NOVGO.NET Chapter 775: In Closet (r-18)
Chapter 775: In Closet (r-18)
"Touch me, please, Peter..."
"No," I said, soft as a blade sliding home. "Bad girls don’t get touched. Bad girls get to watch themselves fall apart while their god decides if they’re worthy."
Her whole body convulsed, thighs snapping together instinctively, then wrenching open again because she knew, she knew, closing them would be disobedience.
Another coming. Uncontrollable. Humiliating. Perfect.
I walked around to face her at last.
Stood between her spread knees, towering, fully clothed, cock straining obscenely against my jeans, and looked down at the wreck I’d made of her.
Her eyes were glassy, wrecked, adoring.
I cupped her jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the hollow of her cheek, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Repeat after me," I said, voice calm, absolute.
She was already nodding before I spoke.
"This cunt is not yours anymore."
Her lips trembled. "This cunt... is not mine anymore."
"It belongs to Peter."
"It belongs to Peter," she sobbed, the words ripping something open inside her chest.
"It exists to serve him. To leak for him. To squirt for him. To be used whenever, however, he wants."
She repeated every syllable like a litany, voice breaking higher with each one, tears dripping off her chin onto her swollen, untouched nipples.
I leaned down until our foreheads almost touched.
"Good girl," I whispered.
Then I straightened, stepped back, and folded my arms.
"Now keep yourself spread. Hands off that greedy little clit. And don’t you dare come until I say."
Margaret’s keening wail of despair was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.
The altar was ready.
The god was just getting started.
I watched her for one more heartbeat, two, three, while her entire body shook with the effort of obedience: thighs wrenched open, hands now fisted white-knuckled in the velvet beside her hips, cunt clenching and unclenching on nothing, tears streaming, chest heaving.
And I heard it, clear as cathedral bells inside my skull:
{Please, Peter... please stop punishing me. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Worship me the way only you can. Touch me like I’m sacred and filthy at the same time. Let me feel equal in my surrender. Let me feel cherished while I burn.}
The last wall inside her had crumbled. Submission complete. Devotion absolute.
I exhaled, slow, reverent, and the energy in the room shifted like sunrise after the longest night.
The predator stepped back. The god knelt.
"Enough," I said, voice soft now, velvet and smoke. "You’ve been perfect, Margaret. So fucking perfect."
Her sob was half relief, half disbelief.
I dropped to my knees in front of her, not between her legs, never there yet, but at the level of her feet. I took one of her trembling ankles in my hands like it was spun glass and brushed my lips across the delicate bones of her instep. My mouth left a faint trail of heat that made her gasp; the nerves there lit up like constellations, pleasure blooming up her calf in slow, rolling waves.
I could see them—her secret maps, glowing beneath the surface of her skin like faint gold threads only I was ever meant to read. A delicate cluster hidden behind the bend of her knee, a slow spiral curling along the impossibly soft inside of her thigh, a radiant starburst blooming at the hollow where hip met abdomen.
They shimmered there, invisible to anyone else, but screaming to me: touch here, taste here, claim here.
I followed them with mouth and fingers like a blind man reading braille written by the universe itself—slow, masterful, every movement deliberate and devotional.
I started low. My lips found the elegant line of her shin first—warm, salt-kissed skin that trembled the instant my mouth made contact. I dragged my tongue upward in one long, languid stroke along the quivering muscle of her calf, feeling the fine tremor ripple through her like distant thunder.
Her toes curled helplessly against my palm when I cradled her foot; I pressed a reverent kiss to the arch, then sucked the delicate skin just behind her ankle until she gasped my name—soft, broken, like a secret finally spoken aloud.
My hands—those same hands that had unraveled countless women with a single, knowing stroke—glided up the backs of her knees. Thumbs pressed firmly into the tender hollows there, not hard, but exact, circling with slow, insistent pressure until her thighs parted wider on their own.
Not forced. Not commanded.
Just surrendered—pure, liquid pleasure unlocking her like a key turning in silk. The air between us thickened with her scent: warm musk, salt, and the sweet-sharp tang of her dripping need.
