Chapter 105: The Morning Ritual
The silence after the guests left was a physical thing, thick and humming. Elise floated in it, curled on the rug where Julian had left her, the ghost of his touch and their watching eyes still imprinted on her skin. She drifted into a shallow, troubled sleep there on the floor, chased by half-formed shapes of looming figures and slow, approving applause.
She woke in the dark. The city lights were a diamond crust on the window, the room submerged in deep blue shadow. The ache was what pulled her to consciousness first—a low, persistent throb between her legs, a hollow emptiness in her gut that had nothing to do with hunger. It was a need, simple and animal. Her mouth felt terribly dry.
She uncurled, the silk robe sticking to her damp skin. The penthouse was silent. For a panicked second, she thought he was gone. Then she saw the faint strip of light under the bedroom door.
On her hands and knees, she crawled. The plush carpet fibers brushed her palms. Her body moved without her brain’s permission, a homing instinct drawn to the source of her ache, to him. She nudged the door open with her forehead.
Julian was propped against a mountain of crimson pillows, reading a hardbound book by the light of a single lamp. He’d changed into dark pajama pants, his chest bare. The silver in his hair gleamed. He didn’t look up as she entered, as she crawled across the vast expanse of the bed toward him.
She reached his hip and nuzzled against it, a soft, pathetic sound escaping her. She whined, high in her throat.
He slowly placed a bookmark, closed the book, and set it aside. Only then did he look down at her. His green eyes were unreadable in the lamplight. “What is it, little one?”
Her fingers plucked at the linen of his pants. She couldn’t articulate it. The need was a knot in her chest. She opened her mouth, then closed it, frustration welling. She needed the quiet, the nothing, the sucking oblivion. She needed the paci.
“Use your words,” he said, but his voice wasn’t sharp. It was waiting.
“P-paci,” she whispered, the word feeling childish and raw on her tongue. “Please.”
“Ah.” A slow smile touched his lips. He shifted, his hand going to the waistband of his pajamas. “But you’ve graduated from silicone, haven’t you, Elise? Your mouth is meant for something real now. For me.”
He freed his cock. It was already half-hard, heavy and thick in his hand. He guided it to her lips. “This is your paci now. This is what quiets you. Open.”
A trembling exhale warmed his skin. She opened her mouth. He fed himself inside, just the broad head, resting it on her tongue. The taste of him, clean salt and skin, filled her senses. She closed her lips instinctively, forming a seal, and suckled.
A low groan rumbled from his chest. Her eyes fluttered shut. This was it. This was the anchor. She drew on him gently, her tongue bathing the sensitive ridge, her cheeks hollowing. She nursed at him, slow and steady, her whole world narrowing to the rhythm and the weight on her tongue, the hand that now came to cradle the back of her head.
“Good girl,” he breathed, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust that pushed him deeper. She took him, relaxing her throat. “Just like that. Warm me up. Use that sweet little mouth.”
She lost time. There was only the suck and pull, the building hardness against her palate, the faint sounds of his pleasure above her. Her own aching need between her legs became a secondary pulse, a dull echo of the primary rhythm of her mouth.
When he finally pulled away, a string of saliva connected her lips to his glistening tip. Her mouth felt bereft, empty and wrong. She whimpered, chasing him with her lips.
“Shhh,” he soothed. In one fluid motion, he hooked his hands under her arms and laid her back onto the silk. The robe fell completely open. Her body was pale and exposed in the lamplight, every curve offered up. He looked down at her, his gaze a hot, possessive sweep. “My perfect little baby. So greedy for it.”
He positioned himself between her thighs, using his knees to push them wider. He didn’t enter her immediately. He just looked, at the swollen, wet flesh he’d displayed for his friends hours before. He rubbed the head of his cock through her slick folds, coating himself in her. The sensation was maddening. She arched, a silent plea.
“You want Daddy to fill this pretty little cunt?” he murmured, pushing just an inch inside, then retreating. “This hungry, empty cunt?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Please. Please, Daddy.”
He drove into her, a single, deep, claiming stroke that buried him to the hilt. The fullness stole her breath. She cried out, her nails digging into the sheets.
He set a pace that was merciless in its slowness. Each withdrawal was an agony of loss, each thrust a profound, stretching reunion. He leaned over her, his face close to hers, his breath mingling with her ragged gasps.
“You belong to this,” he whispered, his voice a hypnotic thread woven through the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining. “To this cock. To this bed. You’re nothing but a warm, wet hole for me to use. My little baby slut.”
The words, filthy and tender, shattered her. Her orgasm began not as a peak, but as a deep, subsonic unraveling from her very core, spreading outwards until her entire body was clenched tight around him, milking him, begging for his finish. She screamed into the crook of his arm, her vision whiting out.
He fucked her through it, his own control slipping. The slow, deep strokes became harder, faster, punishing. His grunts were raw, animal. “Gonna come,” he growled. “Gonna fill your useless little womb.”
He pulled out of her so suddenly she cried out in protest. In the same movement, he shoved his cock back between her lips. The taste of herself was sharp on him. He gripped her head, holding her still.
“Swallow it,” he commanded, and then he was coming, hot pulses of semen jetting down her throat. She gagged, then obeyed, swallowing convulsively, desperate to be good. He fucked her mouth with short, jerking thrusts, emptying himself. When he was spent, he held himself there for a long moment before sliding out.
She lay there, dazed, his come trickling from the corner of her mouth. He leaned down and licked it away, his kiss strangely gentle. Then he reached over to the nightstand, opened a drawer, and produced a pale blue, adult-sized pacifier. He pressed it to her lips. She took it without thought, the familiar silicone a profound comfort. The sucking reflex kicked in instantly, calming her racing heart.
He gathered her up, pulling her limp body onto his chest. She curled into him, her head under his chin, her legs tangled with his, the pacifier moving rhythmically between her lips. He stroked her hair, her back, his touch now purely soothing.
“You did so well,” he murmured into her hair. “Today was a big day. You pleased me. You pleased our friends.” His hand slipped between them, his fingers stroking over her sore, used flesh, a blatant reminder of ownership even in the aftermath. “My perfect thing. All mine.”
She believed him. In the hazy, spent warmth of his hold, with the taste of him still in her mouth and the pacifier anchoring her to this regressed, safe space, she believed every word. The fear from earlier—the fear of him growing bored—resurfaced, cold and clear.
It was no longer a fear of abandonment. It was a terror of being without this. Without the nothing, without the fullness, without the praise. She sucked harder on the paci, a tiny, desperate sound escaping her. His arms tightened around her.
“I know,” he whispered, as if he’d heard her very thoughts. “I know. Daddy’s not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, little one. Forever.”
And as sleep pulled her under, she knew it was both a promise and a sentence.