The Taste of Commitment

Chapter 65: The week

Monday morning arrived with a grey London sky pressing against Paul's bedroom window. He woke before his alarm, as he had every day for the past month, and slipped out of bed without disturbing Odette's sprawled sleep. She lay on her stomach, one arm dangling off the mattress, her dark pixie hair scattered across the pillow. He watched her for a moment, the way her back rose and fell, the sheet tangled at her hip exposing the curve of her arse.

He made coffee in the kitchen, the machine hissing and gurgling while he pressed his palms against the counter. His cock was already hard, achingly so, the way it had been every morning since Odette had claimed him. She hadn't let him come in six days now, and his balls felt heavy and tight against his thigh as he moved.

He carried the cup carefully up the stairs and set it on the bedside table. Then he knelt beside the bed, his hands resting on the duvet.

"Odette," he said softly.

She stirred, her green eyes opening slowly, a smile curling across her lips before she was even fully awake.

"Bonjour, my slave," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. She stretched, a long, feline motion that made the sheet slip from her breasts. "You have my coffee?"

"Yes."

"And what else do I require in the morning?"

He swallowed. "An orgasm, Odette."

"That's right." She reached down and pushed the duvet away entirely, then spread her legs, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs already damp. "But first, I want you to tell me what you've been thinking about all night."

"Your cunt," he said, his voice rough. "Tasting you. Making you come with my mouth."

She laughed, low and pleased. "Good boy. Now come here and do your duty."

He crawled onto the bed, settling between her thighs, his hands sliding beneath her arse to lift her hips. She sighed as his tongue found her clit, a long, flat stroke that made her arch her back. He worked her slowly, deliberately, his eyes closed as he breathed in her scent.

"You're getting so good at this," she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair. "So obedient."

He didn't answer, just kept licking, dragging his tongue through her folds, dipping inside her, then back up to circle her clit until her thighs began to tremble. Her breath came faster, her hips grinding against his face, and when she came she gasped his name as her whole body clenched around his tongue.

He lapped at her through the aftershocks until she pushed his head away, laughing.

"That will do, Paul. I need to get ready for work."

He climbed off the bed, his erection throbbing painfully, but he made no move to touch himself. That wasn't his place.

The week followed its pattern. Tuesday lunchtime found Paul in Astrid's chambers, the door locked behind him. Astrid stood by her desk, already pulling her skirt up her powerful thighs.

"Odette said you needed your exercise," she said, grinning. "And I've got a deposition in forty minutes. So let's see how fast you work."

He knelt without a word, and she stepped forward, her hand pressing down on the back of his head as she ground her cunt against his mouth. She was brief and brutal, holding him there until she came with a low growl, then stepping back and smoothing her skirt as if nothing had happened.

"Run along," she said. "I'll tell Odette you were excellent."

On Wednesday he had his haircut appointment at the salon, and Jamie was waiting for him with a wicked smile. She was nineteen, with dirty blond hair in a high ponytail, and she led him to the back room with barely a word. She made him kneel on the tiled floor, then hiked up her uniform skirt and shoved her white cotton knickers aside.

"Chop chop," she said, her London accent thick. "I've got another client in ten minutes."

He ate her out with the same devotion he always showed, his tongue buried in her folds while she gripped his hair and moaned in a way that was probably meant to be detached but wasn't. She came quickly, crying out against her fist, then pushed him away without ceremony.

"See you next month, yeah?"

Thursday was Holly. The young IT technician met him in the server room, her face flushed as she locked the door behind him. She was always so eager, so apologetic, despite Odette's repeated reassurances. When Paul knelt and parted her thighs, she was already soaking wet.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible as he lowered his mouth to her cunt.

He made her come twice, and she sobbed with the release of it, her hands clutching his shoulders as if she might fall. Then she apologised, embarrassed by her own pleasure, and Paul kissed her ankle and told her she had nothing to be ashamed of.

Friday. Odette let Paul out of bed at seven in the evening and he walked the familiar route to Arpège, the taste of Odette's pussy still on his tongue from her after-work orgasm. The waitress met him at the back entrance, her dark hair in its neat bun, her sharp eyes sweeping over him appraisingly.

"So you're the famous Paul," she said. "Nadia didn't exaggerate."

"I hope I live up to expectations," he said.

She led him to a storage room, locking the door behind them, then turned and leaned against a crate, lifting her skirt without ceremony. Her underwear was black and lacy, already dark with dampness.

"Nine minutes," she said. "Make it count."

He knelt and pulled her knickers down her thighs, then buried his face between them. She tasted clean and sharp, and she made small approving sounds as he worked his tongue inside her, circling her clit with expert precision. Her hand pressed against the back of his head, urging him deeper, and she came with a breathless French curse that made him pause for a moment to appreciate the irony.

When she let him up, she was smiling. "I'll be telling Nadia you're as good as promised."

Friday night, Paul dozed with Odette curled against his side in his flat, her breath warm on his chest. The week was over. One new woman. His tally stood at thirty-six.

"How do you feel?" she asked, her hand already sliding down his belly, finding the heavy ache of his balls, the rock-hard length of his cock.

"Yours," he said.

She smiled, her fingers wrapping around him gently, not stroking, just holding. "I'm proud of you, Paul. Thirty-six women now. Living exactly the life I wanted for you."

He made a soft sound as her fingers squeezed, just enough to remind him of what he wasn't allowed yet.

"My cunt-licking slave," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest. "And you haven't come all week, have you? Your poor balls."

