Chapter 70 of 90
Her Own Face
"Come here," he said. "And suck this."
He was already undoing his trousers. He pushed them down.
His cock sprang up. She had felt it, an hour ago, between the cheeks of her ass, like a bar of hot iron. Now she saw it. And it was big—thick and long and hard, flushed dark at the head, standing up straight from his body and twitching slightly with his heartbeat.
She walked to him. She knelt down in front of him on the floorboards.
She took it in her hand. It was hot. She could feel his pulse in it.
And she began to lick.
She had done this before. In the bar. Under the table, in the box. She was not as nervous as she should have been. She licked the head, slowly. Then down the shaft. Then up again. She opened her mouth and took him in.
He looked down at her.
He could not believe what he was seeing. Nalan Meng. The Ninth County Lord. The woman who had held a sword to his wrist that very morning for trying to take her hand. Kneeling naked on the floor of his room, with his cock in her mouth. Sucking him.
It made him so excited that it was almost painful.
And he could not do anything more than this. Ninety-six percent. Four more. His cock was in her mouth, and her pussy was right there, and the curse would not let him have it. He would have to satisfy himself with foreplay.
He put his hand on the back of her head, and pushed.
His cock slid deeper into her mouth. Deeper. Into her throat.
She could not breathe. She choked around him. Her eyes watered. He held her there for a long moment—one, two, three—while her throat convulsed around the head of his cock, and her hands came up and clutched at his thighs.
Then he let her up.
She gasped. Strings of spit hung from her lips to his cock. And before she could catch her breath, he had reached into the air beside him, into his storage, and brought something out.
A collar.
It was black leather, wide and soft, with a ring of polished steel at the front. A length of fine chain hung from the ring.
He bent down and fastened it around her throat while she was still gasping.
She felt it close. She felt the buckle bite. She felt the weight of the ring settle in the hollow of her throat, and the chain swing cold against her bare breasts.
She was startled. For a second her whole body tensed against it—locked, I'm locked—and her eyes flew up to his face.
But the hook in her chest did not pull. And his hand was on the back of her head again, gentle this time. And she bent her head, and took his cock back into her mouth, and went on sucking it. Like a piece of candy. As if nothing had happened at all.
She was good at it. Too good. Her tongue swirled around the head. Her lips slid down the shaft and back up, wet and soft and tight. He felt the pressure building in his balls. He was close. So close—
He took hold of the chain, and pulled.
Her mouth came off his cock with a wet pop. She looked up at him, confused, her lips swollen and shining.
"Let's do something more exciting," he said.
And he turned, with the chain in his hand, and walked to the door.
She had no choice. The chain was attached to her throat. She got to her feet and followed.
At the door, she stopped.
She stood there, naked except for the collar, with the chain running from her throat to his hand, and fear rose up in her so suddenly that she could taste it. She looked at him.
He opened the door.
"Let's play outside," he said, "my beautiful slave."
It was dark outside. Only the moon.
The courtyard of the City Lord's Mansion lay silver and black under it, the paving stones pale, the shadows of the eaves sharp as ink. The garden beyond the moon gate was a mass of dark leaves and pale flowers. Not a lamp was lit anywhere. The guards were all at the main gate, a long way off on the other side of the house. The inner residence was empty at this hour. Silent.
But it was still dangerous. Terribly dangerous. She knew that better than anyone. A cultivator could hide his presence. A cultivator could sit in a tree, or on a roof, perfectly still, for hours. Her husband's sworn brother did it every night. Anyone could be watching. Anyone at all.
She hesitated on the threshold.
He started walking. The chain went taut.
She followed.
The night air touched her everywhere at once.
It was cool. It moved over her bare skin like water—over her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her thighs, her ass. She had never in her life been naked outdoors. Not once. Not even as a child. She felt it on her nipples, and they tightened at once into hard aching points. She felt it between her legs. On her pussy. On the wetness there.
Because she was wet.
She did not understand it. She was so frightened her knees were shaking. And her pussy was soaking. It had been wet since the bar and it had only gotten wetter—in his room, on her knees, with the collar going around her throat—and now, out here, in the open, under the moon, with anyone in the world able to see her, it was dripping. She could feel it running down the inside of her thigh.
