The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  Frowning, I wash my hands again.

  A faint patch of red remains on my fingertip.

  I don’t mean to be so nosy. Whether it’s my Spy training or whether I had this incessant curiosity inside of me all along, I can’t help feeling that I’m missing something here. Something tantalizing, just out of reach . . .

  I don’t want to be suspicious of Miss Robin. She’s always been kind to me. In fact, she saved me from Rocco just last year. I don’t think it was any coincidence that she snatched my bookbag out of Dax Volker’s hands right when Rocco was about to discover me hiding in the shelves.

  Quickly, I carry my damp shirt and the used towels out to Miss Robin.

  “Better?” She smiles.

  “Yeah, thank you,” I say, standing there shyly in my bra.

  Miss Robin doesn’t make me feel weird about it. Instead, she passes me a soft, warm cardigan that smells as freshly laundered as the towels.

  “Keep it as long as you need,” she says, smiling. “As you can tell, I have quite a few of them.”

  “Really, thank you so much,” I say. “You always look out for me.”

  “Well, I liked Zoe. And I’m glad to see you following in her footsteps.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Zoe wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted,” Miss Robin says. “I see that in you, too.”

  I have the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that for all I guess about Miss Robin, she sees far more about me.

  “Right . . .” I say hesitantly.

  “How is Zoe, by the way?”

  “Very happy. She moved to Los Angeles with Miles.”

  “Good.” Miss Robin smiles. “I’m glad Rocco is no longer an impediment.”

  Now I feel a distinct chill. Miss Robin looks as sweet as ever, but there can be no doubt that she feels not the slightest particle of sympathy for the untimely demise of Rocco Prince.

  “Well,” she says, “I’d better get back to work. I’ll walk you down, Cat.”

  I follow Miss Robin back down the ladder, uncertain how much I’ve enjoyed the added intimacy between us.

  When I meet Dean that evening in the Bell Tower, he confronts me at once.

  “What the fuck is this I hear from Corbin Castro that Lola Fischer dumped a bottle of milk on your head?”

  “Yeah, she sucks.” I shrug, not really wanting to discuss it.

  “Does she have a problem with you?” Dean demands.

  I hadn’t told him that Lola was harassing me. Since Dean and I don’t share any classes, he hadn’t witnessed her aggression firsthand.

  “She a little bit hates my guts,” I admit.

  “Why?” Dean says.

  I sigh. “No good reason.”

  Dean’s eyes glint with that electric gleam I know so well. He says, in his deadliest voice, “I’ll deal with her.”

  “No!” I beg. “Seriously Dean, please don’t. She’s just an asshole. I don’t want it to turn into a whole thing.”

  Dean looks at me, stern and unsmiling. He grabs the ring of my collar and pulls me close, so I’m pressed against his furnace-like chest, having to tilt my chin all the way up to look into his face.

  “She should know that you belong to me, little kitten,” he says softly. “That means she has no right to fuck with you. Because when she fucks with you, she fucks with me.”

  Dean kisses me.

  He’s still gripping the collar. The compression on my throat makes my head spin.

  He releases me.

  “Strip,” he says, as he selects the next song he wants to play.

  Smells Like Sex — Sizzy Rocket

  Spotify → geni.us/bully-spotify

  Apple Music → geni.us/bully-apple

  I remove my clothes with trembling fingers. The closer it gets to Christmas, the colder the Bell Tower becomes, the chill let in through the gaps in the walls. But I know the minute I’m touching Dean, his blazing heat will warm me to the bone.

  I’m shivering with anticipation more than with cold.

  I can hardly stand the hours leading up to when I see Dean each night.

  Our encounters in the Bell Tower have become more real than actual life. Everything else feels like a floating dream, compared to the intense sensation I experience here. I’m asleep in real life. I’m only truly awake with him.

  “Kneel,” Dean orders once I’m naked.

  I sink to my knees on the rough wooden boards, looking up at him.

