Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Quiet,” he says. “Maître has declared you perfect, so you are perfect. I will not brook any argument on that front.”
His cock slides from me, a gush of our desire runs down my thighs, and he slides my underwear back into place, the gusset instantly soaking with cum that I will have to wear.
“I’m so messy,” I say.
“Yes, you are.” He rubs his hand between my legs, pressing the wet fabric against my still sensitive clit. “You’re going to feel that, aren’t you, Trixie. You’re going to remember how it felt to be claimed by your alpha. And later, when I breed you again, you’re going to be wet and ready for me, aren’t you?”
I know exactly what he wants to hear.
“Yes, Maître.”
His eyes flash as I use the pack term for him, he pats my semen-soaked pussy with a possessive tap and settles my skirt back into place. “Good girl,” he says. “Very, very good girl.”
We have dinner at a little restaurant in the village, having worked up an appetite. The food is good here, simple and fresh and cooked by someone who takes pride in it. I have been spoiled for dinners since I was abducted. I have been spoiled in many ways, some could say every way.
I hear a couple of men talking about the waitress. She’s pretty and not much older than me, and I see the way she’s forced to smile at some customers when she’d probably rather drop a tankard of beer on them.
“She’s a hot little piece of ass,” says the older man behind me.
“She’s mine, she is,” his companion comments.
“Thought she told you she wasn’t interested.”
“Said she doesn’t want me, but she’ll have me, whether she likes it or not.”
I stiffen.
I don’t think Armand heard them, but I did, and the rage that fills me as a result is extraordinary.
“We have to go,” I tell him.
“We do? Why?”
“Because I am going to turn into a beast and kill the man behind us if we don’t go now.”
Armand does not ask any more questions. I think he hears the urgency in my voice and realizes that I am not speaking metaphorically. I really will kill that man. It is taking all my self-control not to slide into the form of a wolf right now and tear him limb from limb. All my life, the girls I know have been preyed on by these useless, fleshy, corpulent, stupid creatures. I myself…
I take a deep breath and try to force the memories away even as they come flooding back of their own accord.
It happened about a year ago. I had snuck out of the orphanage in the attempt to find something approximating a life. I’d run away before, but this was the first time I’d been in a city at night rather than the local town…
A year ago…
The bus back to the orphanage is late. Actually, it’s so late I don’t think it’s coming. I wonder if I read the schedule wrong, or if there’s some reason it’s not running to Burniecrag, the town where the orphanage is located.
Sitting at the bus stop with an all too thin coat pulled tight around me, I think about how angry the matron is going to be when I do finally get back. She’ll send me to the director again, and I’ll get another lecture about roaming.
A man pulls over, looks out the window of his sedan.
“The bus has stopped running. Do you need a ride?”
He looks like an average man. He has graying hair and a mustache and a work jacket that makes him seem responsible. He probably has kids my age.
“It’s cold,” he says as I get up. “And you’re out late. Your parents must be worried about you.”
“I don’t have any parents,” I say, getting into his car.
“Oh? Where are you living?”
“Burniecrag,” I say.
He sets off along the road, and for the first little bit of the journey I do not notice that anything is wrong. I am too focused on worrying about what will happen once I get back to the orphanage. A beating, probably, or worse, confinement. They will surely notice I am missing at dinner. I was rostered to wash the dishes. Perhaps I can convince them I merely shirked the dishes, rather than left the place entirely.
My thoughts are pulled from that set of concerns when I feel a large, ham-like hand settle halfway up my thigh.
I look at the man. He looks—no, leers—back at me.
My heart starts to beat faster as I realize his intentions are not what I thought. It is not the first time a man who has made me feel uncomfortable, but it is the first time one has touched me so forwardly, and in such a contained space.
“What are you doing?”
“We could get to know each other better,” he says.