. Her own eyes were wide, hollow, but calm. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
He lingered for a moment, his gaze dropping to the velvet box, empty now on the bed. “The pieces are monogrammed for a reason,” he said quietly. “So you never forget who owns what belongs to him.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Slowly, carefully, Genevieve pulled the glass dildo from her cunt. It came out with a wet, sucking sound. She set it aside, where the Bellweather crest gleamed faintly. She did not remove the plug. Its weight was a comfort, an anchor. She stood, wincing at the deep, filled ache, and walked to her wardrobe. She would find a dress. She would make herself presentable.
For the first time in days, her hands did not shake.
For the first time in days, her hands did not shake. She selected a simple, dark blue dress from her wardrobe. It was modest, high-necked, long-sleeved. It felt like a uniform. Slipping it on over the persistent, weighted fullness in her ass was a careful, deliberate process. The fabric hugged her hips, and every slight movement sent a subtle reminder through her entire body. She felt anchored. She felt owned.
She did not look in the cracked mirror again.
The walk downstairs was a study in sensation. Each step sent a small, significant shift through her pelvis, the plug’s presence a quiet, throbbing secret. The pressure was no longer an invasion; it was a fact, like her own heartbeat. The grand staircase felt different underfoot, the portraits’ eyes seeming to hold a new, knowing weight. She entered the small dining room, her posture unnaturally straight.
Ethan and Celeste were already seated. Her mother, Sophia, was a pale, silent ghost at the foot of the table. “You’re late,” Celeste snapped, her eyes sharp with a fear she tried to mask as irritation.
“I’m here,” Genevieve said, her voice softer than she intended. She took her seat, the wooden chair pressing the flared base of the plug firmly against her. A faint, shocking spark of pleasure-pain made her breath catch. She settled slowly.
Dinner was served—some sort of game hen, its skin crisped, surrounded by roasted root vegetables. The clatter of silverware was deafening in the silence. Genevieve picked up her fork, her movements measured. She took a bite, the food ash in her mouth. Her entire awareness was focused on the dark, filled core of her body.
As she cut a piece of carrot, she realized her hips were moving. Just a fraction, a tiny, instinctive rock forward and back in her seat. The movement pushed the plug’s bulbous head against that secret, internal ring of muscle, then released it. In, out. A tiny, shameful rhythm. Her cunt, empty now, clenched around nothing, a lonely, wanting ache. She missed the brutal, unyielding fullness of the glass dildo. The plug was a deep, claiming presence, but it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
“What happened to you today?” Celeste demanded, unable to bear the quiet. “Elara said you had an accident.”
Genevieve kept her eyes on her plate. She rocked her hips again, a little more deliberately this time, savoring the dull stretch. “I fell,” she murmured. “In the herb garden. I was… distracted.”
“You look distracted now,” Celeste pressed, leaning forward. “Did you hit your head? You’re acting strange.”
“I’m fine, Celeste.” The reply was flat, distant. Her mind was elsewhere, circling a single, burning question. How did he know? The garden, the video, the bedpost… those were violations, punishments he orchestrated. But the contents of the velvet box… they were an answer. They addressed a need that had only awoken because of him. The need to be filled, to be stretched, to be sealed shut with his mark. He had seen the hollow space he created and crafted a key for it.
A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with cold. He knew her body’s debased logic better than she did. He understood the corrupt equation: that shame could mutate into dependency, that violation could carve a groove deep enough to become a home.
Ethan watched her over the rim of his water glass, his expression unreadable. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His silence was the cage, and her own spiraling thoughts were the lock.
She took another bite, chewed mechanically. Her hips continued their slow, subtle undulation under the tablecloth, a clandestine dance for an audience of one. Each small motion was a confession. Each clench of her empty cunt was a plea. The meal became a blur of flavorless food and Celeste’s increasingly frantic questions, which Genevieve parried with monosyllabic nods and shrugs.
When the dessert course arrived—a silent servant placing a small pot de crème before each of them—Genevieve stood up abruptly. The movement jostled the plug deeply, wrenching a sharp gasp from her lips.