"They ache," he admitted.

"Good. They should." She slipped her hand down the front of his boxers, cupping him, her thumb tracing along the underside of his shaft. "I'm going to keep you like this for a while longer. I like how hungry it makes you."

He groaned, a low, animal sound, and her laughter was bright and cruel and perfect.

"Sleep, my sweet whore," she said. "You'll get your reward."

The first thing Paul registered was the weight. Something soft and warm pressing down on his face, the familiar scent of Odette filling his nostrils even before he was fully conscious. The second thing was the position of his arms, stretched out above his head, his wrists bound to the headboard.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring up the length of Odette's body. She was kneeling over him, her thighs either side of his head, her cunt hovering just above his mouth. She was naked, her dark hair mussed, her green eyes bright with amusement as she looked down at him.

"Bonjour, my little captive," she said.

Paul tested the bindings. They were silk, the same ones she kept in her flat, but he was in his own bed. She must have brought them. He pulled against them anyway, a token resistance that made her laugh.

"You slept deeply," she said. "I had plenty of time to arrange you."

He looked down his body. His legs were spread too, his ankles bound to the footboard. He was completely naked, completely at her mercy, and his cock was already rock hard, pressing against his belly.

"See how your body responds," she said, reaching down to run a finger through her folds. "You wake up tied to your own bed and your first thought is how badly you want to eat my cunt."

"Yes," he said, his voice rough with sleep and need.

"I know." She lowered herself, slowly, deliberately, until her labia brushed against his lips. He felt the wetness of her, the dew of her arousal trickling down onto his chin, and he opened his mouth instinctively.

But she didn't let him have her. She hovered there, just out of reach, letting him strain upward for the taste of her. He lifted his head as far as the bindings would allow, his lips brushing against her flesh, and she laughed softly.

"Tease," she said. "That's what you are. A desperate little tease."

She settled more fully onto his face, her weight pressing down, and he felt her labia part against his lips like a flower opening. He played with her, as she allowed him to. His lips nuzzled gently at her folds, his tongue flicking out to taste just the barest trace of her wetness, never quite finding her clit. She let him do it, her thighs trembling slightly as she held herself above him, letting him taste her in teasing little sips.

"Mmm," she murmured, rocking her hips in a slow circle. "You're very good at that. Being patient."

He sucked her outer lip into his mouth, soft and gentle, and she gasped. But she didn't let him go further. She held herself just so, so that he could taste her but never fully lick her open, so that his tongue could reach just the edge of her slit but never slide inside.

"Please," he said, the word muffled against her flesh.

"Please what?"

"Let me make you come."

She laughed again, a low, pleased sound. "I will. When I'm ready."

She shifted, and he felt her clit brush against his nose, her wetness smearing across his face. He breathed in her scent, heady and intimate, and his cock throbbed so hard he thought it might burst.

She kept him there for long minutes, tormenting him with her nearness. She would press down just enough for him to taste her, then rise back up. She would grind her clit along his nose and mouth, coating his face in her juices, but never letting him latch onto it properly.

He was desperate. The ache in his balls had been building all week, and this was a different kind of torture, one that made saliva pool in his mouth and his whole body strain upward.

Finally, she seemed satisfied with his suffering.

"Now," she said, and lowered herself fully onto his face.

He didn't need the invitation twice. His tongue found her clit immediately, circling it with the precision that all his weeks of practice had honed. She gasped, her hips grinding down against his mouth, and he lapped at her greedily, drinking down every drop of her arousal.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, that's it. Make me come, Paul. Make me come with that filthy tongue of yours."

He did. He sucked her clit between his lips and stroked it with the flat of his tongue, then his tip, a rhythm that made her thighs clench around his head. Her hands pressed down on the mattress either side of his skull, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Don't stop," she commanded. "Don't you dare stop."

He had no intention of stopping. He buried his tongue inside her, tasting her depth, then dragged it up to her clit again. Her hips bucked wildly, riding his face, and he let her use him exactly the way she wanted.

Her first orgasm hit her without warning. She cried out, her whole body clamping down, her cunt flooding against his tongue as she ground herself against his mouth. He drank her down, every last drop, lapping at her until she was twitching and oversensitive.

She stayed there for a long moment, catching her breath, her slick heat pressed against his face like a claim. Then she raised herself off him and looked down at his face, glistening with her juices.

"I love the look of you like this," she said. "Marked."

He pulled against his bindings, and she smiled, reaching down to stroke his cheek with a slick finger.

"I'll untie you in a minute. But first, I want you to tell me how much you loved that."

"I loved it," he said, his voice hoarse. "I love tasting you. I love being used like this."

"Good." She climbed off him, and he felt the loss of her like a physical ache. She untied his wrists first, then his ankles, and he lay there, boneless and content, as she curled up beside him.

Her hand drifted down to his stomach, then lower, wrapping around his aching cock. He groaned at the contact, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Still so hard," she murmured. "You poor thing."

"Odette, please."

"Not yet." She kissed his chest, her fingers stroking him lightly, just enough to keep him on the edge. "I want to keep you hungry a little longer."

He nodded, swallowing hard, and she smiled against his skin.

"That's my good boy."

Odette stretched, a satisfied cat's smile curving her lips as she slipped off the bed. She reached for a silk gown hanging on the back of Paul's wardrobe door, something he hadn't noticed her bringing in, and shrugged it over her shoulders without tying it. The fabric parted at her hips as she moved, exposing the curve of her arse, the dark triangle of hair between her thighs.