  Dean has likewise stripped off his clothes. He towers over me like a god. I want to be on my knees before him. I want to worship him.

  His cock is already heavy and swollen, anticipating the touch of my lips.

  “Suck my cock like you did last time,” he orders. “Softly.”

  I know what he wants—he wants to see if we can replicate what we did last time.

  I’m equally curious.

  I run my fingers lightly down his shaft and flick my tongue gently around the head of his cock. As it begins to reach its full thickness and length, the pale skin stretching tight over the head, I take it in my mouth. I keep the pressure light, soft, and steady. I start to bring him to the edge, but slowly . . . holding him back as long as I can.

  Dean breathes deep and slow, using his substantial powers of concentration.

  I’ve never met anyone as disciplined as Dean. He has an intense level of willpower—I believe that’s the key to him taking control of this usually involuntary process.

  His legs begin to shake, and he throws his head back and groans. His cock twitches and spasms in my mouth. Only a little clear fluid comes out on my tongue—he’s held back his actual load. I smile around his cock, knowing that means he’s going to be able to cum again.

  Sure enough, his cock only grows harder, and I keep sucking it slowly, hardly able to hold back my grin.

  I fucking love this.

  I love making him cum over and over.

  I increase the pace just a little, having learned last time that I can increase the intensity of each subsequent orgasm as long as I ramp it up gradually.

  Dean thrusts his hands in my hair and fucks my face, even and slow.

  I love when he lets me work, but I also love when he takes control like that, pushing his cock in deep until it hits the back of my throat, and then pushing it even a little further. It’s rough and dominant. It makes all the muscles stand out on his chest and arms. I grip the back of his thighs, gagging helplessly.

  He cums again, holding his cock in the back of my throat while it pulses. He gives out a deep, guttural moan, a primal sound that makes my pussy soaking wet.

  Dean releases me.

  “Come here,” he orders.

  I follow him over to the stack of cushions.

  “Get on all fours,” he says.

  I obey, waiting while he moves around behind me, gathering up some unseen objects.

  Every time I come up here, Dean has some new plan in store for me. I can never guess what he’ll do to me. That endless inventiveness, and endless pushing of boundaries, is what keeps me in a fever pitch of anticipation.

  Dean kneels on the cushions next to me, running his hand possessively down my spine and groping my ass. I wait, mentally begging him to take his hand down lower and rub me where I really want.

  He knows. He knows exactly what I’m silently pleading for.

  He slips his hand between my thighs, cupping my pussy. I groan softly. He parts my pussy lips and slides his fingers back and forth across my clit.

  “Ohhh,” I moan.

  “You like that, little kitten?”

  “Yesss,” I sigh.

  “What about this?”

  He slips his finger inside me. I’m already so swollen and sensitive inside that his finger feels as big as a cock. I groan even louder.

  He soaks his fingers in my wetness, and then he rubs his thumb a little higher, over the bud of my ass.

  I stiffen up, instantly uncomfortable.

  “Shh,” Dean
says, his other hand on the small of my back, holding me in place.

  He rubs circles around my asshole, then applies gentle pressure.

  My whole body is rigid. I can feel my face flaming.

  Dean has never touched my ass before. I know how much he hates anything dirty. I showered right before I came, but I’m paranoid that I might still be unclean somehow.

  “Stay still,” he growls.

  He begins to push his thumb into my ass.

  The pressure is intense. I try to squirm away, but he’s holding me still with that heavy hand on my back.

  I’m embarrassed, almost panicking.

  The sensation is like nothing I’ve felt before. It feels totally wrong, and yet at the same time . . . it also feels good. Which only humiliates me all the more.

  I close my eyes, unable to even look at the floor in front of me.

  Dean’s finger is all the way in my ass now. It’s so intense that I can hardly stand it. It seemed to take ten minutes to push it in, and ten minutes to pull it out again.

