Chapter 46: Solitude Interrupted
The quiet was a physical presence in his office, a thick, insulating layer between Paul and the world. For three hours he had done nothing but work. The dry, precise language of a contract review, the cold logic of a tort case—they were sanctuaries. His mind, for the first time in weeks, was not a fever-dream of scents and tastes and humiliations. It was a clean, well-lit room. He was Paul Ashworth, Barrister. Not a toilet. Not a piece of furniture. He signed a document with a flourish, the scratch of the pen the only sound.
He signed a document with a flourish, the scratch of the pen the only sound. He leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him, and allowed himself a single, deep breath of air that held nothing but leather and dust. This was peace. This was control.
It lasted until his stomach growled, a vulgar, animal sound that shattered the silent equilibrium. He stood, smoothing his suit jacket, a habitual gesture that felt suddenly like a costume. His phone was blank, no notifications, no looping script in a text message. The polished surface of his desk held only files; no secret note waited in any drawer. The absence was more deafening than any command.
He found himself on the street, the city's cold air a slap. His feet carried him without conscious decision, turning familiar corners until the green awning of the bistro came into view. He stopped. Why here? The memory arrived not as a thought but as a physical reaction: a tightness in his jaw, a phantom pressure on the back of his skull. He went in.
The same cramped booth. The same smell of garlic and red wine. He ordered a steak, barely tasting it. His eyes kept drifting to the door to the toilets. That’s where Sandrine had gifted him to her friend. The stranger, all dense muscle and contempt, hadn’t spoken a word. She’d just hooked a powerful thigh over his shoulder and ground herself down onto his mouth, her cunt musky and demanding, fucking his face with slow, relentless rolls of her hips until he’d choked and she’d come with a low grunt, soaking his chin.
He paid the bill, his fingers clumsy. Back at his desk, the contracts blurred. The sterile peace of the morning was gone, incinerated by a specific, clawing hunger. It had been over twenty-four hours. The calculation was precise, humiliating. He was jonesing for it. A tight, aching need coiled in his gut, lower. He wasn’t craving just sex; he needed the suffocating weight, the bitter tang, the complete obliteration of thought that only came when he was buried, servicing, used.
He shifted in his chair, his erection a stubborn, painful press against his tailored trousers. He pictured Odette’s ruthless efficiency in the shower, Isabelle’s sharp command, Sandrine’s playful cruelty. His hand drifted to his zipper. He stopped, clenching his fists on the desk. That wasn’t the itch. He needed to give, not take. He needed to feel a woman come apart on his tongue, to be the cause of it, to be consumed by it.
The afternoon light faded. His craving hardened into a single, resonant truth: he was empty, and he needed to be filled with the taste of someone else.
His craving hardened into a single, resonant truth: he was empty, and he needed to be filled with the taste of someone else. The thought was less a decision and more a gravitational pull, drawing him from his chair, guiding him out of the silent office and into the hushed, carpeted hallway. The lift’s descent to the ground floor felt interminable, his reflection in the bronze doors a stranger’s—gaunt, hungry, eyes dark with a purpose that shamed the barrister’s suit he wore.
The IT office was a lit cube of fluorescence in the otherwise dark lobby. He saw her through the glass wall, hunched over a keyboard, a single brunette ponytail hanging over her shoulder. Holly. He’d seen her in the lift, always with a shy smile, always clutching a laptop to her chest like a shield.
He pushed the door open, the mechanism buzzing softly. She looked up, her expression shifting from neutral focus to polite curiosity. “Can I help you? Servers are all up,” she said, her voice softer than he’d imagined.
“Holly.” His own voice sounded scraped raw. He didn’t move from the doorway. “I need… I need to ask you something. It’s not about the network.”
“Okay…” She swivelled in her chair, her athletic frame tense now, assessing him.
The words tumbled out, fueled by a desperation that vaporized his gentlemanly demeanor. “Please. Let me eat your pussy. Let me go down on you. Right now. Please, Holly.” He was begging, his hands clenched at his sides, his tie suddenly a noose. The raw obscenity of the request hung in the sterile air, a shocking contrast to the dormant monitors and stacked motherboards.
Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of shock. Then a laugh burst from her, not cruel, but incredulous, musical. But she was standing up now, a slow, unfolding motion, her gaze tracing the clear desperation in his stance.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. Please.”