"You look confused," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him where he lay on the rumpled sheets. "Something on your mind, my slave?"

Paul shook his head slowly, but the sense of wrongness persisted. He couldn't place it. The room was the same as it had always been, the wardrobe, the window, the chest of drawers. And yet something was different, a small displacement he could feel but not name. Then the knock came.

It was soft, almost hesitant. Three quick taps on his bedroom door.

Paul's eyes snapped to Odette. She was already smiling, a knowing, wicked expression that made his stomach flip. She crossed the room without hurrying and opened the door.

"Bonjour, my little one," she said warmly.

Martha poked her head around the frame. She was eighteen, with soft brown hair and a round, pretty face, the remnants of puppy fat softening her jaw. Her cheeks were flushed pink with a mixture of nerves and excitement, and her eyes went straight to Paul, naked on the bed, before darting away again.

"Hi Auntie O," she said, her voice cheerful.

"Of course you did." Odette stepped aside and gestured her in. "Close the door behind you."

Martha slipped inside and shut the door, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan. She was wearing a floral print dress, modest and young, and she kept stealing glances at Paul that were equal parts shy and hungry.

"Paul, you remember Martha," Odette said, gliding back toward the bed. "She visited you with her mother some weeks ago. You deflowered her."

Paul swallowed. "Yes. I remember." How could he forget.

"Good." Odette sat on the edge of the bed and patted the mattress beside her. "Come, Martha. Sit."

Martha obeyed, perching on the bed with her hands folded in her lap. Odette reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind the girl's ear, a gesture of fondness that made Martha's eyes shine.

"My little Martha has been thinking a lot about what happened with Paul," Odette said, her gaze sliding to him. "Haven't you, sweetheart?"

Martha nodded, her blush deepening. "I can't stop thinking about it. About how it felt, having him inside me. But I don't... I don't know much about anything else. About how a man should serve a woman."

"And your mother never taught you."

"She said men were for using but never to let them use me. She’s taught me some things but nothing practical, we don’t really have a man I can use.”

Odette nodded sagely. "That's why you came to your Auntie O." She reached out and took Martha's hand, squeezing it. "This morning, I'm going to teach you. About the proper use of a man for a woman's pleasure."

Martha nodded.

"we can use Paul.” Odette's smile was slow and predatory. "Can’t we?”

"Yes, Odette." Paul answered.

"Good boy." She turned back to Martha. "The first thing you must understand, my darling, is that a man's mouth is his most valuable asset. His cock is for his own pleasure, mostly, or for yours when you choose to allow it. But his mouth, his tongue, his lips, those belong to you. A good man should spend his life learning to worship a woman with his face. Paul has learned this lesson very thoroughly."

Martha was staring at Paul with renewed interest, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "He's... he's good at that.” Martha knew from her last visit.

"Exquisite." Odette rose and circled around to Paul's side of the bed. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. "Thirty-six women have used his mouth, Martha. He is the most practised pussy-licker in London."

Martha's breath hitched. “Wow."

Odette laughed, a bright, cruel sound. "Don't worry, darling. I'll guide you through it. Paul, on your knees."

Paul slid off the bed and knelt on the hardwood floor, his hands resting on his thighs, his cock standing rigid against his belly. He kept his eyes on Odette, waiting for instruction.

"Now, Martha." Odette returned to the girl and knelt in front of her, beginning to unbutton her cardigan. "Take this off. Let me see you."

Martha shrugged out of the cardigan, then the dress, until she was in a plain white bra and knickers, her soft body blushing pink. Odette helped her with the bra, unhooking it and letting her breasts fall free, rosy nipples hardening in the cool air.

"Beautiful," Odette murmured, stroking her fingers down Martha's sternum. "You have a lovely body, mon cher. Men should worship it."

Martha shivered under the touch, her hands gripping the bedsheet. Odette hooked her fingers into the waistband of her knickers and pulled them down, exposing the neat dark triangle of pubic hair between her thighs.

"You're already wet, aren't you?" Odette observed, sliding a finger through Martha's folds. "Knowing what's about to happen."

Martha whimpered, her hips twitching. "Yes, Auntie O."

"Good. That's natural. That's how a woman should respond to the prospect of being served." Odette withdrew her finger, glistening, and held it up to Martha's lips. "Taste yourself."

Martha's eyes fluttered shut as she took her auntie's finger into her mouth, sucking it clean. Odette watched with approval, then turned to Paul.

"Come here, slave.”

Paul was on the bed and laying flat, he shuffled closer, his head on the pillow. Odette arranged him, pulling a second pillow beneath his shoulders so his face was tilted upward at an angle. Then she gestured to Martha.

"Climb over him. Straddle his face. Let him taste you."

Martha hesitated for only a moment before swinging a leg over Paul's chest. She knelt astride him, her thighs trembling on either side of his head, her wet cunt hovering just above his mouth. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her, smell the musky sweetness of her arousal.

"Lower yourself," Odette instructed from beside the bed. "But not all the way. Tease him first. Let him strain for you."

Martha obeyed, lowering her hips until her folds barely brushed against Paul's lips. He could feel the slickness of her, taste just the barest trace of her wetness, and he groaned against her flesh.

"Like this?" Martha asked, her voice breathless.

"Just so. Now grind against him. Slowly. Let him taste you but don't let him eat you properly."

Martha began to move, a hesitant, rocking motion that smeared her juices across Paul's face. He strained upward, his tongue flicking out to catch what he could, but she kept herself just out of reach. The torture was exquisite, compounded by the ache in his balls that had been building for a week.