“I’m not hungry,” she announced, her voice tight. She didn’t look at Celeste’s bewildered face or her mother’s hollow stare. She only glanced at Ethan. His eyes held a glint of dark comprehension. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of dismissal.
She walked out, her steps hurried, feeling the plug move inside her with every stride. It wasn’t an escape. It was a return. The hallway, her staircase, her bedroom door—they were all parts of the same mechanism now, and she was a moving part within it. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing heavily.
Her hand went to the base of the plug, feeling the raised, jeweled crest through the fabric of her dress. She pressed, experimentally. A wave of heat washed through her. She was already fumbling with the buttons of her dress, desperate to be free of the constraints, desperate to address the aching emptiness he had so perfectly identified and so cruelly left half-satiated. The game was no longer about punishment.
It was about precision. And he was a master craftsman.
And he was a master craftsman. The door to her bedroom opened without a knock twenty minutes later, hinges whispering on well-oiled brass. Ethan stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft but definitive click. Genevieve was at the window, her back to him, still wearing the dark blue dress. The evening sky was a bruised purple, and her reflection in the glass was a pale, haunted smudge over the darkening gardens.
She didn’t turn. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. The plug was a constant, dull presence, a grounding ache. “Did you come to gloat?” Her voice was scraped raw, thin.
“I came to see if you understood the tools,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the care of a new appliance. He moved further into the room, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. “They fit their purpose. Do they not?”
A tremor ran through her. She watched his reflection approach hers in the windowpane. “Their purpose is humiliation.”
“Is that what you felt?” He stopped a few feet behind her. His presence was like a change in barometric pressure. “When you came on that vibrator with my crest buried in your ass, was that humiliation? Or was it just the most honest fucking you’ve ever given yourself?”
She flinched. The crudeness of his words, the surgical precision of them, landed like a physical blow. Her body betrayed her with a fresh pulse of wet heat, a slickeness that had nothing to do with anger. The plug seemed to grow warmer. “You made me.”
“Did I?” He was closer now. She could feel the faint heat of him at her back. “I opened a door, Genevieve. I didn’t drag you through it. You crawled. You begged. You fucked yourself on a bedpost because the idea of being empty was worse than the idea of being used.”
Her breath fogged the glass. She had no rebuttal. It was the truth, stripped of pretense. A terrible, arousing truth. The memory of her own frantic movements, the rough wood, the utter abandonment—it unspooled in her mind not with horror now, but with a dark, coiling hunger. She saw it as he must see it: pathetic, lewd, and desperately hot.
“It’s sick,” she whispered, but the conviction was gone.
“It’s you.” His voice dropped, a low vibration that seemed to sync with the latent buzz in her nerves. “That frantic, empty need. That shame that tastes like fucking candy on your tongue. You’ve been a hollow thing for years, Gen. Pretty and cruel because there was nothing inside to be anything else. I’m not making you do anything.” He paused, and the air itself seemed to thicken, charged with the same iron-scented magic that lived in the garden soil. “I’m just giving the hollow a shape.”
The magic didn’t feel like an invasion this time. It was a diffusion, a subtle scent released into the air of her own mind. It whispered, soft as her own heartbeat: This is your taste. This is your depth. You always wanted to belong to something stronger. The thoughts slid into place, familiar and seductive. The compulsion at the herb garden had been a violent hijacking. This was a gentle, irrevocable persuasion, making the soil of her will fertile for his seeds.
She turned from the window finally, facing him. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. The conflict was still there, but it was muffled, wrapped in the soft, accepting logic the magic provided. “What shape?” The question was barely audible.
He reached out, not touching her, but tracing a line in the air from her forehead down to the junction of her thighs. “My shape. You wear my crest. You feel it inside you right now, don’t you?” She gave a tiny, jerky nod. “That’s the shape.A owned thing. A used thing. A thing that gets its purpose, its very fucking worth, from how well it takes what I give it.”
Her lips parted. A shaky exhale escaped. The emptiness in her cunt clenched, a physical yearning. The plug in her ass felt like a promise.
