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A Mercenary Gets It Where He Can

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Even stripped naked and laid out flat on my belly on the Duchess’ bed, with the taste of her still in my mouth and my nose, more potent than wine--

Even though my wrists are bound to the bedposts with leather thongs, and my view is distinctly limited, I can’t help noting the location of things in the room. A chair (potential weapon), a window (avenue of escape, or attack), the wardrobe (someone could be hiding in it). The Duchess can tell my attention is straying; fortunately, she knows how to focus it.

Her nipples are just brushing my shoulder blades, and I can feel the wetness of her against the small of my back where she’s straddling me, and she yanks my head up and back by the hair and says, “Are you going to be a good boy now?”

“Yes,” I gasp, my voice harsh and strange in my own ears, and when she twists harder I add breathlessly, “Milady.”

But that’s not what she was looking for. She leans closer, the whole hot length of her against my back, her lips against my ear. “Yes, Milady, what?”

“I’ll--” My mouth is too dry to swallow. “I’ll be good.”

They ought to stop me cold, those words, but they don’t. My eyes are stinging, and not from the trifling pain of the hair-pulling, but I keep rutting helplessly against the sheets; my response is just another item on the long list of obscene things that I am.

She laughs and nips at my ear; she knows she’s gotten a reaction from me but she isn’t going to know why. She thinks it’s a game we’re playing, that it’s pretend power I’m handing her. They all thought that Adela’s hose and swords were a game, too; once I thought so myself. I never figure these things out until it’s too late.

And it’s too late now, much too late to stop. For one thing, I have a reputation to uphold: I always fulfil my contracts. For another, for another--

God, it feels good. The soft slide of her skin, palace-bred and pampered, as she wriggles down past my butt, planting her knees between my legs. The shivers she raises along my spine, trailing a hand along it. My head falls back when she releases it; the sheets are cool against my cheek and my breath is coming hot and fast. Behind me, above me, I can hear her rummaging around for something, but I can’t see what it is. It’s wrong, I can feel it in my gut and between my shoulder blades, wrong to have someone in my blind spot, wrong to hear the soft click of something opening and not react. Damn if that doesn’t feel good too, better than sex and not entirely different.

“You’re trembling,” she remarks, resting her hand on my back, just above the swell of my butt. “Are you frightened?”

I don’t even think what’s the true answer? I only think what’s the right one? “Yes, Milady,” I say, soft and muffled, and she laughs her musical laugh.

“That’s terribly sweet of you.” I feel the slick shock of grease against my asshole, slim uncalloused fingers prodding, and I let out a gasp as she thrusts one up inside, and withdraws it as quickly. Then there’s something else pushing against me, something stiff and dead.

It’s too much, too fast, even slathered in grease, but she doesn’t care. My second gasp is louder, a strangled shriek, as I’m stretched mercilessly; she only finds it funny to watch me writhe. She settles her weight on me with a happy sigh, pushing the dildo further in, again, and again. It hurts, and it’s good. She moves faster, and I tilt my hips up to meet her, and her weight shifts as she slides one hand underneath me, nails combing through the curls at my crotch, fingers finding the sweet spot by touch as surely as if they were my own.

“What a lovely thing you are,”she says breathlessly, and I can only respond with a moan. “Wouldn’t it be nice if I could keep--oh--”

At the sound of her climax, the weight of her hips and belly and thighs, the way her hair falls forward and brushes my back, a shudder runs through me. It clenches tight around the dildo still lodged in my ass, and her fingers still moving inside me, it forces my eyes closed, shuts out the chair and the window and the wardrobe and everything but her. And it leaves me with a spreading ache in my belly and a light-headed feeling of emptiness, even before she slides the dildo out.

She rolls off of me, lazily helping me free my wrists, pulling a chemise over her head and settling back cross-legged on the bed to watch me dress. I’m too tired and spent to make a production out of it, a transformation; whatever she may think, I’m the same person in my clothes as out of them.

She reaches for me, and I turn away, pull on my shirt, pretend I don’t see. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could keep you? She isn’t going to know how easy it would be. Kadeen would disagree, but it isn’t so bad, being a whore; not so different from being a mercenary, only in the Duchess’ keeping the lodgings would be better and my life expectancy would be longer.

There is a lump in the pocket of my jacket as I shrug it on, and I slip my hand inside, turn the ring around in my fingers.

Not so different, really, from being a wife.

I settle back against the head of the bed, against the cushions the Duchess has propped there; I doze off until a sudden noise startles me awake. But it’s only the soft chink of money being counted out.