"More," he breathed. "Please, more."

Martha's eyes widened at the plea, and Odette laughed.

"You hear that, my darling? That's the sound of a man begging. Do you understand what that means? It means you have power over him. He will do anything you ask, anything you command, for the privilege of making you come. That is what it means to use a man."

Martha's hips moved faster, her need overriding her hesitation. She pressed down, the wet heat of her cunt pressing fully against Paul's mouth, and he groaned in relief as his tongue finally found her clit.

"Yes," Martha gasped. "Oh, yes."

He worked her slowly, deliberately, drawing out the pleasure. His tongue circled her clit, dipped into her entrance, licked up through her folds in long, luxurious strokes. Martha's thighs began to shake around his head, her hands gripping the headboard for purchase.

"That's it," Odette murmured, her voice low and approving. "Let him serve you. Take your pleasure from him. That's what he's for."

"I'm close," Martha whimpered. "Auntie O, I'm so close."

"Then come, sweetheart. Come all over his face. Mark him."

Martha cried out as her orgasm took her, a sharp, high-pitched sound that dissolved into sobs of pleasure as she ground her cunt against Paul's mouth. He lapped at her greedily, drinking down every drop, not stopping until she was twitching and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

Odette was there, catching her as she slid off Paul, cradling her against her chest. She stroked Martha's hair while the girl trembled, her cheek resting on Odette's breast.

"There now," Odette murmured. "You did beautifully, my darling. And how did it feel?"

"Good," Martha whispered, her voice thick with tears. "So good. He was that good last time too."

Odette's hand stilled in Martha's hair. Her green eyes narrowed, a slow smile spreading across her lips as she studied the girl's face. The shyness was gone, replaced by something deeper, something knowing.

"You rode his face before," Odette said softly. "While I was in France. The day you and your mother visited."

Martha's blush returned, but she didn't look away. "Yes, Auntie O."

"And you knew exactly what you were doing."

The silence stretched for a long moment. Then Martha smiled, a small, private smile that made her look far older than eighteen. "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Mum said he was the best tongue in London. I had to test the claim."

Odette laughed, bright and genuine. "You little vixen. I thought you were a trembling virgin."

"I was a virgin." Martha's chin lifted. "But I wasn't naive. Mum always said men are for using. I just hadn't had the chance to put it into practice."

"And Paul was your practice."

"He was perfect for it." Martha glanced at Paul, still kneeling on the floor, his cock rigid against his belly. "He was tied to the bed, Auntie O. Mum had secured his ankles to the posts, but his hands were free. He could have touched me if he'd wanted."

Odette's eyes gleamed. "But he didn't."

"No." Martha's smile widened. "He didn't. Because I told him not to. I told him that if he wanted to fuck me, he'd ask for permission. And he did. He begged."

Odette was beaming now, pride radiating from her. "And then?"

"I fucked him." Martha said the words without hesitation. "I lowered myself onto his cock and I rode him until I came. He didn't fuck me. I fucked him. That's an important distinction."

"It is," Odette agreed, her voice thick with approval. "Tell me more."

Martha's eyes dropped to Paul, a flicker of something possessive passing across her face. "After I came, I made him stay inside me. I told him he couldn't pull out. And then I made him eat his own spunk out of my cunt."

Odette's breath caught. "Did you."

Martha nodded, her flush deepening but her voice steady. "I figured it was the only way to make sure he understood. He'd just been allowed inside me, and I wanted him to taste what he'd left there. To know that his seed belonged to me now. That he belonged to me, at least for that afternoon."

Odette stared at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter, rich and delighted. "Oh, my darling girl. You're a natural. Your mother trained you well, even if she didn't realise it. That's exactly right. Making a man eat his own spunk from your cunt, it's not just about cleaning up. It's a symbol. It puts him in his place, reminds him that his body and everything it produces is nothing but a service to you."

Martha was glowing under the praise. "I thought it might be. It felt powerful."

"It is powerful." Odette leaned forward and kissed Martha's forehead. "I'm so proud of you."

She rose from the bed and circled around to where Paul knelt, grabbing a fistful of his hair and tilting his head back. "And you, my sweet slave? Did you enjoy Martha's education?"

Paul swallowed, his throat working. "Yes, Odette."

"You're lying," she said pleasantly. "You were humiliated. That's the point. Every time a woman uses you, she takes a little more of your pride. Until there's nothing left but service."

She released him and returned to Martha, taking the girl's hands. "There's one more thing I want to show you. A trick I've learned that's very effective for keeping a man where he belongs."

"What is it?" Martha asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"A butt plug." Odette smiled at the girl's surprised expression. "Think about it, darling. A man's anus is the most intimate, most vulnerable part of his body. For most men, the thought of anything going in there is deeply, viscerally humiliating. It's the ultimate invasion of his sense of self. His masculinity, his pride, his sense of being the one who penetrates, all of it is undermined."

Martha's eyes were wide. "So you... put one in Paul?"

"Not yet." Odette's smile was slow and predatory. "But we're going to. Right now. And you're going to film it."

"Martha's hand flew to her mouth. "Film it?"

"Of course." Odette fetched her handbag from the chair where she'd left it and withdrew a small velvet pouch. Inside was a sleek black butt plug, curved and flared at the base. She also pulled out Paul's phone from where it lay on the bedside table. "Having footage of a man in such a degraded position is even more powerful than the act itself. It removes any sense of privacy, any agency he might feel. He knows that the evidence exists, that any woman who sees it will know exactly what he is. It's a permanent mark of ownership."

