The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  She increases the pressure a fraction, never too much. The third orgasm is already beginning, less and less space required between them. I’ve never cum three times in less than ten minutes. The flood of oxytocin through my body suffuses every cell. My head floats above my shoulders like a soap bubble.

  I’ve dropped my textbook god knows where, and I don’t care. All my senses are focused on Cat’s hands on my cock, on her expert rhythm.

  “Oh my fucking god . . .” I moan, as the third climax rolls over me.

  Cat’s eyes are bright with interest. She gives me no time to recover but keeps stroking. She seems to view this as a challenge, like she’s trying to set a record.

  I’m sure as fuck not going to stop her.

  As the next climax builds, she closes her mouth around the head of my cock and gently sucks, the warmth and wetness ten times better than her hand.

  “Fuuuuck me!” I cry, pushing her head down on my cock.

  I thought that would make me blow all the way, but now that I’ve discovered this strange trick of orgasm without ejaculation, it seems like it will go on forever. Cat makes me come twice more with her mouth in rapid succession.

  The orgasms aren’t as strong this way, but they’re intensely pleasurable and relaxing.

  I feel blissfully weak, and I don’t protest when Cat climbs on top of me, straddling me with her strong thighs and lowering herself down on my cock.

  Her pussy grips me, wet and ready. She starts to ride.

  She seems to enjoy me in this wrung-out state, too exhausted to boss her around. I let her ride my cock at any pace she likes, and she experiments with leaning forward and back, riding me fast and slow. I cum inside of her just like I did in her mouth, with a long, slow climax that feels intensely warm and relaxing.

  Cat starts to cum too, and it really is funny how both of us can ride the waves of orgasm several times in succession.

  It makes me feel connected to her in a new way. I can see that she loves making me cum over and over—she doesn’t tire of it. In fact, each of my climaxes seems to motivate her to seek another. She seems to be counting them up in her head, highly pleased with herself.

  I understand that, because I feel exactly the same when I’m making her cum. It gives me a sense of accomplishment. It fuels my competitive drive. As she shivers and moans on top of me, I think to myself, No one could fuck her like I do. No one could make her feel like this.

  I’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s sex on a whole other level. I wonder if this is some bizarre one-time occurrence, or if we could learn to do it again?

  If this is my only chance, I’m going to make the most of it. I never want it to end.

  Or at least, that’s what my brain wants. My body is feeling the effects of an unprecedented number of orgasms. I’m tiring, but I want at least one more. I can feel the cum boiling in my balls, as if all the loads that should have been released are clamoring to get out.

  I roll over on top of Cat, pinning her down in the pillows.

  “I’m gonna put the biggest load inside you,” I growl.

  “Do it,” Cat whispers. “Give it to me.”

  She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me in tight.

  Her pussy feels warmer and wetter than it’s ever been. I know I’m going to have to fuck her hard to get this last orgasm.

  I drive into her with all my strength, grunting, “You okay?” because even in this state of insanity, one small part of me still wants to be sure she isn’t injured.

  “Fuck me hard and don’t stop,” Cat says, looking up into my eyes.

  She’s feral, cheeks flushed and curls wild around her face.

  I fuck her harder than I ever have before, my hips slamming against her. I fuck her and fuck her until the last orgasm rips through me, carrying along that entire load of cum that goes pouring out of me, deep into Cat instead. It’s wet and sloppy and primal, and intensely satisfying. I’m making sounds I’ve never made before.

  And Cat is loving it, I can see that on her face. Her eyes gleam with triumph, like this is the biggest accomplishment of all, making me cum as I never have before in my life.

  Cat lays on my chest.

  I stroke my fingers through her hair.

  I always pet her like this, when we’re finished.

  It’s her reward, and she’s never earned it as thoroughly as she did tonight.

  Her steady, satisfied breaths are the sighs of a sleepy little kitten.