“Let me be in charge,” he said, his voice utterly calm, devoid of malice or passion. It was a simple proposition. “Really in charge. Of this.” He gestured vaguely at her body. “Of what you need. Of when you get it. I’ll make sure that every moment of your life owned by me is one of humiliating pleasure. Exactly what you think you need. Exactly what you’re secretly begging for.”
The word ‘begging’ reverberated through her. She had begged. In the garden, into the dirt. In her mind, every time she touched herself since. The magic cooed inside her: This is freedom from choice. This is relief.
“How?” The single syllable was choked.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “You’ll wear the plug. Every day. You’ll present yourself to me each morning and each night so I can see that you’re properly filled. You’ll ask for permission to come. You’ll address me as ‘Sir’ when we’re alone. And in return, I will ensure you are never empty. I will make sure you are so perfectly, thoroughly used that you’ll feel my claim on you in your sleep.”
Her knees felt weak. The image he painted was one of utter degradation. It should have repelled her. Instead, a thrilling, terrifying warmth flooded her veins. The hollow space inside her seemed to yawn wider, hungry for that exact future. The magic cemented it, making the fantasy feel like a memory of a better time, a cleaner purpose.
“And if I say no?” she breathed, testing the last crumbling wall of her defiance.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Then you can leave. The front door isn’t locked. You can walk out into the world with nothing but the clothes you ruined in the herb garden. You can try to explain to everyone why you’re suddenly poor, why your family home belongs to the bookworm you tormented for years.” He leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into hers. “Or you can stay. And be what you are. What you’ve always been, underneath the cheap perfume and the cruel jokes. My good little thing.”
The final word landed with the weight of a verdict.Thing. It stripped her of personhood, of history. It should have been the ultimate insult. Under the swirling, gentle pressure of his magic, it felt like a benediction.A definition. To be a problem solved.To be a need fulfilled. To have the endless, anxious chase for status and meaning reduced to a single, filthy purpose.
Her resistance didn’t shatter. It dissolved, like sugar in hot tea. A profound, unsettling calm settled over her. The frantic energy that had plagued her since his father’s will was read just… evaporated. This was the answer. This was the shape.
Her hands went to the buttons of her dress. Her fingers, which had trembled for days, were steady. She didn’t break eye contact as she undid them, one by one, from throat to waist. She let the dress slide off her shoulders, pool at her feet. She stood before him in only her sheer panties, the line of the plug’s base visible through the delicate fabric. Her skin pebbled in the cool air.
“Show me,” he said, his voice quiet.
She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down her thighs, stepping out of them. She turned, presenting her back to him, and bent forward slowly, placing her hands on the velvet ottoman at the foot of her bed. The position arched her back, offering him a blatant view. The black silicone plug was buried deep between her ass cheeks, the jeweled crest a dark, glittering brand against her skin.
A soft, approving sound came from him. “Good.” The word was a reward. It flowed through her, warm and validating. “Now take it out.”
Her breath hitched. She reached back with one hand, fingers finding the flared base. It was slick with her own moisture and a faint sheen of lube.She pulled. The initial resistance was intense, the swollen bulb stretching her rim painfully as it began to emerge. A low groan was torn from her lips. It was a violation in reverse, a shocking emptiness returning. When it finally popped free with a soft, wet sound, she felt gaping, exposed.
“Keep it in your hand,” he instructed. She straightened, clutching the shameful object, its surface still warm from her body. She turned to face him, naked now, utterly vulnerable. His gaze was analytical, sweeping over her from face to feet, lingering on the flushed, wet evidence of her arousal between her legs.
“You see?” he said, nodding toward her cunt. “Empty.Needy. You look incomplete.” He took a single step forward. “Ask for what you need.”
The words stuck in her throat, a final, fragile clot of pride. The magic and her own undeniable hunger pushed them out. “Please,” she whispered.
“Please, what?”
She swallowed. The title felt foreign, weighty. It altered the axis of the room. “Please, Sir.”
“Finish the sentence, Genevieve.”
Tears, not of sadness but of shocking release, welled in her eyes. “Please, Sir… fill me up.”
He closed the distance then. His hand wasn’t gentle. It cupped her between her legs, two fingers sliding roughly through her slick folds before pushing hard inside her. She cried out, her body bowing into the touch. He fucked her with his fingers, a brutal, quick mimicry that made her thighs shake. “This is what you are now,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “A set of holes that asks politely to be used. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, her hips rocking against his hand.