She walked toward him, her head cocked. She was taller than Odette, more solid. She stopped within arm’s reach, her eyes sparkling with a newfound, amused power. “You’re begging to eat me out? Here?” She glanced around the empty office. “Why?”
“I just need to.” It was the only honest answer he had.
A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She reached out, her fingers closing not on his hand, but on the silk of his tie. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.” With a firm, surprising yank, she pulled him into the office and kicked the door shut behind him. The lock clicked with finality. “Of course you can.”
She walked backwards, leading him by the tie like a leash, toward her desk. She hoisted herself onto the edge, scattering a stack of service tickets. She spread her legs, hiking her skirt up to her hips. The practical cotton briefs were a discrete black. “Go on then,” she said, her voice dropping to a taunting whisper. “But just so you know… I’m on my period. Pretty heavy, actually.”
Paul froze. A visceral memory detonated: Odette, a year ago, pressing his face into a towel thick with coppery blood, his gagging revolt, her cool disappointment. He’d hated that metallic taste more than piss, more than anything they’d done to him.It had felt like death.
Holly watched the conflict play out on his face. Her amused smile faltered, a flicker of the old insecurity returning. “It’s fine, just forget it.” She made to close her legs.
That movement broke his paralysis. “No.” The command was to himself. His need was bigger than his disgust, a ravenous void that demanded filling with whatever was offered. This was the test. This was the gift. “I don’t care. I want it. I want all of it.”
He sank to his knees on the industrial carpet, the posture as natural as breathing now. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down. The scent hit him first—a deep, ferric, profoundly animal smell, layered with her own musky sweetness.
“Oh my god,” Holly gasped, her hands flying to his hair, not to guide but to clutch.
Her labia were slick, painted with streaks and clumps of darker, almost black blood.
He dove in, burying his face between her thighs. He licked through the mess, his tongue seeking her clit, finding it engorged and pebbled beneath the metallic film. He sucked it, cleaning her, lapping up the thick, clotting blood that welled from inside her. It coated his tongue, his lips, his chin.
“You’re fucking insane,” she panted, her hips beginning to stutter against his mouth. “You’re actually… licking it… you’re eating my fucking period.” Her voice was a mix of horror and euphoric delight.
He growled an affirmative, his nose pressed into her, breathing her in. He fucked her with his tongue, pushing deep into her slit, tasting the source, the intimate canal where this vital river flowed. The copper and salt filled his mouth, and where he had once recoiled, he now drank, ravenous. This was the absolute truth of a woman, raw and unadorned, and he was being permitted to worship it.
Her thighs clamped around his ears, trembling. “I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice tight and high. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna squirt, I always do, it’s a mess—”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue a relentless piston. He wanted the mess. He needed it.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a choked shout. A gush of clear fluid, hot and copious, shot over his tongue, mixing with the blood, diluting it. It was followed by a deeper, pulsing flood, a warm rush of her release that he swallowed greedily. She shook against him, her cries echoing in the quiet office.
When her spasms subsided, he didn’t stop. He gentled his mouth, licking her clean with slow, tender strokes, collecting every last salty, metallic drop. He was painted in her—chin glistening, lips stained dark.
She finally pushed his head back, her chest heaving. She looked down at him, her face flushed with awe and a dawning, dark satisfaction. “No one,” she breathed, “has ever done that.”
Paul knelt at her feet, blood smeared across his face, his soul quiet for the first time all day. He was filled.
Holly slid off the desk, her legs unsteady. She looked at Paul’s wrecked, worshipful face. A new, possessive light entered her eyes.
A new, possessive light entered her eyes. She retrieved her phone from the desk, its screen glowing against her still-trembling fingers. “I’m texting Odette,” she stated, thumbs already moving.
Paul’s stomach dropped. He watched, helpless, as she typed, a slow smile spreading on her lips. He could guess the gist. His face was still wet with her.
The phone chimed with a sent message. Holly turned the screen toward him. The text to Odette was stark: ‘He found me. Did everything. Even drank my period blood like it was nothing. Says he wants to do it again.’ A reply message followed quickly: ‘Tell him he has to. Every month. Same time.’
Paul stared at the words. A cold knot tightened in his gut beneath the fading warmth of his fullness. He had begged for this. He had lapped at the metallic tide. In his desperate hunger, he had implicitly agreed to a forever promise. Odette’s reply would be a simple, delighted checkmark. He was bound.