  I don’t think of Cat as a pet that is disposable or beneath me. I think of her as an exotic, unearthly creature that I’ve captured and tamed. Far more valuable than an ordinary human.

  She was so frightened by me at first.

  I remember the day she saw me crying in the school bathrooms.

  I had never felt rage like that. I honestly could have killed her.

  Looking back on it now, I realize it wasn’t anger that drove me . . . it was shame.

  “Dean?” Cat says quietly. Her head shifts slightly on my chest as she looks up at me.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Why do you always want everything to be so clean and organized?”

  “I like it that way. I hate mess. When something doesn’t smell good I can’t stop noticing—it nags at me, it distracts me, it drives me insane.”

  “Do I smell good?” Cat asks.

  “You smell better than anyone,” I tell her honestly.

  “Really?” she says, pleased.

  “It’s one of my favorite things about you. It’s like catnip, I can’t get enough.”

  I can tell she’s smiling, even though I can only see the edge of her face illuminated by the candlelight.

  That’s all I had planned to say, but relaxed and in a strangely candid mood, I find myself continuing:

  “My father’s house in Moscow . . . it’s filthy. Nobody can come inside except me, and I hate being there. He didn’t use to be that way, but it’s gotten worse and worse. I can’t stand it. I’ve always been . . . ashamed of it.”

  “Oh,” Cat says.

  That one syllable carries so much sympathy and sadness that it pains me. I don’t want her to feel sorry for me.

  “Anyway,” I say gruffly. “My house will never be like that.”

  “I’d like to have a studio . . .” Cat says dreamily. “A big, open room full of sunshine, with lots of plants hanging down, greenery everywhere. That’s where I would paint.”

  “You still want to be an artist?” I ask her.

  Cat hesitates. “Well . . . I don’t know. But I’ll always want to draw.”

  “That sketch you made of the girl by the well . . . it was beautiful. Not just beautiful . . . it made me feel things. It was the sketch that made me sure of what you’d done.”

  We haven’t spoken of Rocco in several weeks.

  I don’t bring it up because I know Cat feels guilty, even though she shouldn’t. It was necessary. I would have eliminated someone far more innocent than Rocco, if my sister were in danger. If I had a sister, I mean.

  “Sometimes sketching is the only thing that makes me feel better about something,” Cat says softly. “That’s how I used to deal with my dad being an asshole. Well,” she laughs, “it used to be the only thing that made me feel better.”

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “This has been strangely cathartic, too,” Cat says, sitting up on her elbow to look at me.

  “You like it?” I say.

  “I think you know that I do.”

  We look at each other for a long time.

  This is the most honest Cat and I have ever been.

  So when she asks her next question, I feel compelled to answer, even though I never talk about this, ever.

  “What about your mother?” she says.

  “She left me, when I was ten years old.” I take a breath, wanting to stop, but compelled to tell her what I’ve never told anyone before. “My father was drinking. He was becoming more and more angry, and violent. Br
eaking things in the house. Throwing things at her. I don’t think he’d struck her yet, but he shoved her down and she hit her head on the dining room table. He regretted it afterward. He tried to pick her up, tried to apologize, but she ran and locked herself in her room and didn’t come out for hours.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cat says, her big dark eyes fixed on mine.

  “They were happy once. They loved each other, and they loved me. But he was in pain. He was bitter. He drove her away. And she left. Just packed up and disappeared while he was out. She didn’t warn me. I came home from school and the house was dark and quiet . . . I knew. I just knew.”

  Cat’s eyes glitter with tears. She blinks, and they run down her cheeks in parallel tracks.

  “Dean . . .” she says.

  “I don’t care!” I say, suddenly embarrassed that I laid open this wound for her to see.

  Cat knows I’m lying.

  “Can I ask you one last thing?” she says.

  I don’t know if I can take any more questions. But she interprets my silence as assent.

  “Why were you so sad the day that Ozzy’s mother died?”

  I can tell she’s afraid to ask that question, but it must have been eating at her all this time.