Paul's blood ran cold. He watched, frozen, as Odette handed the phone to Martha.

"Paul," Odette said, her voice sharp. "On the bed. On your back. Legs spread. Now."

He obeyed, his body moving before his mind caught up. He lay on the rumpled sheets, his legs spread wide, his cock still hard despite the dread coiling in his stomach.

Odette knelt between his thighs, the butt plug in one hand, a small tube of lubricant in the other. She squeezed a generous amount onto her fingers and pressed them against his entrance, and Paul flinched at the cold contact.

"Relax," she murmured. "Martha, come closer. I want you to see exactly how it's done."

Martha climbed onto the bed beside them, holding the phone up. The camera light blinked on, and Paul saw himself reflected in her eyes, naked and spread and utterly exposed.

Odette worked a finger inside him, slow and deliberate, watching his face as he struggled to breathe through the intrusion. Then a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching him.

"This is what it means to be owned," Odette said, addressing Martha even as her eyes remained fixed on Paul's face. "Every hole is a place for his owner to use. Every part of his body belongs to her. The arse is especially important, because it's the one part he can't rationalise. He can't pretend he's enjoying it. It's pure submission."

She withdrew her fingers and pressed the tip of the plug against his entrance. Paul's whole body tensed.

"Look at me," Odette commanded.

He did. Her green eyes were bright with pleasure, her smile soft and cruel.

"This will hurt a little," she said. "But pain is instructive."

She pushed. The plug slid past his resistance, stretching him, opening him, and Paul gasped, his hands gripping the sheets as the wide bulge of it seated inside him. He felt utterly invaded, the pressure deep and alien.

"There," Odette said, satisfied. She tapped the flare of the base. "It's in. How does it feel, Paul?"

His voice was strangled. "Full."

"Good. Now I want you to clench around it. Show Martha how well you can hold it."

He obeyed, the muscles of his arse clamping down on the intrusion, and Odette watched with pleasure as his cock twitched against his belly.

"Perfect. Martha, did you get that?"

Martha was staring at the phone screen, her cheeks flushed. "Yes, Auntie O. I got everything. His face when it went in, everything."

Odette rose and moved behind Martha, looking over her shoulder at the screen. Paul's face was visible, twisted in humiliation and reluctant pleasure. The spread of his thighs. The black plug protruding from his arse.

"You'll keep this," Odette said. "It's yours now. Proof that you've mastered a man."

Martha looked at Paul, and there was no shyness in her eyes now. Only a bright, greedy satisfaction. "Thank you, Auntie O."

"Thank me by using it wisely." Odette kissed her cheek. "And whenever you need a demonstration, you know where to find your slave."

Paul lay on the bed, the plug still inside him, the echo of his own weak cries still ringing in his ears. He had served dozens of women, been degraded in ways he had never imagined possible. But this, the knowledge that an eighteen-year-old girl now carried video of him like this on her phone, was a fresh humiliation different somehow from the video he knew had been filmed of his torture on the floor of the tanner’s arms- those had been people already deeply involved in extreme sexual practices, but this video sat in the pocket of a normal girl. He felt the heat of it creep up his neck.

He felt the heat of it creep up his neck. The plug was a solid, foreign weight inside him, a constant reminder that his body was not his own. Martha's phone had captured it all, his strained face, the obscene intrusion of the black silicone, the way his cock had twitched and leaked despite everything.

Odette, still standing behind Martha, watched her little protégée with undisguised delight. She could see the hunger in the girl's eyes, the way Martha's nipples had hardened again after her orgasm, the way her gaze kept dropping to Paul's rigid, weeping cock.

"There is one more thing you should know about your slave, Martha," Odette said, her voice casual but weighted. She stepped around the bed and perched on the edge of it, crossing her legs elegantly. "Paul hasn't been permitted to come in over a week."

Martha's brow furrowed. "A week? You've kept him that way?"

"Longer than that, counting from last Sunday." Odette's smile was slow and satisfied. "I've been feeding him exclusively on his tongue. Astrid, Jamie, Holly, and that little waitress at Arpège, they've all had their fill of his mouth this week. But his cock has been strictly off limits. He hasn't been allowed so much as a single stroke of his own hand."

Paul's throat tightened. He lay there, legs still spread, the plug still inside him, his erection so hard it was almost painful. The shame of being discussed like this, like a horse at market, should have wilted him. Instead his cock only thickened, a traitorous drop of pre-cum beading at its tip.

"Why would you keep him like that?" Martha asked, genuinely curious.

"Because denial sharpens need." Odette leaned forward, her voice dropping to an intimate, conspiratorial register. "When a man's balls are full and aching, when he hasn't had release in days, his mind clouds over. Every thought becomes filthy. His libido takes over completely, and he will do anything, absolutely anything, for the chance to come. Most men never reach that point, because they'll wank at the first sign of discomfort. They're slaves to their own base instinct to relieve themselves. But Paul is different. He belongs to me. He is forbidden from coming unless I decide it suits me."

Martha's lips parted. Her gaze moved from Odette to Paul, taking in the desperate flush of his chest, the painful engorgement of his cock, the thin streak of wetness smearing across his belly when it twitched.

"It also makes him more sensitive," Odette continued, enjoying the tableau she had created. "Skin becomes almost painfully alive. A single touch can make him shudder. And when he finally is allowed to come, his body rewards him with an absurd abundance. Far more semen than a man who spends himself daily. A proper, generous flood."

