The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  Music plays from a speaker in the corner, quiet and low. I can barely make out the lyrics, but the beat crawls under my skin like a burrowing insect.

  I’ll Make You Love Me — Kat Leon

  Spotify → geni.us/bully-spotify

  Apple Music → geni.us/bully-apple

  “Why did you ask me to meet you here?” I ask Dean.

  “So we can be alone,” he replies.

  “Aren’t you afraid the whole place is going to collapse?”

  “No,” he says.

  I don’t know if that means he thinks collapse unlikely, or if he doesn’t give a damn if it all falls down on our heads.

  I lick my lips nervously. Whatever part of me wanted to see Dean tonight has abandoned me entirely. Now all I’m seeing is the malevolent glint in his eye and the cruel set of his mouth. And those bone-white hands, shapely and beautiful, but capable of horrible things.

  “What’s your proposition?” I ask.

  Dean uncrosses his arms, taking a step toward me. The dropping of his hands is like a bird of prey unfolding its wings. It makes him infinitely more dangerous.

  “It’s simple,” he says. “I want one month.”

  I swallow hard.

  “A month of what?”

  “A month of true slavery.”

  I fidget in place, the ancient wooden boards creaking under my feet.

  “I’m already doing all the things you asked.”

  He closes the space between us, looking down into my eyes.

  “I want more.”

  My heart is in my throat, like a bird in the hand, trying to escape.

  “Tell me what you want,” I whisper.

  Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. He holds it between his thumb and index finger, letting it drop and hang suspended from his hand.

  A strip of leather with a single metal ring in the center.

  A collar.

  “I want you willing,” he says softly. “I want you obedient. And I want you completely under my control. For one month. From now until Christmas.”

  “And after that?” I say.

  “Then you’re free. I’ll never bother you again. And your secret is safe forever.”

  I consider this carefully, the collar swinging before my eyes like a hypnotist’s watch.

  I don’t take his offer lightly.

  Dean’s games are not like other people’s games.

  Everything he does is deadly serious.

  If he wants a pet, then that’s exactly how he’ll treat me. As an animal that belongs to him.

  On the other hand, if he says it’s over at the end of a month . . . I believe that, too.

  Whatever else he may be, Dean is not a liar. He’ll keep his word.

  “Yes,” I say, the word barely more than a breath of air.

  Dean hears it all the same, and his eyes gleam with triumph. It’s the look in the devil’s eyes when some poor soul accepts his bargain.

  I almost snatch back my agreement, but it’s too late. Dean is already drawing the collar taught between his hands.

  “Take off your clothes,” he says.

  “W-what?”

  “Strip,” he orders. “I want to see what I’m getting.”

  I gape at him in horror.

  The music throbs from the speaker, ordering me to obey just as much as Dean’s imperious stare.

  He’s not joking. He’s never joking.

  Slowly I obey.

  I pull the sweater over my head, dropping it down on the dusty floor. Then I begin to unbutton my blouse. My heart is jittering in my chest, and yet somehow my fingers are steady. I unfasten each button in turn, then take off the blouse and drop it down on top of the sweater.

  I unzip my skirt and let it fall. I step clear of the puddle of fabric, standing in my underwear before a man for the very first time.

  My bra and panties are plain cotton, unmatched—the bra gray and the underwear blue. I’m still wearing my knee socks and shoes, because there’s nowhere to sit and I don’t want to hop on one foot trying to take them off.

  Dean doesn’t seem to care about the socks. His eyes are fixed on my body alone.

  “Underwear, too,” he orders.

  I have never been naked around another human in my adult life. I don’t use the communal showers and I don’t even strip down fully in front of Rakel—we face the opposite wall while changing.

  Yet what I feel isn’t embarrassment—it’s curiosity.

  What will Dean think of my body?

  Am I beautiful?

  I don’t even know.

  We can never really see ourselves except reflected in other people’s eyes.

  I unclasp my bra and let the shoulder straps fall. Then I drop it on the ground.

  My breasts are small but ripe, like peaches. The nipples stand out from the flesh, delicate and stiff.

  I watch Dean’s face closely to see his reaction.

  His eyes widen and his jaw twitches. His nostrils flare like a stallion scenting a mare in heat.

  It’s lust, pure lust. He likes the way I look.

  Emboldened, I drop my panties too, stepping clear.

  Now I’m standing naked in only my socks, my pussy bare to his view. Slowly, I turn on the spot, showing him that round, full ass that he spanked so recently.

  I’m displaying myself to him.

  I want his stare.

  I want his approval.

  And Dean wants to inspect me.