  I have to really consider it.

  I know why I was angry—I had never allowed anyone to see me cry. I had never lost control like that.

  But why was I crying in the first place?

  I take a deep breath, trying to still the miserable pounding of my heart.

  “I just . . . I just realized that no one would do that for me,” I tell her quietly. “Ozzy’s mother laid down her life for him. My mother left, and she didn’t even take me with her.”

  I tried so hard to keep my voice steady, but it cracks at the very end.

  I’m grateful that Cat puts her arms around me so I can hide my face against her neck.

  “I’m sure she didn’t want to leave,” Cat says. “She must have been frightened.”

  “I know,” I say hollowly. “I think he found her and killed her after. She hasn’t called or written in years.”

  “Zoe says our father killed our mother, too,” Cat murmurs. “She says he let her bleed to death after her last baby.”

  Cat holds me tight, squeezing me with all her might.

  She’s small, but strong. It’s a good hug.

  She draws back and looks at me.

  “Your father was drinking . . . because of what Leo’s father did to him. Because of the burns.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate him still?” Cat asks.

  I know she means Leo, not my father.

  “No,” I sigh. “I’m tired of hating him.”

  “It’s so sad,” Cat says. “That your father did love your mother once . . .”

  “The more he loved her, the more he felt he wasn’t worthy of her,” I say.

  “That’s just wrong!” Cat cries.

  I nod.

  But deep inside, I fear that I might feel the same.

  14

  Cat

  I’m amazed at my own boldness in asking Dean personal questions.

  Even more amazed that he answered.

  To me, that interaction was more shocking than Dean’s apparent superpower for multiple orgasms.

  He looked like the same devastated ten-year-old he must have been the day he came home to that empty house. He struggled to keep his face stern and composed, but I could see the awful pain in his eyes.

  Dean’s past does not justify his actions. However, it certainly explains them.

  He’s never known anything but shame and abandonment.

  I understand the torment of a cold and demanding father, and the absence of a mother. But unlike Dean, I had Zoe by my side, always loving me, always keeping me safe.

  Dean was completely alone.

  My heart aches for him.

  I wish I had Zoe here to tell me what the fuck to do about Lola Fischer. If Lola disliked me before, it’s nothing compared to her hatred of me after her disgrace in the Quartum Bellum—eliminated after the first round, she’s biting the head off anybody who even mentions it.

  And she’s harassing me every chance she gets.

  Which is very inconvenient with exams right around the corner.

  I’m trying to study in the library when she attacks me yet again.

  Rakel and I have our textbooks and half-finished papers spread out across our table. Rakel is arguing with me over the benefits of a wireless security system. We’re so engrossed in quiet debate that I don’t even hear Lola and Dixie creeping up behind me until Lola dumps an entire bottle of milk over my head.

  My textbooks and papers are drenched, not to mention my hair and blouse. The milk is cold and sickly sticky, dripping down into my eyes. The papers are all ruined, the ink smeared into oblivion.

  “Oops,” Lola giggles, shaking out the last few drops all over my history textbook.

  Rakel leaps up from her seat, immediately shoved back down by the burly, freckled Dixie Davis.

  I look up at Lola with cold fury.

  “It’s your fault you lost,” I tell her. “You’re a shit leader.”

  Lola’s smirk turns into a snarl of rage. She has such pretty, doll-like features that anger distorts them to a disproportionate degree. She’s like a harpy, transformed by fury.

  She opens her mouth to attack me in return, only to be interrupted by Miss Robin’s surprisingly sharp voice.

  “What happened here?” she demands.

  Lola instantly reverts to her innocent smile and sing-song voice.

  “Cat spilled her milk,” she says sweetly. “I told her food isn’t allowed in the library.”

  “She spilled it on her own head?” Miss Robin says coldly. “How ingenious of her.”

  Lola shrugs shamelessly. “She’s so clumsy.”