“She’s such a good friend,” Holly said, slipping her phone away. Her gaze swept over his stained shirt and trousers. “You’re a mess. You should go.”
He rose on unsteady legs, the weight of the new commitment settling on his shoulders. He nodded, unable to form words. The taste of copper was a permanent stamp on his tongue.
The walk home was a blur of streetlights and echoing footsteps. His mind replayed the text, the finality of it. Every month. Same time. He had voluntarily chained himself to the one act that truly revolted him. The paradox was absolute: his deepest need had led him directly to his least favourite thing.
In his bathroom, he scrubbed until his skin burned. The blood was gone quickly, but the scent seemed woven into his sinuses. He stared at his reflection, at the man who wore a barrister’s wardrobe and a slave’s invisible collar.
Dinner was a solitary, silent affair. Microwave rice. Steamed chicken. He tasted nothing. The fork felt alien in his clean hand. The silence of his flat pressed in, heavy and accusatory. He had filled one void and carved out another, a monthly appointment with self-abnegation.
He washed the single plate, dried it, put it away. The routine was sterile, empty. Nothing of note happened. The night was a flatline.
In bed, the darkness offered no solace. The digital clock on his bedside table bled red numbers into the void: 22:17. Then his phone screen lit up, casting a clinical blue pall over the room.
A single message notification glowed. Odette.
The preview text was visible on the locked screen, three words that coiled in the silent room:
‘Good dog. Holly was very pleased with you. I’ve told her to book you for this time every month.’
‘she said’ Paul replied
‘You eat any woman who asks, however she wants it.’ Odette reminded him.
‘I know. I will.’ Replied Paul.
Three dots appeared. Then her final command of the night materialised: ‘Sleep naked. As always.’
His thumbs hovered over the screen. He was already naked, the cool sheets a whisper against his skin. The thought of her, even now, sent a treacherous heat through his groin. He typed quickly, the question a flare of desperate hope in the dark: ‘Can I cum?’
The reply was instantaneous. ‘No.’
The single word extinguished the heat, leaving a cold, hollow ache. He placed the phone face down on the nightstand. The darkness in his bedroom was total, the blackout curtains doing their job too well. He lay on his back, hands at his sides, staring into the void above him. His mind replayed Holly’s taste, the metallic flood, her trembling thighs. His own arousal was a dull, persistent throb he was forbidden to touch. He closed his eyes, willed his body into stillness, and eventually fell into a fitful, dream-chased sleep.
A sound. Not a dream. The soft, definitive click of his bedroom door closing. His eyes snapped open. The darkness was absolute, a thick velvet pressure against his pupils. He held his breath. The air, previously still, carried a new, faint disturbance—a displacement, a presence.
He heard no footsteps, only the almost imperceptible rustle of fabric. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum in the silence. A silhouette darker than the gloom materialised at the foot of the bed. He could make out the curve of a hip, the suggestion of height. His mouth went dry.
The figure moved with a silent, fluid confidence. Hands went to the hem of a garment—a dress, a shirt—and pulled it up and over the head. The silhouette sharpened. The soft, heavy sway of unconstrained breasts, big and alluringly round, momentarily blocked the faint, distant light from under the door. The garment whispered to the floor.
His cock, already hard from forbidden thoughts, twitched against his stomach. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. This was a visitation. An instruction. He was to be used.
She approached the side of the bed. He caught the scent then—clean skin, a hint of jasmine lotion, underpinned by a sharper, more feral note of warm, aroused woman. It wasn’t Odette’s perfume. It wasn’t Holly’s sporty soap. This was someone new.
A knee dipped the mattress beside his hip. Her weight settled over him, one leg on either side of his shoulders, blocking out the world. He saw the dark triangle of her pubic hair, a soft shadow against the pale skin of her thighs. Before he could process it, she was lowering herself.
Her hands gripped the headboard for balance. The warm, plush weight of her cunt settled firmly over his mouth and nose. “Eat,” a voice whispered, husky and unfamiliar. It wasn’t a request.
He opened his mouth, his tongue instinctively flattening against her. She was already wet, her folds slick and parted. He tasted her—musky, clean, a deeper, more complex flavour than Holly’s metallic shock or Sandrine’s acidic tang. He licked upwards, finding her clit already engorged. He circled it, then sucked it into his mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” she hissed, her hips giving a small, involuntary jerk. She ground herself down onto his face, smothering him in her scent and warmth. He obeyed the unspoken command, burying his nose into her, his tongue delving as deep as it could into her slit, fucking her with short, eager strokes. His hands rose instinctively to grip her thighs, holding her in place as he feasted.