  He walks around me like a buyer at auction, looking me up and down, evaluating my body.

  His eyes are a hundred pairs of hands passing over my flesh.

  I stand still, shoulders back, chest thrust out to his gaze.

  Dean cups my ass in his hand, squeezing my buttock as if examining the firmness. Then he circles around to the front and touches my breast. He tests how it fills his hand, tilting his head approvingly as the curve of my breast lines up perfectly with the curve of his palm.

  I shiver as his thumb slides across my stiff nipple.

  “Very good,” he says softly.

  A rush of heat, and my mouth salivates at his approval.

  I’m discovering something about myself in this moment.

  I’ll do anything for a compliment.

  I want praise. I want it badly. And I especially want it from this man, who doesn’t like anyone or anything.

  “Lift your hair,” he orders.

  I lift up the curls that have fallen loose, baring the base of my neck.

  Dean takes the leather collar and wraps it around my throat with the ring in the front. He fastens the clasp behind me.

  Then he steps back to admire the effect—my figure naked but for a pair of socks and the leather circlet around my neck.

  “Perfect,” he breathes.

  My heart is thundering. I can feel the aching wetness between my thighs. I had hoped Dean would touch me there, too.

  “Down on all fours,” he orders.

  I drop to my knees and then place my palms on the dusty boards.

  “Crawl,” he says.

  I crawl in a slow circle before him, my face burning with embarrassment. It’s degrading and humiliating. My ass and pussy feel horribly exposed as I turn around. I can feel Dean looking down on me, and I wonder if he’s laughing at me in his head.

  But he doesn’t laugh. When I chance a glance upward, I see his cock straining against the fly of his trousers, so thick that it looks like a soda can shoved down the front of his pants. A tiny wet spot soaks through the material where the head is pressed.

  My mouth waters even more.

  “Do you know how to suck cock?” Dean asks.

  I sit back on my heels, looking up at him. I shake my head.

  “You’re going to learn,” he says.

  He pulls off his own sweater and lays it on the dusty ground. He sits down and whistles for me, pointing to the space next to him.

  I start to stand up and he barks, “No!”

  Understa
nding, I crawl over to him on hands and knees.

  He grabs the ring of my collar and pulls my head down so I’m curled up next to him with my head in his lap. Then he unzips his trousers.

  His cock springs out, as pale as the rest of him. The shaft is thick and white, veined like marble, while the head is smooth and faintly pink. Clear fluid beads at the tip. I want to taste it.

  “Suck it like a popsicle,” he tells me. “Gently. Don’t scratch me with your teeth.”

  His cock is bigger than any popsicle I ever put in my mouth. But I want to try.

  I close my lips around the head. I lick it with my tongue, tasting the sharp spark of salt from that leaking fluid. More saliva floods my mouth, and I’m able to run my lips and tongue smoothly over his cock while I suck gently.

  My head lays in his lap, my ear pressed against his thigh. Only part of his cock fits in my mouth, but Dean doesn’t force it any further. He lets me suck on the head while he strokes his fingers in my hair.

  His touch is incredibly soothing. The sucking and his strong fingertips against my scalp put me in a trance state.

  Dean takes the pins out of my hair so the curls are loose. He runs his fingers through the hair in slow, lazy swirls, sometimes with pressure, sometimes with light swoops.

  Warmth floods through my body. Every muscle relaxes.

  He’s petting me.

  And I like it.

  I keep sucking his cock.

  After ten or twenty minutes, Dean reaches down between my thighs and rubs my pussy. He rubs me in time with my sucking. The harder and faster I suck his cock, the more pressure he applies against my clit.

  I moan around his cock, grinding my pussy against his hand.

  The dual sensation of his warm flesh in my mouth and his warm hand against my clit is phenomenally satisfying. I want to keep sucking and I want to keep grinding against him.

  I feel half asleep, floating in this erotic dream-state where I’m a good little pet earning my reward.

  After all, is it so bad to be a pet?

  All it means is that someone loves you. Someone’s taking care of you.

  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.”

  Dinner is chicken dumplings, a particular favorite amongst the students. The dining hall is packed. I see Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev struggling to find a seat, and I wave to them to take the empty spots next to Bram.

  Kade sets down his tray, grinning.

  “Dumplings and apple pie for dessert,” he says. “Must be my birthday.”

  Bram gives Kade an appraising look. He’s heard Bodashka talking shit on Kade Petrov in our boxing classes, but he’s also seen that Kade is clever and a good fighter. For all Bram’s faults, he prefers skill over pedigree in his friends.

  “I heard you were chosen as Freshman Captain,” he says to Kade.