  “You’re banned from the library,” Miss Robin says without hesitation. “For one month.”

  “What!?” Lola shrieks. “How am I supposed to study for our exams?”

  “I really don’t give a shit,” Miss Robin says. “Now get out before I make you mop up this mess with that fancy little blouse you’re wearing.”

  Lola is white with anger, her expression venomous.

  The usually shy and gentle Miss Robin faces her unafraid, her hazel eyes snapping and her arms crossed over her chest.

  Lola is wise enough not to argue further. She and Dixie skulk off down the ramp, while Rakel tries to gather up the sodden textbooks.

  “Sorry about that,” I say to Miss Robin.

  I really do feel awful about soaking the table and rug in milk, even though it wasn’t exactly voluntary.

  I’m still dripping milk right now, which makes it difficult to help clean up. Also, my soaked white shirt is now transparent, a fact the boys at the neighboring table have not failed to notice. Corbin Castro mutters something to Thomas York and they both laugh. My face burns.

  “There’s paper towels over by my desk,” Miss Robin tells Rakel kindly. “Cat, why don’t you come upstairs with me. I’ve got a sink; you can clean up. You can borrow a cardigan, too.”

  “Thank you,” I say gratefully.

  I follow Miss Robin up the spiraling ramp to the topmost level, trying unsuccessfully not to leave a trail of droplets along the rug.

  The library is always chilly, which is probably why Miss Robin wears three or four sweaters layered over top of each other, the sleeves long enough to hang down over her hands. The milk was fresh out of the dining hall fridge, and I’m shivering.

  Miss Robin stretches up on tiptoe to pull down the ladder that leads to her private loft.

  I feel a little awkward following her up. I’ve never been inside a teacher’s quarters before.

  The compact, circular space sits directly under the pointed roof. I notice at once how tidy and organized she is, not a single cup or book out of place. Despite the fact that the library is stuffed with thousands of books, Miss Robin kee
ps dozens more upon her personal shelves. A low couch, a narrow bed, and a hot plate all share the same space.

  No art hangs upon the walls—instead, I see dozens of the weathered maps and schematics upon which Miss Robin labors in pursuit of her doctoral thesis on ancient monasteries. She has them pinned up all around, several marked with post-it notes.

  “Don’t tell the Chancellor about those,” Miss Robin says with a conspiratorial smile. “I don’t think you’re supposed to stick a post-it to a seven-hundred-year-old document, but to be frank, they were hardly in pristine condition when I got them. The archives are an absolute mess. Half those charts were soaked in mouse urine and god knows what else.”

  She opens a hobbit-sized door leading to her bathroom.

  “Watch your head,” she laughs. “I think they expected all the librarians to be pocket-sized.”

  “I am, so I’ll be fine,” I assure her.

  I head into the bathroom, which is just as scrupulously clean as the rest of Miss Robin’s space. A fresh pat of soap sits upon a pristine dish, and the hand-towels are freshly laundered, folded neatly over their bar.

  I can smell Miss Robin’s perfume. I can’t resist locating the glass bottle sitting on the toiletry shelf. Givenchy L’Interdit—orange blossom, jasmine, and dark vetiver. Exotic and rather thrilling for a librarian. But of course, I’ve long suspected that Miss Robin has hidden stores of adventurousness inside of her. After all, she came to this lonely island to work, and she certainly had no trouble telling Lola to fuck off.

  I grin, remembering Lola’s livid face, as I carefully set the bottle back on its shelf.

  Then I strip off my sodden shirt and rinse it out at the sink. Wringing it dry as best I can, I hang it over the rack and then wash the milk from my hair and face.

  I hope Miss Robin doesn’t mind me using all her towels.

  As I straighten up, I see something that even Miss Robin’s careful cleaning must have missed—a splash of red on the tiles behind the faucet.

  It looks like blood.

  I rub my fingertip across the spot. It stains the skin red. I inhale a faint chemical scent.