I heard her thoughts again—quieter now, almost holy: {Yes... like that... worship me... see me... love me even when I’m this ruined...}
I rose slowly, lips never once leaving her skin. The sharp jut of her hipbone—hard and delicate under velvet flesh—earned a slow, open-mouthed kiss, my tongue tracing the ridge until she arched like a bow drawn taut.
Then the trembling plane of her lower belly, just above the neat triangle of soaked blonde curls.
I never went lower—not yet. Instead I followed the faint silver lines of her old stretch marks with the flat of my tongue—honoring every luminous scar, every quiet testament to the life she’d carried and survived before she became mine.
My palms slid up the dramatic inward curve of her waist—fingers spreading wide, claiming every inch of her without ever brushing breast or cunt. The heat pouring off her was feverish, her skin slick with fresh sweat that made my hands glide like they were moving through warm oil.
She was shaking harder now—not from denial, not from frustration, but from being seen, truly and mercilessly seen, by the only eyes that had ever looked at her like she was both goddess and offering at once.
I stood fully then. Cupped her tear-streaked face in both hands—thumbs brushing the wet tracks down her cheeks, feeling the fine tremor that lived even there—and kissed her.
Not the brutal, devouring kisses of earlier. This was slow. Deep. Devotional. I tasted the salt of her tears first, then the faint copper bloom where she’d bitten her own lip bloody waiting for me.
I poured balm over every small hurt with my tongue—gentle sweeps that soothed, that thanked, that awed—until the copper faded and all that remained was her sweetness, her surrender. I poured gratitude into her mouth like wine: gratitude for her trust, for her ruin, for letting me witness the raw, sacred thing she became when she let go completely.
She kissed me back with the same reverence—slow, trembling, hands rising to clutch my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in her spinning universe. Her tongue met mine in soft, searching slides—not fighting, not chasing, just meeting, mirroring every careful stroke until we were breathing the same air, tasting the same salt and wonder.
I released a low, targeted pulse of pheromones, not the brutal wave from before, but warm, honeyed, intimate.
The scent of sun-warmed skin and crushed figs and something darker, something that said mine and home and forever. It wrapped around us both, made the air shimmer.
She melted.
I broke the kiss only to move to her throat. I traced the frantic flutter of her pulse with my lips, sucked gently at the spot just beneath her jaw that made her knees buckle. My hands, a god’s hands, glided up her arms, over the delicate skin of her inner wrists, interlacing our fingers so I could feel her shaking in my grip.
I brought her hands to my lips and kissed every knuckle, every lifeline, every trembling finger that had so recently been buried inside her own cunt trying to ease the ache I’d put there.
"I see you," I whispered against her palm. "Every secret, every shame, every beautiful filthy thing you’ve ever wanted. I see you, Margaret. And you are exquisite."
Her answering moan was broken open, vulnerable, overjoyed.
I moved behind her again, but this time I pulled her back against my chest, her sweat-slick spine to my shirt, my arms wrapping around her waist from behind. My mouth found the slope where her neck met her shoulder and stayed there, kissing, licking, sucking gentle bruises that bloomed like petals under my lips.
My hands roamed everywhere that wasn’t breast or cunt, mapping the soft underside of her ribcage, the trembling plane of her stomach, the sharp wings of her shoulder blades, the delicate knobs of her spine.
She arched into me, head falling back against my shoulder, exposing the long pale column of her throat in complete surrender.
I took it, worshipped it, felt her pulse thunder against my tongue.
I grew hard against the cleft of her ass, but I let my cock shift deliberately, thick, heavy, but not monstrous tonight, just enough to remind her what was coming, what she had earned. A slow grind, once, twice, through the soaked fabric of my jeans against her bare skin, and she whimpered, pushing back, but I held her still.
"Soon," I promised against her ear, voice rough with my own want. "Soon I’ll give you everything. But right now I’m going to keep worshipping what’s mine, because you, Margaret... you deserve to be adored until you forget there was ever a time you weren’t."
And I did.
Every inch. Every tremor. Every secret glowing line of desire.
Until she was sobbing again, but this time from being loved so fiercely she couldn’t contain it.
Until the only word left in her vocabulary was my name, breathed like oxygen, like absolution, like the holiest thing she’d ever known.
The mirrors were merciless.