The chamber was dimly lit by the soft glow of candlelight and the steady flames of the fireplace.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, brooding. His jaw was aching from all the clenching, his shoulders tight, hands curling and uncurling into fists -- like someone trying to contain a wave of anger with nowhere to go.
An anger that, even now, hours later, was still trying to take over him.
He kept replaying the scene in his mind. Those smug voices, every word an insult wrapped in politeness. The way they all looked at him: not just with disrespect, but with quiet, calculated disdain. And how it had taken every shred of control on his part not to retaliate, not to destroy the fragile balance they were all pretending to uphold.
The minutes passed. The silence grew heavy. The memories intensified. His dark thoughts deepened.
Until the soft creak of the chamber door opening finally broke the spell.
She stood at the threshold -- barefoot, dressed in a simple silk robe clinging to her form, her long dark hair down.
His girl.
Of course, he thought. She came when she was meant to. As always.
Her lips parted as their eyes met. She looked at him. His robe was hanging open at the chest, offering a glimpse of bare skin beneath, his hands clenched, the anger still burning in his eyes.
He was at the bed. This sudden change left her momentarily confused.
He was always in the chair near the fire. That was their routine. That was where he usually waited for her.
She didn't speak. Didn't dare to move more. She was unsure about how to proceed, so she just lowered her eyes and waited.
For a few seconds -- though to her, they felt like ages -- he simply stared at her in silence.
Suddenly, something clicked into place in his mind and his eyes shone -- no longer with anger, but with resolution.
Then, in a quiet, commanding voice -- the kind she had learned meant there would be no discussion -- he said: "Come here."
She looked up, startled by the sudden break in silence. Her breath caught. For a split second, she wanted to say no. But she didn't. She obeyed.
Without a word, she lowered her gaze again and slowly walked from the doorway to the bed.
His eyes followed her across the room. She stopped in front of him, close enough to touch.
His hands were relaxed now, no longer curling into fists.
Then, his unshakable voice cut through the silence once more: "Remove it".
Immediately, her hands moved up, and the silk robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling silently at her feet.
Seconds stretch by.
He looked at her, at her bare skin, her firm breasts, her welcoming thighs.
"Look at me.", he ordered.
She did. Ashamed. But she looked.
"Kneel.", he finally said.
She knelt.
And at that moment, she understood what he wanted. This part of the ritual she knew -- had learned over so many nights.
He didn't need to say anything more.
She leaned forward, her hands moving to the top of his pants.
She pulled them down just enough to free him. He was already half-hard, thickening further under her gaze, her touch -- in anticipation.
Her warm hand wrapped around him, stroking once, twice, before her mouth descended.
He didn't stop her. Didn't correct her course. He only murmured: "Good girl."
The words sank deep. She felt shame again -- but this time, veiled with something else. Something warm. Something she didn't dare to name.
Her lips wrapped around the head of his cock, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle.
He inhaled sharply, one of his hands falling lazily into her hair on instinct.
She took her time. Circling the head, gliding her tongue along the length of him, fluttering softly over his balls -- teasing, hinting at what was to come.
Just the way he liked it. Just the way he had taught her.
She began to enclose the head with her soft lips, teasing with the tip of her tongue.
He groaned, his thighs tensing.
Her mouth was hot, soft, and inviting. He wanted more.
His hand pushed her down -- not overly aggressive, but firm.
She dove deeper.
His hand stayed tangled in her hair, guiding her rhythm with deliberate slowness -- just enjoying the moment.
After a while, his other hand drifted to her chest, brushing over the soft swell of her breast with calculated ease.
He found her nipple and circled it with the pad of his thumb -- light at first, barely there -- just enough to make her breath catch.
Then he found the other. And pinched.
Gently at first. Then harder.
She moaned around him, deep and raw, the sound vibrating along his shaft.
Although she did not pull away, the sharp pressure made her hesitate, pause.
"I didn't say stop," he murmured, voice rough.
She moaned again--guttural, submissive--and doubled down, taking him deeper, her lips sliding farther down with a desperate hunger. Her throat flexed. Her breath was ragged. But she pushed through it, silently apologizing.
His pleasure mounted. His hand abandoned her nipple and slipped down her back--lower--and found the base of something hidden.
Something he had placed there that morning.
He pressed, not hard, just enough to remind her it was still there.
She whimpered around him. Her whole body trembled, her hips shifting, thighs pressing together--seeking relief she wouldn't be given.
He smiled.
