Page 50 of Filthy Elite

I start to turn in the seat, but she grabs my boot and wipes her tongue across the toe in a big, messy, defiant swipe. Sitting back on her heel, she gives me the fakest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. “Happy now, King Colt?”

A shudder runs up my body, and my cock throbs, aching down into my groin.

“Now you may beg.”

“What?” she asks incredulously.

“You may beg.”

“For what?”

“For your punishment.”

She swallows. “Is this what you do with Dixie?”

“No.”

I don’t elaborate, don’t tell her that it’s no fun to make a dog beg. It’s only hot when it’s a queen, when she’s doing it for me, not because she thinks that’s what she’s worth. There’s nothing pathetic about Gloria Walton. But for me, she’ll debase herself.

“Please,” she whispers, her eyes dark in the darkness of the parking lot.

“Do better.”

“Please may I have a punishment?”

“For?”

“For touching myself,” she says. “For coming on my fingers while imagining what your cock would feel like inside me, with all those piercings.”

In the cabin light, I can see her face is flushed, but it’s not from shame, like Dixie’s would be. Gloria’s hot for this, which makes me even harder.

“How do you know I have piercings?”

Her eyes narrow, and her lips purse. “Dixie told me,” she says after a pause.

I hide my annoyance because that’s the kind of thing Dixie would tell her friends, even though she’d die of embarrassment if I told anyone anything about her body.

“Put your phone in your car,” I order.

She hesitates. “Your phone too.”

I could refuse, but I hand her my phone instead. Knowing when to give a little so you can push that much further is an instinct that’s served me well. Tonight I want to see how far I can push the Queen before she remembers I’m worse than a peasant. I’ve set something in motion, and I can’t stop it now. Neither of us can. All we can do is ride the runaway train until the end and see who survives it.

She returns from her car and stands at my open door. Neither of us speak as a series of explosions sounds inside the mall. I don’t want to think about that, or who’s in there, or what we did by walking away and leaving him in there. I don’t want to think about Devlin being back or Crystal Dolce being alive. I only want to think about Gloria’s pink tongue swiping over my boot, and about her body under that jacket, how her wet cunt felt on the roof that night.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.

She bites her lip, then slowly unzips her jacket. “Where do you want me to put them?”

“On the floorboard in the front.”

She slides her arms from the jacket and follows my instructions. Little pellets of sleet and rain pelt down on us, but she doesn’t argue.

“All of them?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“What if someone sees?” she asks, glancing around.

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