He removed his fingers, shiny with her wetness, and brought them to her lips. The scent of her own arousal was pungent, animal. “Taste it. Taste what you are.”
She opened her mouth without hesitation, her tongue swirling over his fingers, sucking them clean. The salt-bitter taste was another layer of submission, another truth accepted.
“On the bed,” he commanded. “On your back. Legs spread. Show me everything.”
She scrambled onto the mattress, lying back, obeying. The posture was one of total vulnerability, total offering. He stood at the edge of the bed, unbuckling his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room. He freed his cock, already hard. It wasn’t monstrous, but it looked purposeful, intimidating in its reality. This was no toy.This was him.
He didn’t kneel. He simply guided himself to her entrance, the head nudging against her swollen flesh. He looked down at her, his expression still cool, composed. “This is the agreement. You are mine to fuck. Mine to degrade. Mine to fill whenever and however I see fit. And in return, you will never have to wonder what you’re for again. Do you accept?”
She looked up the length of his body to his eyes. The hollow inside her wasn’t just in her cunt now; it was in her soul, and it screamed for this. The magic sweetened the scream into a song of belonging. “I accept, Sir.”
He thrust into her in one smooth, powerful stroke.
The fullness was catastrophic. It was different from the glass, different from anything. It was living heat, relentless ownership. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing pace immediately, each deep drive pushing a choked sound from her throat. It wasn’t about her pleasure. It was about possession. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, yanking her onto him with every thrust.
“You take it so well,” he grunted, the calm facade cracking for a moment to reveal a feral edge of pure dominance. “My greedy little cunt. Made for this. Wanted this.”
His words were gasoline on the fire he’d lit in her. She sobbed, her nails digging into the bedsheets, her legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. The humiliation was a cresting wave, and she rode it, craving the crash. “Please, Sir, harder,” she begged, the words tumbling out. “Own it, own me, please—”
He fucked her harder, the bedframe slamming against the wall in a steady, violent rhythm. The sound of skin slapping skin, of her wet flesh yielding to each invasion, filled the room. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear. “You’re going to come. You’re going to come on my cock like the owned slut you are. And you’re going to thank me for it.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command woven into the magic, into the raw physicality of his possession. Her orgasm ripped through her with no warning, a convulsive, screaming climax that locked her body in a rigid arch. She wailed, her cunt milking his length in frantic, fluttering spasms as the world dissolved into pure, submissive sensation.
He didn’t stop. He kept pounding into her through her climax, prolonging it into a state of tortured, exquisite overstimulation. Just as she began to fall from the peak, he pulled out abruptly.
A whimpering protest died on her lips. His hand wrapped in her hair, yanking her head to the side. “Open your mouth.”
She obeyed, her lips parting. He aimed his cock and spilled himself over her tongue and cheek in hot, salty stripes. The act was the final, definitive brand. She kept her mouth open, swallowing what she could, feeling the rest slide down her skin.
He released her hair, stepping back to tuck himself away. He looked down at her, a ruined, glistening mess on the rumpled sheets, his come on her face, her body still twitching. “Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice restored to its earlier calm. “You will insert the plug before you sleep. You will present yourself to me at seven tomorrow morning in my study. I will inspect you.”
He walked to the door. With his hand on the knob, he glanced back. “And Genevieve?” She met his gaze, dazed, spent, utterly reconfigured. “That was your first lesson in obedience. We begin the second one tomorrow.”
He left. The silence he left behind was different. It wasn’t empty. It was full of her new reality. Slowly, she raised a trembling hand to her face, wiping his spend onto her fingers. She brought them to her mouth and licked them clean.
Then she reached for the plug, still warm from her grip. She didn’t hesitate. She coated it with the wetness between her legs and pressed it back into that aching, welcoming void. The stretch was a familiar pain now, a homecoming. She lay back, the jeweled crest a heavy, comforting weight once more.
She was full.She was owned. For the first time in years, Genevieve Finch felt absolutely, perfectly certain of her place in the world.