I’ve always been a good girl, eager to please . . .
Maybe I needed a master all along . . .
Dean’s breath is speeding up. He rolls his hips, pushing his cock a little deeper into my mouth. He thrusts his hand into my hair, gripping the back of my skull, manipulating the angle of my head so he can push his cock further in.
Now I’m gagging a little and it’s harder to keep pace, but he’s still rubbing my pussy with his other hand, pushing his fingers inside of me while he pushes his cock down my throat.
I’m starting to feel that building pressure again, that ball of heat expanding in my belly. My mouth is extraordinarily sensitive from all that sucking, my lips and tongue and even the soft flesh of my throat all engorged and throbbing like the inside of my pussy. My mouth is as erogenous as my clit, and the dual sensation of penetration, orally and vaginally, is bringing me to climax.
I start to cum, waves of pleasure flowing through me with each thrust of Dean’s fingers. I moan around his cock again. The vibration of my throat tips Dean over the edge. His cock begins to twitch, and thick, warm spurts of cum hit the back of my throat, coating my tongue.
Dean lets out a long, tortured groan, a sound so primal that it scares me. And yet . . . I like that, too. I like having that effect on him.
His cum is slippery and hot. It startles me. He holds my head down, ordering, “Swallow it. Every drop.”
I gulp and swallow, trying to obey.
The taste isn’t bad—it’s the volume that makes me struggle. He keeps cumming, at least five or six spurts until I think I’m going to drown in it.
At last he releases my head, and I sit up, wiping my mouth on the back of my arm. My whole body is loose and warm, suffused with shivers that pass over my flesh without warning.
Dean leans back on his elbows, his eyes heavy, his body drained.
I’ve never seen him so relaxed.
I’m waiting for his judgment. I want to know how I performed.
He looks at me, then takes my chin in his hand. He pulls me forward so he can kiss me, not giving a fuck that I still have his cum in my mouth.
“Good girl,” he growls.
9
Dean
If I thought I was fixated on Cat before, it’s nothing compared to my obsession with my own personal pet.
I tell her to wear the collar everywhere she goes, all day long.
And then I see her walking to class dressed as innocently as ever, backpack over her shoulders, oversized shirt hanging down above her knee socks, with the mark of my authority wrapped around her neck.
It drives me insane.
My cock is hard as steel all fucking day.
I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop trying to catch glimpses of her. Can’t stop imagining what I’ll make her do when we’re alone at night.
I have one month to take full advantage of this.
I had considered a longer timeline—after all, I’d planned to torment her for two more years until I graduated from Kingmakers. But in the end I decided she’d never agree to it if it seemed like it would last forever. You can do anything for a month.
Sure enough, she consented without much convincing.
Because I had already discovered the crucial truth about my little kitten—she fucking likes it.
I just need to show her how much she likes it. She doesn’t even know. She has no idea what I can make her do. Or how good it will feel.
Meanwhile, I’ve started my private classes with Snow.
I walk into our first session feeling like the king of the world. Like nothing and no one could touch me.
Snow quickly reminds me that if I’m the king of the world, then he’s Thor Odinson, and he can smite me any time he likes.
His fists are thunder and lighting. They beat me with pagan fury, reminding me of the difference between a god and a mortal.
“You’re telegraphing your punches,” he says, bouncing lightly on his toes, not even winded from our sparring. “Why can I dodge your punches when I’m twenty years past my prime? Because I can tell what you’re going to throw just by the position of your feet.”
I attack him again, determined to move my body as one unit, without my toes betraying my fist a split-second before it can land.
“Better,” Snow says, as one of those punches clips his jaw. “But you have to maintain it. As you get tired, you fall back on bad habits. This is true of all fighters—any tendency or pattern they hold, they try to stamp out. But as the body grows weary, they slip back into routine.”
Snow’s voice is deep and gravelly, ringing with truth. It’s become the voice inside my head, pointing out my flaws, reminding me of his lessons long after class is over.
His bulky frame is firm and immovable as a mountain. He never loses his temper. He never makes mistakes.
Snow is what discipline has made him. Forty-eight years beaten against the refiner’s anvil—now he’s harder than any sword.
I admire him.
I hated him at first, the day he humiliated me in front of the class.
Now I want his approval. And this is strange to me, because I never truly cared what Abram Balakin or Danyl Kuznetsov or my professors thought of me. Not as long as I got what I wanted.
I’m not sure I even care what my father thinks. After all, he’s never pleased, no matter what I do. And I have my own resentments against him for how he drove my mother away, and how he allowed our house to fall into ruin. He raised me in a garbage heap so all my life I’ve had to struggle against the shame of our past, the shame of our home, and the shame of who I am.
Snow is a man worth impressing.
He knows nothing of my family, and he doesn’t care.
He only cares how I perform here and now in this gym.
I attack again, harder and faster than ever before. This time I can see that he has to hustle to block my punches, and he is breathing harder. I strike him on the ear with a glancing blow.
“Good,” Snow says. “You hit me once, in our first fight. That was a good combination. You were desperate, and it was the only time you didn’t telegraph what you were about to do. It was a strong blow. You’ve always been talented Dean; I can see that. But you have to be more than talented. You have to be the best. To be the best, you have to become a student of your craft. You cannot win through fury. Anger will never be enough—you need knowledge, mentorship.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I pant, striking out at him again.
“Yes,” Snow says, hitting me with a hard right cross that knocks me on my ass. “But I’m not sure you’re listening.”
After we spar, Snow brings out his phone so we can watch old tape of his fights.
“You attack hard in the first round, Dean,” he says. “Sometimes, it’s a good strategy. But not always. See this boxer—Ivo Chavez. I watched hours of tape on his old fights. And he did the same with mine. Both of us studied our opponent. When we fought, you can see in the first round he altered his strategy. We circled each other, seeing what each of us had changed. But look . . . as the fight wore on, he tired. And what do you see?”
“Jab, jab, cross, hook,” I say, spotting the other boxer’s pattern.
“That’s right. Sometimes it’s better to wait and allow your opponent to make his mistake.”