  Finally, my ass can relax again, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut, too embarrassed to look at him.

  I hear Dean moving behind me. I hope that was the end of it.

  Instead, I feel something else pressed up against my anus. Something bigger, and colder.

  “Dean!” I squeal in protest.

  “Quiet,” he growls.

  He pushes the plug against my ass. It’s too big to go in, despite the fact that he’s lubricated it.

  “Relax,” he orders.

  Immediately, without conscious thought, I obey him. My ass relaxes enough for him to begin to push the plug inside.

  If I thought his finger was intense, it was nothing compared to this. The plug feels the size of a fist. I’m impaled.

  “It’s too big!” I squeal.

  Dean gives a low laugh. “It’s tiny,” he says.

  Dean never lies, and yet I can’t believe that. Every nerve in that highly sensitive area is screaming from this unprecedented friction.

  Dean reaches down with his other hand to rub my clit while he pushes the plug inside.

  The pleasure of his touch helps so much. As I’ve already learned, sexual pleasure can override an immense amount of discomfort.

  The sexual sensation seems to confuse my brain, convincing it that not only are Dean’s fingers on my clit pleasurable, but also the plug itself. It seems to re-write the neuron response.

  The plug stretches and stretches me, until all of a sudden it sets in place as if it were made for me.

  I sigh with relief.

  “How does that feel?” Dean asks.

  I consider. The plug gives me an acute sense of fullness and pressure. But there isn’t any pain—it fits perfectly.

  “It’s . . . strange,” I say.

  “Good,” Dean growls. “Now climb on my cock.”

  “Right now?” I squeak. “With this?”

  “That’s right,” he says. “This is for me, not you. I want to feel it while you ride me.”

  Dean lays back against the cushions, his cock jutting upward, expecting me to climb on.

  Swallowing hard, I shift positions.

  Every tiny movement makes the plug move inside of me, reigniting the nerves, reminding me of its existence.

  It’s a little uncomfortable.

  But also . . . it feels good in a way I’ve never felt before. An entirely new sensation.

  I straddle Dean, worried that the plug might fall out.

  No chance of that—the flared shape keeps it exactly in place inside me.

  Slowly, I lower myself down on his cock.

  “Oh, fuuuck,” I groan.

  Dean’s cock has never felt so enormous, not even the first time.

  There’s no space inside me for both his cock and the plug, and yet I’m forcing them both in.

  The tightness is insane.

  Dean groans simultaneously, feeling the pressure and grip as intensely as I am.

  “God yes,” he moans. “I can feel it rubbing against my cock.”

  I slide all the way down on him. Then, carefully, I begin to ride him.

  Wrong — MAX

  Spotify → geni.us/bully-spotify

  Apple Music → geni.us/bully-apple

  The sensation is so extreme that we can barely breathe, let alone speak.

  It feels good. I mean really fucking good.

  I’m ashamed how good it feels, but it’s too pleasurable to care. I want more.

  I increase the pace, and Dean instantly begins to cum. He grips my waist, making a desperate moaning sound, his whole body shaking beneath me.

  I fucking love being on top of him.

  I love riding a man like Dean.

  Every tendon stands out on his neck, his chest and shoulders swollen with the effort of fucking me. He looks more powerful and muscular than ever before.

  And yet, he’s completely at my mercy.

  I’m the one dominating him now. I’m the one in control of his pleasure.

  I can ride him faster or slower, I can grind or bounce on his cock.

  I can tease the pleasure out of him at my will. He’s shaking beneath me, kissing me ferociously, utterly obsessed with me in this moment.

  I think I could ask him for anything, and he’d give it to me.

  I could never get this rush fucking a lesser man.

  The more violent and vicious Dean behaves, the more of a thrill it is to see him like this: gasping, vulnerable, and totally wrapped up in me.

  I’m high on it.

  I make him cum over and over, and every time he does, I cum too, because I’m drunk with the eroticism, with this sense of omnipotence.

