Chapter 30: Volume 1- [ - 31 ]
His gaze narrowed further. "It was all due to your lordship’s generosity," he said, and the words were technically respectful but carried the inflection of a man crediting a child’s allowance rather than a lord’s gift. "I do not have to do much work. The estate is quiet."
He meant: ’Because the lord is useless and never leaves his room, there is nothing to escort, nothing to guard, nothing to do but drink and fuck until dawn.’ The development of the estate — or rather, the complete absence of it — had become Garrick’s excuse to live as he pleased at my expense.
I smirked. Looked down — briefly, imperceptibly — at the desk, where Elira’s eyes were rolled back, her throat convulsing around my cock, her hands gripping my calves, her saliva pooling on the floor in a spreading puddle. I pushed my hips forward. Half an inch. The head slipped deeper into her throat, and she gagged — a wet, choked sound that I covered by clearing my own throat loudly.
"The estate is quiet because I prefer it that way," I said. "Though I understand you found other... entertainments."
A flicker of something — pride, perhaps, or the brazen confidence of a man who had no reason to hide his appetites — crossed Garrick’s face. He shifted his weight, his armor clinking softly.
"The lord need not concern himself with how his men spend their leave," he said. "I was here only to inform you that I need to increase the budget of the weaponry. The training blades are chipped, and the—’
I raised a hand. He stopped.
"I am going to give you another paid vacation," I said, and the words were generous, magnanimous, the words of a lord rewarding a loyal servant. "I have allowed you to pick up some women from the village. You just went — tell me. Which one did you like?"
Beneath the desk, Elira’s eyes went wide. Her arousal meter plummeted — ninety-seven to sixty to forty — and her internal voice became a shriek:
’He is asking — about the women — about the — my husband was with — which one — what did he—’
Her throat tightened around my cock, the contraction involuntary, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning. I pushed her head down further, my fingers curling in her hair, and felt her gag again — the sound swallowed by the desk between us.
Garrick, unaware of the performance happening beneath the wood, simply shrugged. He raised one hand. Extended a finger. And made the gesture — the universal, crude, unmistakable sign of a man describing a sexual encounter. The finger went in and out of a circle formed by his other hand. The international language of ’I fucked her.’
"Called herself Mireille," he said, with the satisfied tone of a man reviewing a meal he had particularly enjoyed. "Quite good. She cried well all night while I banged her in both holes."
Beneath the desk, Elira’s body went rigid. Her teeth grazed my shaft — not intentionally, but because her jaw had clenched, her whole body locking up as the words hit her like stones.
’My husband — both holes — with a — he told me he was on patrol — he told me he was — both—’
"My men had a turn as well," Garrick continued, his voice carrying the easy pride of a man bragging about a horse he had broken. "Gangbanged her good enough. She was a good bitch."
I laughed. The sound came easily — genuine, even — because the hypocrisy was exquisite. Here stood a man, in his lord’s study, describing how he and his men had run a train on a village whore, while three feet below him, his pregnant wife was choking on his lord’s cock and crying about being betrayed.
Garrick laughed too. We laughed together, the two of us, like men sharing a joke at a tavern, and the absurdity of it — the sheer, operatic absurdity — was the funniest thing I had experienced in either of my lives.
’He is laughing,’ Elira’s internal voice was a broken whisper. ’He is laughing while my husband — while I am — why am I here — why am I doing this — I should not be here — I should—’
Garrick reached into his belt pouch. Produced a small leather bag that clinked with the sound of coin. Tossed it onto the desk with a casual underhand throw that landed with a heavy ’thunk’.
"Thank you for that," he said, and the irony was apparently lost on him — that he was thanking the man whose wife was currently servicing the man being thanked. "Make sure to increase the budget."
He turned. Walked to the door. Paused at the threshold, looking back. "And lord — stay indoors. The wind is harsh today."
The door closed behind him.
I waited. Counted his footsteps — five, six, seven — until they faded into the distance of the corridor. Then I looked down.
"Elira."
She looked up. Her face was a ruin — tears streaming, saliva coating her chin and dripping onto her nightgown, her eyes bloodshot from the gagging, her lips swollen and red. My cock was still in her mouth, the shaft glistening, the head resting on her tongue. She looked destroyed.
I pulled out. Slowly, the head emerging from her lips with a wet ’pop’, trailing a long string of saliva that connected her mouth to my cock for a moment before breaking and falling onto her nightgown.
She coughed. A deep, wrenching cough that bent her forward, her belly pressing against the desk, her hands flying to her mouth.
I crouched. Looked at her face. Held her chin with my fingers, tilting it upward so that her wet, bloodshot eyes met mine.
"Do you see?" I said softly. "Your husband got some other hole. Seventy silver, maybe eighty. A whore named Mireille. Both holes. All night. His men too."
Her face crumpled. The tears came harder, and a sound escaped her — a raw, gutted sound, the sound of a woman watching something she had tried to preserve shatter into pieces she could not reassemble.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why did he — he told me — he said he was on patrol — he said—’
"You see," I said, and my voice was gentle, sorrowful, the voice of a man sharing her pain rather than the man who had engineered it, "how bad he is. He does not deserve you. He does not deserve your loyalty. He does not deserve the tears you are shedding for him right now."
’He is right. Garrick — both holes — with his men — while I was here, alone, pregnant, aching, and he was—’
I stood. Pulled her up from behind the desk, turning her, pressing her forward against the surface. Her belly rested against the edge, her hands finding the wood, her back arched, her ass presented. I lifted her nightgown over her hips. Her pussy — hairy, swollen, wet — glistened in the morning light. But that was not where I was going.
I pressed my cock head against her anal.
She flinched. Her body tightened, her buttocks clenching, her thighs pressing together.
"No — Lord — please — it will—’
"You understand now," I said, rubbing the head against the tight ring, the pressure firm but not forcing. "How bad he is. He does not care about you. He does not think about you. He is laughing with his men about the whore he fucked while you carry his child."
She trembled. Her internal voice was a battlefield — loyalty and betrayal and arousal and grief all warring for territory.
’He is right. He is right. Garrick does not — but this — the lord is — he is using this — he is—’