She began to move in earnest, riding his face with a growing, frantic rhythm. “Yes, just like that, eat my fucking pussy,” she moaned, her voice losing its hushed quality. She was loud, unselfconscious. Her juices flowed freely, dripping down his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He drank it all, lapping and sucking, his world narrowing to this dark, wet, perfumed universe.
Her orgasm built quickly, tightening her thighs around his head. “I’m gonna come all over your stupid face,” she grunted, her movements becoming erratic, stuttering. He redoubled his efforts, flicking his tongue rapidly against her clit. With a choked cry, she clenched, her whole body seizing. A hot gush of her release flooded his mouth, more copious than he expected. He swallowed convulsively, greedily, as she shuddered through the waves, her moans subsiding into low, panting gasps.
She stayed there, slumped over his face, for a long moment, her cunt still pressed against his lips.
Her weight was a smothering, warm blanket. He breathed through his mouth, each inhalation saturated with the intimate musk of her recent climax. She shifted slightly, her thighs tightening against his temples, and he felt her hands leave the headboard.
Her fingers trailed down his arms, a casual, almost affectionate touch. They found his wrists, pinning them gently to the mattress beside his head. He could feel her hands on his hands, feel her weight shift slightly. He assumed she was about to dismount, to let him breathe, to perhaps turn and offer her cunt to him from a different, less suffocating angle.
There was a sudden, sharp clatter of metal on metal.
Cold, hard steel snapped tight around his right wrist, then his left. The ratchet mechanisms clicked with a terrifying finality. His arms were jerked up and out, tethered to the solid oak posts of his own bed frame. He was manacled, spread-eagled and utterly vulnerable. A shocked gasp was smothered by the wet flesh sealing his mouth.
Her body still straddled his face, stifling him. The instinct to struggle, to panic, fired through his nerves for a single, electric second. But he was now so conditioned to the submissive oral worship of women that he didn’t fight this. His body went slack beneath her. He simply turned his head as much as the crushing weight allowed, and periodically lapped away the warm dribbles of pleasure that still seeped from the cunt on his face. His tongue moved on autopilot, a dutiful, soothing rhythm.
Finally, with him secured, the woman climbed off. The sudden cool air on his wet skin was a shock. He heard her slump into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping with her weight. Her breathing was still uneven. He turned his head, blinking in the dark, trying to make out her features.
“A midnight feast from Odette,” the woman said, her voice now languid and familiar. It was the voice from the dinner party weeks ago, the one who had teased him in fluent French, the one with the laugh that had made Isabelle roll her eyes. “The cuffs were my idea though.”
“Hayley,” he breathed, the name a revelation. Hayley from the dinner party. The woman with the big breasts who had taken the key to his house from Odette’s palm, slipping it into her own jeans with a conspiratorial wink.
“Give the man a prize,” she sighed. He could see the generous curve of her hip, the pale swell of her breast against the darkness. “Surprised?”
“Do you want me to be?”
Hayley’s laughter was a soft, rich sound in the dark, utterly devoid of mockery but full of a knowing delight. “Your question answers itself, Paul. ‘Do you want me to be?’ It’s not about what I want. It’s about you offering to feel whatever I require you to feel.” She traced a finger down his sternum, her touch proprietary. “Odette texted me. She’s away for a few days and said I should ‘look in on you’. Make sure you were fed.”
Paul’s breath hitched. Fed.
“But,” Hayley continued, her hand sliding lower, palming his stomach, “I told her I wanted to do more than just pour a meal down your throat. I want to get to know you much, much better.” Her fingers closed around his erection, which was inevitably rock hard. Her grip was firm, assessing, not yet stroking. “And with her away, and you already cuffed and ready… I don’t see any reason to play nicely.”
She leaned over him, her heavy breasts brushing his chest. Her mouth was close to his ear. “You drank from Holly today. I know. Odette told me everything. You lapped up her bloody cunt like a starved animal.” She nipped his earlobe. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? A hungry, grateful animal.”
Paul nodded, he couldn’t speak. A strangled sound of agreement escaped him. The shame was a bonfire, but his cock twitched eagerly in her confident hand.