Page 36 of Servitude to Serpents

Warrick

Whatever heavy handed drink the server gives me burns the back of my throat. My fist inches closer and closer to the gun at my waist the longer she’s separated from me. Despite her only being a few mere feet away, it seems I cannot keep my eyes off her.

Or my thoughts.

I force myself to focus on the men crowded around the bar, their conversation bleeding in and out like a shitty station on the radio. Andres LaMonica, the tycoon I was here to see, bolsters loudly from the middle of the room, unaware of the waiter who just slipped one of his guests' watches into his pocket on my left or the woman currently being strangled to death at a table just behind one of the leather couches—one of mine, I believe. He’s clearly unaware of how dangerously close I am to blowing a hole in his skull then fucking his eye socket until he gives me what I want so I can go home.

The glass in my hand cracks as a muffled sound cuts through the rest, my head casually swiveling to check on my troublesome dog as she lounges on a couch with a few others, the latter of which are already deeply saturated with seminal fluid and naked. Most of them slur and whisper to each other, already intoxicated, and I can tell how badly she wants to keep up. It’s likely one of her first encounterswith anyone not in direct possession of her since she was taken. Her wide brown eyes are pitched with frustration as she tries to communicate with women who largely ignore her.

“You’re staring, Sir,” Stuart cuts in as I force my eyes away.

“She’s mine. I can do with her what I—”

“Warrick—”

Clanking on glass fills the room, rising above the moaning and chatter as people halt their conversations and fucking to listen to what the oily man funding the party has to say. I snap my fingers, loud enough to draw her attention, signaling her over. All of them on the couch come, and I gesture for them to fuck off as Pup kneels at my side. My palm itches to caress her.

“Does your jaw hurt?” I ask, forcing myself not to look at her. She long since stopped struggling to keep her spit from leaking around the gag, and the temptation to lap it clean is beating at my self-control. She shakes her head, making me hike an eyebrow before she relents and nods. Her inhale is sharp as I snake my hand around the back of her neck, urging her to lay her head on my thigh. She does, the press of her warm skin heating me despite the fabric separating us. Her face feels so delicate underneath my palm as I massage her jaw, watching the dark-skinned woman and a male slave take their positions in the middle of the room.

“My wife has decided to put on a little show for you all tonight! You are quite lucky. She’s utterly divine,” Andres LaMonica boasts, and now, I recognize the woman splayed out and already panting on the floor. She was one of the premiere models a few seasons ago. She walked in Milan. Now, she’s married to an old, fat man.

A rich, old, fat man.

By all accounts, she’s not a slave. She’s here willingly. If Stuart’s file on the couple is accurate, she decides when to wear her collar, when to be in the space, and when to dominate it. The look of adoration she gives Andres irks me. I shift my thigh, propping it better underneath Pup’s head. That angle couldn’t have been comfortable for her neck—not that I particularly give a shit. It’s not likePup would complain, but if she’s in pain, she’ll be less effective. That would be annoying. I’m still massaging her jaw, struggling to keep my attention on the show before us.

The woman leans up, grasping the man’s collar before directing him between her legs. There’s no buildup, no foreplay or caressing, but it seems they were doing that bit all night. Her cunt is dripping, the moisture clinging to her thighs, glistening in the dim lighting as she takes him. When the other man joins, spitting on her asshole to ready her, my eyes dip to movement at my side. My little pet shifts, pressing her thighs together tightly.

My hand fists, my other one staying soft and controlled as I apply gentle pressure, making soft circles on her jaw. The woman cries out as she’s turned onto her knees, the second man pressing into her ass with a loud hiss. They don’t waste time picking up a twin rhythm. She holds herself up, her toned thighs flexed as they fuck her, one from underneath and the other from behind. She’s beautiful, no doubt; the scene is one I would’ve normally gladly watched, preferably with a woman’s mouth on my cock. Yet, I feel only a visceral, budding irritation. The press of my gun seems…more pronounced. That mean streak I long grew out of blooms in the pit of my stomach. My lips twitch, wondering if I could make them keep going after I put a bullet in her head, although killing the man’s wife wouldn’t be good for business relations. I don’t even know why I want to.

I watch Pup's curious eyes fall to the woman's cunt as it laps at his cock. She raises her head, no longer using me for support. A spark of something foreign builds in my chest, my skin hot and my suit chafing. Whatever was building there doubles in on itself as Pup’s eyes widen. My eyes cut to Andres’ wife, her eyes now onmypet. The woman is drinking her in, taking notice of the way she's watching, how she’s rubbing her pale thighs together, wanting friction. A lusty smirk fills the woman’s face, her hand trailing down her front between her large breasts to her clit. It feels like I've swallowed acid as my hand leaves its rejected spot, hovering blankly in the air where Pup's jaw had been and snakes toward the back of her collar.Stop looking at her like that.

God, why the fuck do you care?

The slaves impaling their cocks inside her are all but forgotten, like a piece of furniture you've made yourself comfortable on. She lets out a throaty moan, and Pup responds with a soft whine. This is no longer a show for the Masters circled around, no. This is for Pup now, and I don't fucking like it. Rage bubbles in my chest before I can get hold of it. I jerk her collar, sending her careening into the side of the chair. She winces, her suddenly timid eyes hesitantly finding mine, trying to figure out what she has done wrong.

Nothing. You've done nothing wrong. Right? Pup, you've done nothing wrong…

So why do I need to punish you?

No, not punish. Eviscerate.

I want to shove one of my rifles so far up your fucking cunt, it breaches your womb. I want to rearrange you. If you’re so desperate for their attention, I want you to have it.

I want you to take them all until you’re bloody and screaming. Then, I want you to say sorry, to apologize for paying attention to anyone who isn’t me.

I’m your fucking master.

Weeks of your attention, your constant tears, being oh so gentle, and it seems you’ve forgotten…

You’re the fucking dog.

The room halts for a moment as I fist her collar, pulling her up from her knees. Pup yelps as the collar tightens on her throat, the ball gag choking her as well as silencing the whimpering pleas as I drag her behind me. It’s the same way you would a dog after it pissed in your floor, holding it by its collar as you show it what it did wrong, after you’ve rubbed their nose in it. I’m not thinking as I burst through the wide doors that house the hidden gem. Her struggle slows when I jerk her up into my arms, tossing her over my shoulder when we hit the unfinished, rusted metal flooring that makes up the staircase.

Can’t have my pet all torn up now, can I?

I have no clue where I’m taking her, only that eventually, I stalk down the metal landing far enough that the bars lower, and the frequency of worn and fadedauthorized personnel onlysigns warning of dangers increase,the red in my vision no closer to fading. Her hands grasp my suit jacket as I sling her off my shoulder, a scream lodging in her delicate throat as I shove her against the rusted metal railing lining the walkway.

“Who owns you?” I growl, my skin flush and my cock throbbing uncomfortably.

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