Chapter 24: The First Duty
The bathwater had long gone cold, but Iris hadn’t noticed. She’d floated in the porcelain tub while Ben, on his knees beside it, had shaved her legs with a straight razor, his hands steady despite the intimacy of the task. He’d moved to her armpits, then, at her murmured instruction, carefully parted her thighs to shave her pussy clean. He’d done it with a silent, focused reverence that felt more unnerving than if he’d fumbled. Alan had watched from the doorway, his butler’s jacket already buttoned, a towel over his arm, playing his part.
Now, she lay on the silk sheets of her bed, naked, glistening with a light oil that smelled of vanilla and myrrh. The crimson velvet drapes swallowed the room in a dim, throbbing quiet, broken only by the whisper of fabric as the two young men moved around her.
“The client’s name is Mr. Valerius,” Alan said softly, consulting a tablet. “He’s requested you wear the black lace. And he prefers… preparation.”
Iris closed her eyes. “Then prepare me.”
Ben’s uniform trousers were crisp against her hip as he knelt beside the bed. He dipped his fingers into a small crystal dish of warmed, slick oil. His touch, when it came to her inner thigh, was so light it was almost abstract. He traced the line of her leg upwards, avoiding the core of her, his breath a warm counterpoint to the cool air on her wet skin.
On her other side, Alan bent his head. His tongue, broad and hot, flicked against the silver barbell piercing her left nipple. He took the stiffened peak into his mouth, sucking gently, his teeth grazing the metal. A sharp, bright pleasure shot through her.
“Ben,” she whispered, her head rolling back into the pillow.
His fingers finally found her clit, a feather-light, circling stroke that made her hips jerk. It was a tease, a maddening promise of friction without delivery. He kept the pressure agonizingly soft, his eyes fixed on her face, watching every flinch, every swallowed gasp.
Alan switched to her other breast, his hand coming up to cradle its weight, his thumb mimicking the lazy circles Ben was tracing below. They worked on her in a silent, coordinated rhythm, their uniforms pristine, their faces masks of dutiful concentration, the bulges in their trousers constantly catching her eyes. It was obscene, this contrast of their formal attire and the raw, intimate service they were performing.
The sensation built not in a cresting wave, but as a slow, suffusing heat. It spread from her nipples, from her clit, a low thrum that vibrated deep in her bones. She felt herself opening, growing wetter, the empty ache inside her becoming a hollow to be filled.
“Harder on my clit, Ben. But don’t let me cum,” she breathed, the command taut. “Just keep me right there.”
His fingers pressed more firmly, the circles tightening, becoming deliberate. The pleasure skated up to a sharp edge and hovered. She could feel her own heartbeat between her legs, a frantic pulse matching the rhythm of his touch. Alan was lapping at her breasts now, worshipful, devoted, his breaths coming faster.
“He likes you ready and begging, doesn’t he?” Ben murmured, his voice thick with an emotion she couldn’t name. His fingers never stopped their relentless, clever work.
“He pays for the privilege,” Iris said, the words catching in her throat as Alan bit down gently on her piercing.
“And we just get you ready,” Alan said against her skin, a hint of a bitter laugh in his tone.
“You get paid, too,” she shot back, arching into their hands and mouths. “Now put a finger inside me. Just one. Slow.”
Ben obeyed, sliding a single oil-slick finger into her entrance. She was dripping, clenching around him instantly. He crooked it, finding a spot that made her see white behind her eyelids. He pumped it slowly, maddeningly slowly, while his thumb kept its pressure on her clit.
It was too much and not enough. The dual assault, the clinical detachment in their eyes, the knowledge of the stranger who would soon claim what they were stoking—it all coalesced into a terrible, exquisite tension. She was a instrument being tuned to a pitch only this Mr. Valerius would play.
“I could make you cum,” Ben whispered, his face close to hers now. His gentle demeanor was fissured, revealing something darker, needier. “Right now. Before he even gets here. Would you let me?”
“No,” she moaned.
“Because the contract says we can’t,” Alan said, lifting his head, his lips swollen and wet.
“Because I say you can’t,” Iris corrected, her voice gaining a sliver of its old steel. “This isn’t for you. It’s for me. So focus on taking me further.”
Ben’s finger stilled inside her. He looked at her, really looked at her, and the raw hurt in his eyes was more intimate than anything his hands were doing. “Where to?”
She broke his gaze, turning her head into the pillow.
“I don't know,” she sighed. "To my limit... Beyond..."
“He’ll be here soon," said Alan, "so Iris, I'll help you into the black leather corset... Ben, get the door. And pour him a drink.”
They withdrew from her body as if disconnected. The sudden absence of touch was a physical shock, a cold void where heat had been. Ben pulled his finger from her, wiped it discreetly on a towel, and stood, adjusting his uniform. Alan fetched the black leather corset from the wardrobe.
When Alan left her, efficient and silent, Iris lay on the bed, thrumming with unmet need, perfectly prepared, utterly desperate for what Mr. Valerius was going to give her. The doorbell chimed, a soft, melodic sound in the deep quiet of the apartment. His arrival alone nearly made her cum.