Page 83 of Servitude to Serpents

His hand snakes up my skirt like the serpent on my collarbone, posited and ready to strike, and strike he did. His fingers prod and tug at my lace underwearuntil it rips, chafing my skin as he pulls it away, bringing it to his nose and inhaling. The moan that leaves his mouth settles in my gut like expired tuna as he shoves my underwear into his pocket.

His hands tug and pinch at my skin, like he’s expecting it to come off, before my knees meet the floor of the yacht with a hollow thud. My hands splay out to brace myself on his thighs as he jerks his weeping cock out, smacking the hard length across my cheek. I’ve heard of mushroom stamps before, in jokes. I never thought anyone actually did it. My thighs press together as I wiggle, trying to force any sensation where none is as he shoves his cock into my mouth. Where Master’s is thick, his is like a pencil, long but thin, assaulting my uvula and making me gag violently. I retch, trying to shove him away, when he jerks my head back, his palm making my scalp sting. “Don’t fucking puke,” he orders, fucking my mouth—no, fucking mythroat.

I'm going on four hours of sleep, six vomits, two alcoholic beverages, a metric ton of trauma and anxiety, and little to no food.

Of course, I was going to puke.

I try to stop him, crying out, my nails digging into his flesh as he shoves his Stretch Armstrong cock down my throat again. The result is immediate. Vomit gushes around his length, spewing as he quickly withdraws, leaving me choking on my sick as he complains about his pants and shoes. I’m still coughing when he jerks me to my feet, cursing me. My dress dances across my skin in rough, jerky movements as he grips my collar, holding me hostage by it. “Hard to believe you’re a Bloom girl.”

It feelswrong.

The looming panic overhead shoots down into my chest like beams, only I'm not being abducted. His vomit-covered cock is jerking against my dry cunt like a broken probe. I gasp, my hands flying out to try to shove him away, but he’s a brick wall. I’m useless against him as he spins me around. When my stomach hits the railing, my eyes gape. Nothing but the pounding music and the dark expanse of the ocean greet me. Everything I hate piles together to make something so abhorrent, my sobs leave me in chokedpleas.

Like before, no amount of begging makes a bit of difference. His cock worms its way inside like a well-endowed maggot, and like the rotted host my body has become, it slickens as I cry. My body relents, giving him everything, and he uses it, thrusting into me with wild abandon.

“Mast—"

His hand clasps over my mouth. “Shut up.”

My breath comes through his sweaty palm as he shoves into me, my hands gripping the railing until I can’t stand the feel of him—the sight of the ocean, the taste of the saltwater, or her screams in the distance. I slam the sharp heel of my shoe back, connecting with the fleshy part of his foot. Even through his shoe, I can tell it hurt. He makes an error sound, but his hands are off me, and soon enough, his cock is gone as I spin to face him, my chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” I yelp. God knows why. I didn’t mean to say anything at all. The moment his eyes turn to me, I can tell my apology means nothing. He’s pissed, and there’s no one in sight to stop whatever is coming. His hands brace my chest andshove. Like crying out in a nightmare, my scream is utterly voiceless.

Until I hit the frigid water.

And there she is, underneath the turbulent depths, pulling me under.

Chapter thirty-one

To own is to… Ache

Warrick

The woman dances in front of me, grinding and shaking her ass inches from my cock, and it might as well be severed. There’s nothing.

Fucking nothing.

She’s beautiful, her dark hair and bright blue eyes alluring, but I'm thinking in terms of blonde hair, doe eyes, and freckles. Her language isn’t even on my radar as I take another heavy swig of my drink, ignoring her the way you would fly at a barbeque. They’re annoying, sure, but swatting at it looks stupid.

Stuart laughs at something another old head says at the bar, content and unaware of what I’ve done, what I’ve set in place. Her ass drops, grazing my flaccid cock as my eyes drift upward to the dark. One call—that’s all it would take to end this.

Is she touching him yet?

Is he listening to her soft whimpers?

Does shewant him?

The woman’s ass firmly plants on my lap as she turns, winking at me in a way that’s meant to be sexy. Any other time, it would’ve been. I all but shove her off that part of me I’ve long buried, the part that’s been edging the surface the past few weeks as it nudges, coaxing me.

Make the call.

Hit the fucking button.

Everyone here dies.

Including me, including her.

What they don’t know is beyond the string lights, the pounding music, are two drones loaded with weapons strong enough to topple a freight vessel, and below those are six snipers loaded into smaller boats.

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