Page 32 of Feast

“When?” she demanded, then shouted, “Fuck!” when he began to pepper her thighs with blows.

When he stopped, her thighs were glowing as bright as her ass, her pussy was rippling around his thumb again, and she was panting. Since she’d alternated moaning and calling him names the whole time he’d been paddling her, he wasn’t surprised.

“Had enough yet?” he asked.

Her response was muffled by the mattress.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She lifted her head. “I said, why is that so hot? It hurts—like,reallyfucking hurts. So why does it turn me on so much?”

“Ours is not to reason why,” he intoned soberly, “ours is just to do and fuck like demented clowns.”

“Don’t mention clowns,” she said immediately.

“Hard limit?” he inquired.

“Very hard.”

“Noted. What about this?” he asked, and turning his hand to keep his thumb buried in her pussy, tapped his middle finger on the plug buried in her ass. “Is this a hard limit?”

“God, no,” she breathed. “I thought that was obvious.”

“When it comes to matters of the ass, I don’t like guessing,” he explained.

“I would like it very much if you would fuck it, please.”

“That was very polite,” he said, amused. “Very nice.”

“Thank you. I would also prefer it if you used lots and lots of lube,” she continued.

“That’s what the towels are for,” he told her.

“I thought those were for me.”

“That, too,” he acknowledged, eyeing the wet spot under her. “I’m going to have to hit the ATM to tip the maids properly after this.”

She giggled, clearly unbothered by the idea of ruining the sheets.

“This is very serious business,” he told her sternly. “No laughing allowed.”

“You laughed,” she pointed out.

“That’s different. I’m in charge.”

“Right.” He didn’t have to see her eyes to know they were rolling.

“Sassy girls don’t get their asses fucked,” he reminded her.

“That hasn’t been my experience atall.”

“Well, maybe they get their asses fucked,” he relented. “But they don’t get to come.”

“That’s outrageous,” she exclaimed. “And I’m pretty sure a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

“This isn’t war, sugar.”

“Am I not a prisoner?” she demanded, flexing her wrists and tugging at her bound ankles.

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