Page 62 of Storm Bound
I knew exactly what those eyes were begging for without even him uttering a word.
“Come for your master. Come, little witch. What are you waiting for, you slut? Come for your master and let him take pleasure in your orgasm,” I snapped at him.
The more I went on, the harder his face creased until his eyes became slits, his jaw fell open, and the cum shot out of his slit covering his leather jacket and t-shirt in its salty goodness.
“There’s a good boy,” I said, patting the top of his head and leaning forward to lap up the spunk he’d spilled for me. “Tasty little witch,” I moaned when I sat back up.
There was very little that tasted better than him. His mouth was one of them. So before we got out of the car, I gave him a deep French kiss.
“Come on. Dress up, my boy. We don’t want to miss the show,” I said when I pulled away.
* * *
“Oh my God,that was so good,” he exclaimed when the credits rolled and the lights came back up.
The applause erupted in the room, and the orchestra got on their feet to bow.
“Didja enjoy it? Please tell me you liked it,” Adam said while clapping.
“I loved it,” I told him and stopped for a moment to give him a big kiss before I went back to clapping.
“I wish they did more episodes. I’d watch all of them,” he said.
I laughed.
“Well, with a hundred and fifty episodes, that’d be quite the feat,” I said.
“Hundred and fifty-nine,” Adam said.
“Apologies, your Majesty. A hundred fifty-nine episodes,” I said with a raised eyebrow. “Let’s go now before we get stuck in here. We’ve got a reservation for dinner, and I don’t want to miss it.”
“We do?”
“Of course. It’s Valentine’s, remember? Even if it wasn’t, it’s date night. Date night means dinner. Silly boy,” I said smacking his butt as he was picking up his jacket.
We followed the rest of the audience through the doors until we were out on the street. It had been a good decision to buy from the merch store before the show because the line was three times as long now. And we had a reservation.
We passed by a group of guys that were smoking outside the theater. They were all wearing a Cursed Heart T-shirt, and they barely looked a day older than twenty.
“Mind your step,” one of them shouted, making me jump. “Gimp.” That last part was more muffled, but I heard it all right.
I took a deep breath and kept going, trying to make my limp less obvious. But Adam didn’t move.
“What did you just say?” he shouted at the group of guys.
“Adam, it’s fine. Ignore them,” I told him, pulling at his arm.
“It’snotfine. What did you just call him?” he said looking behind me at the group.
“Oh, look guys. Fat Caleb is ‘bout to pounce on us,” a guy said.
Okay, someone calling me a gimp was fine. I was used to this crap. But someone calling Adam,my Adam, fat? Hell to the no.
“Excuse me?” I said spinning around.
The group was five guys, clean-shaven with white privilege reeking from their pores.
“Look, how pathetic. They’re making such a mockery of a great show,” one of them said to his friends, and they all laughed.