Martha swallowed. Her fingers twitched at her side, as if she wanted to reach out and touch him.

Odette tilted her head, watching her. "So, my darling. Now that you know this, what is it you want?"

The question hung in the air. Paul could feel the weight of Martha's pause, the way her breathing had quickened, the flush that crept from her cheeks down her neck.

"I want to feel it," Martha said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want to feel all that desperation inside me. All that pent-up hunger. I want him inside me when he's like this."

Odette's expression stilled. Her eyes narrowed, considering. She was silent for a long moment, and Paul could see the calculation passing behind her green gaze. He knew his owner well enough by now to recognise this moment of weighing. She did not share his cock freely. His mouth, yes, that was communal property, spread across London like a public utility. But his cock was a rarer prize. Hayley had taken it by force. Martha had been granted it once, across a conference call. Sandrine, had enjoyed it, though that had been Odette’s gift to her sister in-law who had never experienced cock, finally Clarissa’s slave puddles had been fucked with Paul’s Tabasco-covered cock as an elaborate torture. Did Odette want to share again so soon.

"Almost to breaking point," Odette murmured, half to herself. She looked at Martha's eager face, at the girl's hard nipples and trembling thighs, and slowly smiled. "You want him Martha. I can see it in your eyes."

"Yes, Auntie O." Martha's voice was earnest now, pleading. "Please."

Odette let the silence stretch another beat. Then she nodded, slow and deliberate. "I will allow it. You may enjoy Paul's cock. But you must understand what this costs. You will owe your Auntie O two favours. Not one. Two. And I will claim them at my leisure, in the weeks or months to come."

Martha nodded eagerly. "Anything. I'll owe you anything."

"Anything," Odette repeated, her voice soft and dangerous. "I should warn you, my sweet, these favours will be intimately sexual in nature. I expect your full and willing participation. Do you still accept?"

Martha's blush deepened, but she did not hesitate. "I understand. I accept."

"Then he's yours, for a little while." Odette reached for Paul's phone where it lay beside him and pocketed it. "Maintenant, Paul."

Paul slid off the bed, the plug shifting inside him with the movement, a constant pressure that made his thighs tremble. Martha watched him come toward her, her breath catching.

He grasped her body and steered her smoothly but firmly to the edge of the bed.

Martha obeyed, her hands gripping the duvet, her soft arse presented to him, the smooth soft lips between her thighs glistening with fresh arousal. Paul swallowed hard. The sight of her like that, so young, so ready, made his cock throb with agonising urgency.

"Do not hold back, Paul," Odette said, her voice low and silken from where she had settled in the armchair by the window. "You've been denied for over a week. She wants to feel all of it. So you give her all of it. Fuck her like the desperate animal you are."

Paul stepped forward, his hands gripping Martha's hips. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. She was so tight, still, the memory of how she had clenched around him flooding back.

"Please," Martha whispered. "Please, just fuck me."

He drove into her in one savage thrust. Martha cried out, a sharp, breathless sound of surprise, as his cock buried itself to the root inside her. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in, hard enough to rock her body forward against the mattress.

"Yes," she gasped. "Oh, god, yes."

He fucked her like a machine. There was no tenderness in it, no gentle rhythm. He had been denied for too long, his balls aching with a week of unshed seed, and every ounce of that desperation poured into his hips. His thrusts were fast, deep, punishing in their intensity. The wet slap of their bodies filled the room, obscene and rhythmic.

Martha's initial shock was evident in her ragged cries, the way her fingers clutched uselessly at the duvet. She had expected the careful, measured lover who had deflowered her weeks ago with such gentle reverence. This was something entirely different. This was raw animal need, a man who had been caged and was now unleashed.

But the shock didn't last. Somewhere in the third or fourth bruising thrust, Martha let out a moan that was pure pleasure. Her whole body relaxed, opening to him, and she began to push back against his hips, meeting him stroke for stroke.

"Fuck," she whimpered, the word muffled against the duvet. "Fuck, that's good. That's so good. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

Odette watched from the armchair with a possessive smile, her hand absently stroking her own thigh. She had given her permission, opened her arms to the economics of the transaction. Two favours from an enthusiastic, beautiful eighteen-year-old. Of all the women who had ever enjoyed Paul's cock, those were going to be worth collecting.

Paul didn't hear her. He was lost in the wet, gripping heat of Martha's cunt, the way it clutched at him with every retreat, pulled him back in with every advance. His balls slapped against her with each stroke, heavy and swollen, and the pressure building at the base of his spine was like a freight train about to derail.

"Look at you," Odette murmured, almost to herself. "All that pent-up desperation, finally unleashed."

Martha cried out as he drove deeper, finding a rhythm that made her toes curl. She was babbling now, incoherent pleas and praise spilling from her lips. He reached around and found her clit, swollen and slick, and circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he grunted, the first words he had spoken since Odette had given him leave. "Come on my cock."

Martha shattered. She screamed, her whole body convulsing, her cunt clenching around him in waves that made Paul gasp. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. The need was too great.

He pulled out just long enough to spin her around, to lift her onto the edge of the mattress and spread her legs wide. She looked up at him, dazed and flushed, her young body limp with spent pleasure.

"More," she breathed. "Keep going. Don't stop."

He sank into her again, this time watching her face as he fucked her. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth fell open, and she took him with the same greedy hunger as before. He leaned over her, his weight on his forearms, and drove into her with a rhythm that was relentless and deep.