  I will never be physically strong, not like Dean.

  But I feel powerful when I have power over Dean.

  “You like that?” Dean growls, his hands gripping my waist. “You like riding me with that plug up your ass?”

  He said it was for him, but he knows how good it feels for me, too. It’s a doubling of pleasure, like I’m being fucked twice over.

  “Yes,” I admit, blushing with the taboo of it. “I fucking love it.”

  “Good girl,” Dean says.

  I cum again, melting with pleasure and satisfaction.

  “I want to see it,” Dean says.

  He flips me over and shoves my face down in the pillows, pulling my hips up so my ass is in the air. He drives into me from behind, fucking me hard and fast.

  I know he’s looking at the plug in my ass. I should feel embarrassed by that.

  But right now I don’t give a fuck. We’re way past shyness. I want Dean to take his pleasure out of me any way he likes. I want my body to be his plaything.

  “Harder,” I beg. “Fuck me harder.”

  I want more, more, more.

  There’s never enough.

  Dean roars as he explodes into me, what feels like a gallon of cum pumping out of him.

  I turn my face into the pillows, grinning with delight.

  15

  Dean

  Only a week remains before Christmas.

  That means I only have one more week with Cat as my pet.

  That’s a problem, because I’m completely fixated on her. She occupies my mind night and day.

  An additional problem: I fucking need her to cum.

  I tested it on Saturday morning when Bram walked down to the village with Valon.

  I stayed alone in our dorm room, setting myself up in my bed, planning to try to stroke my cock light and steady like Cat does. I wanted to prove to myself that I was the one in control of my orgasms. That I could make myself cum over and over just like she does, that I didn’t need her.

  I laid back and tried to think of things other than Cat. I didn’t even want to use her for mental stimulation.

  But no matter what kind of woman I tried to picture, tall or short, thin or curvy, I couldn’t get hard. They all seemed bland and insipid, as plastic as dolls.

  I only felt that spa
rk of lust when I pictured Cat on her knees before me, with that wild mane of dark curls all around her face, and those big, innocent eyes looking up at me above her mischievous smile.

  Then my cock swelled to life. I couldn’t help but picture her crawling around in that sinuous way, the candlelight gleaming on her tight body.

  I scowled, thinking that I would use her for fantasy, but I’d cum all on my own, without her touch.

  I stroked myself, imagining it was Cat’s small hand wrapped around my cock, making it look enormous.

  My hand was too big, too rough, too clumsy. It felt wrong.

  Far from cumming multiple times, I couldn’t bring myself to climax at all.

  I wanted her, not myself.

  Disgusted, I flung the covers off and went to shower, pent up and furious.

  I can’t be this dependent on her. Especially not with so little time left.

  It’s dangerous and weak. I told myself I’d never make this mistake again, wrapping up my desires in a woman.

  That night in the tower, I fucked Cat viciously, telling myself I was only using her, that I didn’t care about her at all.

  I never should have told her about my mother.

  I never should have told her anything at all.

  Cat didn’t seem to care that I was in an awful mood. She didn’t mind that I was rough with her. She bit and scratched me back until we had scattered the cushions and rubbed our backs raw on the floor.

  When we lay there after, panting and sweating . . . I felt nothing but peace.

  Sunday, I go hunting for Lola Fischer.

  I find her lounging in the common room of the Gatehouse, with Dixie Davis and a half-dozen other members of the Dixie mafia.

  They’re a motley group, all ages and appearances. The Dixie mafia is one of the only mafia groups not connected by family or country of origin. They recruit out of prison, and their members include both wealthy entrepreneurs who run the businesses along the Strip in Biloxi, as well as decidedly less-reputable members operating riverboat casinos, strip joints, and bingo parlors all through the Appalachian states.

  Hence why Lola dresses like a dolled-up debutante, while her henchmen Carter Ross and Belkie Blintz look like they’ve never encountered indoor plumbing.