Page 78 of Their Master

“Servants discovered me in the cellar, of course.” Smith held her worried gaze and chuckled at the memory—at least that part. “Not only had I eaten my body weight in apples, but so much food on a starved, shrunken stomach had made me ill. I must have made a disgusting, pitiful picture—smeared in shit, vomit, and apples, bony, and sickly.”

Smith rested his hand over her mound, squeezing it lightly as he skated dangerously close to the edge of the ancient, unpleasant memory.

“Naturally the servants were furious. Not because of the broken lock and stolen food, but because they had to clean up after me. So, they took their revenge in a most ironic fashion. Can you guess what they did?”

Dread had replaced discomfort on her face and she shook her head.

Smith’s jaw tightened, even after decades. “They took me to the outhouse and pushed me down the hole.”

Her jaw sagged.

Smith nodded at her expression of revulsion. “It was… well, even after all these years I don’t have the words to describe the experience. I don’t know how long I was in there—more than an hour, less than a day—before the stablemaster pulled me out. The house belonged to a very wealthy man, somebody so rich and powerful that he likely never even knew that a filthy urchin had eaten his apples and defecated in his root cellar.”

He watched as a single tear slid down her cheek, sparkling almost as much as the stones around her neck.

“I couldn’t seem to get clean enough afterward, no matter that the stablemaster had thrown bucket after bucket of freezing water over me. He gave me a brush that was no longer good enough for the master’s horses and I used that to clean myself, scrubbing until I was bloody.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Smith almost felt bad for her. “Let’s move you down just a little,” he said, taking her narrow hips in both hands and bringing her toward him, the action opening her even wider.

He didn’t stop until she winced, using pain to cruelly pull her thoughts away from a skinny boy trapped in a shithouse.

“Does that hurt, Moira?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, it hurts a little.”

“Just a little?” he teased.

“Perhaps a little more than a little,” she conceded.

“Do you like it?”

She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and nodded. “Y-yes, I like it.”

“Would you like more?” He slid a hand up her thigh.

Her pupils flared to life at his touch. “Yes, Smith. I want more.” And then she slid down the table without any prodding, the pained lines around her eyes deepening.

“Good girl,” Smith praised, removing the towel that concealed her sex. He groaned at the sight that met his eyes. “You are so beautiful—so perfect,” he said, aware of the roughness in his voice and the throb in his now rock-hard cock. He’d not believed he could get an erection after what he’d read earlier, but her pink, wide-spread cunt had cured him.

“And you’re aroused,” he said wonderingly, rubbing her slick, swollen clitoris and reveling in the grunt of pleasure the caress elicited.

“Yes, Smith.”

“Do you always become aroused when Luke grooms you?”

She inhaled and then paused.

Smith chuckled. “I won’t be angry if you say yes. Luke is masculine perfection; it would be difficult not to notice him—especially when his hands touch such intimate places. I find it titillating to think of you becoming aroused for him.”

There was a soft sigh, and then, “Yes.”

He glanced down to where his fingers had not ceased their idle stroking. She was so slick and lovely.

“Perhaps when I’ve seen to this current crisis, we can do this again, Moira? But have Luke join us.”

An emotion flickered over her face too quickly for him to read it. Excitement? Arousal? Something else entirely?

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