"You feel that?" he growled, his teeth clenched. "You feel how much I need this? A week, Martha. A week of nothing. A week of my tongue in every cunt in London while my cock stayed hard and aching."

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, I feel it. It's so much. I'm going to come again."

"Then come."

She did, a second orgasm crashing through her so violently that her back arched off the mattress. Paul felt the convulsive grip of her cunt, felt the rush of her arousal flooding around him, and the pressure at his core finally broke.

He drove into her one last time, buried himself to the hilt, and let go. The orgasm ripped through him like a physical force. He came in wave after wave, his seed flooding into her, his whole body shuddering with the relief of it. It was more than he had ever produced, a thick, copious flood that overflowed and ran down her thighs, and he felt Martha gasp beneath him as the heat of it registered.

He stayed inside her until the last tremor faded, then pulled out and collapsed beside her, breathing hard. Martha lay still, her chest heaving, his cum seeping from her cunt onto the sheets.

Odette rose from the armchair and crossed to the bed, looking down at the two of them. Her smile was one of deep, satisfied ownership.

"Well," she said. "That was worth watching."

Odette's voice cut through the heavy silence of the room, soft and utterly without compromise. "Clean her up, Paul."

He raised his head from the mattress, his breath still ragged, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the most violent orgasm he had ever experienced. The plug was still inside him, a solid, unyielding pressure that he had somehow forgotten in the frenzy of fucking Martha. Now it reasserted itself, a constant reminder of his place.

"I said clean her up." Odette's tone sharpened. "Every drop. His tongue. Now."

Martha lay sprawled on the edge of the bed, her thighs spread wide, her cunt glistening with the copious flood of his seed. It had overflowed, streaking down the inside of her thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath her arse. The sight of it, the sheer volume, made Paul's stomach clench.

He slid off the bed and knelt between her thighs. His own cum was smeared across her, thick and white, mixed with her arousal. The smell of it, the smell of them together, filled his nostrils.

"Open wider," Odette commanded. "I want to see you do it properly."

Martha spread her legs further, propping herself up on her elbows to watch. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted, and there was a curious, almost amused expression on her face as she looked down at him.

Paul lowered his head. His tongue touched the slick mess at her entrance, and he tasted himself, salty and thick. He lapped at it, drawing the mixture of his seed and her juices into his mouth, forcing himself to swallow. The taste was overwhelming, compounded by the sheer volume of it.

"That's it," Odette murmured from the armchair. "Every drop, Paul. I want her spotless."

He worked methodically, his tongue delving into Martha's cunt, scooping out the seed that had pooled deep inside her. She gasped as his tongue pushed inside her, her hips twitching, and he felt her fingers tangle in his hair. Not pushing him away. Holding him there.

"You came so much," Martha said, her voice high and breathless. "God, there's so much of it. I can feel you still inside me, and you're licking it out of me."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. His mouth was full, his tongue working frantically to clean her. He dragged his tongue up through her folds, collecting every smear of white, every trace of himself. The plug shifted inside his arse with every movement, a constant, humiliating pressure.

Martha giggled. The sound was light, almost musical, and it cut through him like a blade. "You have to do this every time, don't you? Eat your own spunk out of whoever you fucked. That's so pathetic. I love it."

His face burned. He kept licking, kept cleaning, his tongue now tracing the inside of her thighs, lapping up the streaks that had run down her skin. She tasted of him, of her, of the mingled evidence of his degradation.

"Look at him," Odette said, her voice thick with pleasure. "A grown man, a barrister, on his knees between an eighteen-year-old's thighs, eating his own cum out of her cunt. With a butt plug in his arse. Is there anything more perfect than that, Martha?"

"I don't think so," Martha said, her giggles subsiding into a satisfied smile. "He's beautiful like this, Auntie O. Completely owned."

Paul swallowed another mouthful, then another. The volume was extraordinary, the product of a week of denial, and he felt his stomach begin to rebel. But he couldn't stop. Odette hadn't told him to stop.

"There," Martha breathed as his tongue made one final pass through her folds. "I think you got it all. Did you get it all, Paul? Or did you leave some inside me?"

He pulled back, his lips slick and swollen, his chin glistening. "I got it all."

"Good boy." Martha released his hair and flopped back onto the mattress, stretching like a satisfied cat. "That was the best Saturday morning I've ever had."

Odette rose from the armchair and crossed to the bed. She looked down at Martha with genuine fondness, then at Paul, still kneeling between the girl's thighs, his face wet with the evidence of his work.

"You did beautifully, my darling," Odette said, stroking Martha's hair. "Both of you. But you especially." She leaned down and kissed Martha's forehead. "Now, get dressed. Your mother will wonder where you've gone."

Martha sat up, her body still flushed and damp. She slid off the bed and gathered her clothes, pulling on her knickers and bra with unhurried ease. Paul remained on his knees, watching her dress, the plug still a solid weight inside him.

"Oh," Odette said, as Martha buttoned her dress. "There is one more thing you should know, my darling. Something very important."

Martha paused, looking up. "What is it?"

Odette gestured at Paul, still kneeling on the floor. "He is not just my slave. He is an offering to the sisterhood. Every woman in London who knows about him has the right to use his tongue, whenever and wherever they wish. It is their entitlement by virtue of being female. If you ever need a warm, practised mouth between your thighs, you simply remind him of this truth, and he will serve you. Won't you, Paul?"