Why? She did not know why. Why is this exciting? Why am I getting excited, being shown off like this?
She did not know the word immoral. She did not know that it was written on her, in a window that only he could see.
He stopped in the middle of the garden path.
He looked back at her. At the moonlight on her naked body. At her face, red with shame. At her breasts, rising and falling fast. And then—he looked down—at the glistening trail on the inside of her thigh.
He smiled.
"Why don't you walk like a dog?" he said.
She stared at him.
For one moment she was the County Lord again. The fury came up in her face, white-hot. How dare he. How dare he—
The hook in her chest stirred. Just stirred.
She bent her knees.
She went down onto the paving stones. Onto her hands and knees. The stones were cold under her palms. Her breasts swung down beneath her, heavy, and the chain hung from her throat to his hand.
He started walking again.
She crawled after him.
From behind, she must have looked—she did not want to think about how she must have looked. But she could not stop thinking about it. Her ass up in the moonlight, round and white, swaying with every movement of her knees. Her thighs parting and closing as she crawled. And between them, her pussy, wet and swollen and open to the night air, with her own juices dripping from it onto the stones.
The wind blew. She felt it on her wet places, cold. She shivered.
She crawled ahead of him along the garden path like a dog on a lead. And every leaf that stirred, every creak of every branch, she thought: someone is there. Someone is watching. Someone is in that tree.
Her breasts swung from side to side beneath her as she went.
And she was craving it. Somewhere deep in her belly, under the fear and the shame, she was craving a cock. Inside her. Filling her pussy. The wanting was so strong it frightened her more than the dark.
Li Yuguo walked behind her with the chain in his hand and watched her crawl.
He wanted it too. Her pussy was right there in front of him, wet and open, practically begging. He wanted to go down on his knees on the cold stones behind her and push his cock into it.
He did not. Of course he did not.
I'm not spending a year without a cock, he thought grimly. Not for anything.
He stopped in the middle of the garden. In the open, in the moonlight, on the little stretch of lawn between the lotus pond and the plum trees, where anyone on any roof could have seen them.
"Suck it," he said.
She was afraid. He could see it in her eyes—huge in the moonlight—going to the rooftops, the trees, the dark windows. But she knelt up in front of him on the grass, and took his cock in her hand, and put it in her mouth.
And this time she was aggressive.
It was different. Completely different. In the room she had been careful, practiced, almost polite. Now she sucked him like she was starving. Hard and deep and fast, her lips tight, her tongue working, her head bobbing on his cock, little wet greedy noises coming out of her throat. Her hands clutched his thighs. Her hips were moving, rocking, as if she could not keep them still.
She was so horny she had stopped thinking.
He could not hold out against it. He put both hands in her hair and groaned, and came.
It burst into her mouth. Hot, thick, pulse after pulse of it. She did not pull away. She held still and let it fill her mouth, and swallowed it. All of it.
And when it was over, she did not stop.
She went on licking him. Slowly now. Gently. Cleaning his cock with her tongue, every inch of it, until it was clean and shining wet in the moonlight. She had already drunk every drop.
He looked down at her for a long time.
Then he turned and walked back toward the house, and she followed him on her hands and knees, all the way back across the garden and over the threshold and into his room.
When the door was shut behind them, he unfastened the collar.
"Go and settle your debt tomorrow," he said.
She stood up slowly. Her knees were red and gritty from the stones. She picked up her dress from the floor.
She was uncomfortable. Restless. Something was still clenching and twisting inside her, low in her belly, unanswered. He had not fucked her. She had been sure he would. She had crawled across the garden certain of it, half afraid and half—
He had not.
Good, she told herself, as she pulled the dress on over her head. Good. At least he didn't force me to have sex. That was something. That was more than she had expected from a man who would put a collar on his own wife.
She picked up the silver notes and her cloak and the leather from the bar, and went out without a word.
In her own bed, she could not sleep.
She lay on her back in the dark with her thighs pressed together, and her pussy would not stop throbbing. It was wet. It stayed wet. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the moon on the paving stones and felt the chain swing against her breasts.
She did not touch herself. She would not.
It was a very long time before she slept.
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