Page 10 of Spark of Madness

She doesn’t speak.

Her chest is the only part of her that moves, the gentle rise and fall as she breathes rocks me into a state of blissful longing.

Iwonder how soft she is between her legs…Are thoselips the same precious pink as the pout on herface?

I let my free hand move as footsteps crunch in the distance, and I hiss, “shh,” against her ear as I sweep aside her skirt. I brush my knuckles along the inside of her thigh, nearly groaning at the silky smoothness of her skin and how her muscles tense against my touch.

Slowly, I drag a finger up her leg until I reach the apex of her thighs. She flinches, stifling a gasp as I pull my finger along her slit, dipping in to the knuckle. She rises on her toes, her body slipping upward as though she’s trying to lift away; yet, when I push a little deeper and press against her inner wall, she drops in my hold.

Her hands, which she’d pinned to her sides before, snap up to clutch my biceps, the burrow of her fingertips pressing buttons inside me I didn’t know existed. My lips press to the side of her neck as I stroke inside her, adding another finger.

“I—”

“Not a word.”

Sinking deeper, I curl my fingers, stroking and gently pumping, savoring the wetness that so easily coats my fingers. I wonder if it’s all from her or whether Theo’s release is still dripping from within her.

Her grip on my arms tightens while I stroke her, tightens further when I grind my cock against her body. I’m finding it difficult to contain myself, and a groan beckons from deep in my chest, threatening to roll up my body and escape with a roar. I smile against her neck as I swallow the sound, feeling the muscles in her throat contract as she swallows, too.

I bring down my thumb to circle her clit, and with a jolt, her back arches from the tree. Her face falls forward to land on my shoulder. Somehow I find my free hand swooping around her, stroking down her soft hair, caressing with a gentleness that doesn’t make sense.

It’s when her hips roll forward to seek more pressure from my hand that I feel overwhelmed with the need to make her come. I bring my hand from her hair to her hip, fingers curling around her ass and dragging her into me. With the squeeze of my hand, I encourage her to move—I need to feel her fuck my fingers with gratitude for the unearned concealment I’ve offered her from Hyatt.

She feels incredible, inconceivably warm. Her cunt is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, though I can’t place exactly why. It isn’t just her cunt, though—it’s every inch of her.

Our breaths mingle with heat as she rocks on my hand. “Come for me,” I demand, “but don’t you dare make a sound.”

chapter five

Mercy

I’M WARM ANDwet, pleasure circling my center in a way I’ve never felt before.

I feel weak.

I feel strong.

I feel shame for the release that threatens to unravel me…yet I crave it all the same.

I dig my fingers into his arms as my core tightens, clenching around his pulsing digits. My breaths quicken as I rock against his hand, intoxicated by the way he holds me, the warmth of his body aligned with mine…the way his hardness presses to my stomach.

I feel held by him, and somehow, it’s centering yet disorienting all at once.

I bury my face in the crook of his neck as my climax awakens, pulsing through my swollen clit while his fingers work with mastery.

Come,but don’t make a sound.

A command I can follow.

I’m not unfamiliar with my body or the feeling of self-pleasure. All of us—the servants of Ember Glen—would spend a week at Sanctuary following a night of service. We’d gather to rest and reflect in reverence of fulfilling our duty; we’d heal and mend those injured in violence.

For many nights, we would share our experiences with one another in a safe space. No one is allowed in Sanctuary except for servants and the Control who watch over us. And even they can only enter with the permission of us all. It’s the only time we have any power in this place.

Some weeks in Sanctuary were living hell—if someone had served an excess of violence, we lived their pain with them as they healed. But occasionally, there were nights of service more manageable than others, when no one was injured, and we’d spend our nights recounting our experiences in sexual service.

Inevitably, there would be some girls who would become lustful in their remembrance. Self-pleasure isn’t allowed unless a man demands it of a servant during a night of service beneath the full moon—which they rarely did because men don’t care about a woman’s pleasure. I suppose that tiny rebellion was part of the appeal. It was an unspoken secret we kept for each other, the silent seeking of release by one’s own hand beneath the sheets when the lights went out.

I was never left particularly wanting after serving; though, like so many of the others, I was left unsatisfied all the same. Service is about the men, but those nights are for us. And I would sometimes indulge while in our safe space. Though I did it out of spite and contempt—not as a lust-fueled rebellion that I’d seek forgiveness for by dutifully serving.

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