"Yes, Odette." His voice was hoarse.

Martha's eyes lit up. "Any time?"

"Any time," Odette confirmed. "He may not always be available, he has work and other obligations. But if you find him, he will serve. That is his purpose."

Martha looked at Paul, and her smile was sweet and utterly predatory. "Thank you, Auntie O. I'll remember that."

She finished dressing, smoothing down her floral dress until she looked like any other pretty, innocent eighteen-year-old. The video on her phone, the memory of his seed flooding her cunt, the taste of him still on her lips, all of it hidden beneath that demure exterior.

"Bye, Paul," she said cheerfully as she headed for the door. "See you soon."

The door closed behind her. The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

Odette turned to Paul, still kneeling on the floor, his cock soft and spent, his face still glistening, the plug still inside him. She smiled, slow and satisfied.

Paul rose on trembling legs, his body aching, his stomach full of his own seed. He was spent. He was empty. He was hers.

He was spent. He was empty. He was hers.

The word settled into him like a stone dropping into still water, and with it came a strange clarity. He looked at Odette, standing there in her linen dress, her dark hair slightly mussed from the morning's exertions, her green eyes bright with satisfaction. She was watching him with that particular expression he had come to know, the one that meant she was thinking about what to do with him next.

And Paul realised, with sudden, desperate certainty, that he knew exactly what he wanted to do with her.

"Odette," he said, his voice still hoarse from his cries. "May I eat your pussy?"

Her eyebrows rose. A slow, amused smile curved her lips. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, tilting her head as she regarded him with an air of indulgent benefaction.

"My, my," she murmured. "Proactive. You've just spent yourself inside an eighteen-year-old girl after a week of denied release, and your first thought is of my pleasure?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I want to taste you. I want to make you come. Please, Odette."

She laughed, soft and delighted. "How can I refuse such a sincere request? Very well, my sweet slave. You may eat my pussy. But you will do it properly. You will take your time. You will not rush. And you will not stop until I am satisfied."

He crossed to her immediately, his heart hammering. She let him guide her to the bed, let him help her out of her dress with trembling fingers. She wore nothing beneath it, as was her habit on weekends, and the sight of her naked body, compact and athletic, her small breasts with their dark nipples already peaked, made his spent cock twitch with the first stirrings of renewed life.

"Lie back," he said.

She raised an eyebrow at the command, but obeyed, settling onto the rumpled sheets where he had fucked Martha not ten minutes before. The scent of their coupling still hung in the air, musk and sex and the faint tang of his seed. Odette inhaled it deeply, her eyes closing for a moment.

"That smell," she murmured. "That's the smell of my property being used well."

Paul knelt between her thighs. She was already wet, glistening, her folds swollen and pink. He could see the evidence of her arousal, the slickness that coated her inner thighs, and he realised that she had been watching him fuck Martha with growing need. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"You're so wet," he breathed.

"Of course I am." Her voice was lazy, satisfied. "I watched you fuck a beautiful young girl with a week's worth of desperate need. I watched her come on your cock, watched you flood her with your seed. Did you think I wouldn't be affected?"

He lowered his head. His first taste of her was like coming home, the familiar, musky sweetness of her flooding his senses. She was different from Martha, her taste sharper, more complex, seasoned with the particular chemistry of her arousal. He lapped at her slowly, drawing out the pleasure, savouring her.

"That's it," she sighed, her fingers threading through his hair. "Slowly. Take your time."

He obeyed. His tongue traced the length of her, from her perineum to her clit, in long, luxurious strokes. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, featherlight, until she shifted her hips in frustration, and then he pressed more firmly, flattening his tongue against her and drawing it up through her folds.

"The plug," Odette said, her voice dreamy. "You're still wearing it, aren't you?"

He paused, his mouth against her. "Yes."

"Good. I want you to feel it while you do this. Every time you move, every time you taste me, you'll feel that weight inside you. A constant reminder of who you belong to, even while your tongue belongs to my cunt."

He moaned against her, the vibration making her gasp. The plug was indeed a solid, unignorable presence, shifting with every movement of his jaw, every tilt of his head. He couldn't forget it if he tried, and the knowledge that Odette had placed it there, that she had made Martha watch, made his cock throb against his belly.

"You fucked her so well," Odette continued, her voice low and approving. "I watched you take her, that savage, desperate rhythm. For a moment I thought you had forgotten yourself. For a moment I thought you were fucking her for your own pleasure, not mine."

He redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving into her, fucking her with the same urgency he had shown Martha. She gasped, her hips rising to meet him, and he felt her fingers tighten in his hair.

"But then I realised," she said, her voice thickening with arousal, "that even that, even your most aggressive, masculine fucking, was merely an expression of my ownership. You were giving her what I allowed you to give her. You were performing for my pleasure, showing this young girl what my slave can do when I unleash him."

He moaned against her. He was hard again, painfully hard, his cock leaking onto the sheets beneath him. She tasted incredible, her arousal flooding his mouth, and he drank from her like a man dying of thirst.

"You understand your place," she said, and there was profound satisfaction in her voice. "That's what makes you so valuable, Paul. You know that even when you're fucking, even when you're taking, you're still serving. Every thrust was for me. Every drop of seed you spilled inside her was my gift to her. And now, this, your tongue on my cunt, this is the purest expression of what you are."

He pulled his mouth from her just long enough to speak, his voice rough and desperate. "I know, Odette. I know what I am. I'm yours. This tongue is yours. Every part of me is yours."

Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.