Chapter 67 - Sixty-Seven: Dorean’s Sister

Chapter 67: Chapter Sixty-Seven: Dorean’s Sister

Vesper’s tirade spiraled. It started with Aria’s insubordination, her slatternly posture, the specific way she poured tea that was somehow "provocative," and descended into a rant about a misplaced hairpin from three summers ago. Her voice rose, sharp and shrill, tears of pure, impotent rage glittering in her mismatched eyes. She wasn’t making sense anymore. She was just vomiting a decade’s worth of seething resentment into the cold air of the warehouse.

And I was bored. Respectfully, professionally, utterly bored. My dick, which had been the center of so much attention, was soft and uninterested. My mind was back in the fantasy of bending her over that academy table, of hearing her voice break into those begging moans, not listening to her whine about her sister’s tea-pouring technique.

She must have seen my eyes glaze over. The shift in her was instantaneous. The weepy anger snapped into white-hot fury, directed squarely at me.

"Are you even listening?" she shrieked, stepping into my space. "You useless, lump of commoner flesh! I’m baring my family’s disgrace and you look like you’re counting cobwebs!"

"I’m listening," I said, my voice flat. "It’s just... a lot of tea talk."

Her hand shot out faster than I could blink. But instead of a slap, her fingers wrapped around my soft cock through my pants and squeezed. A painful, angry jerk.

"Is this all you understand?" she snarled, her other hand joining in, yanking at my pants until she could get a rough, dry grip on my bare skin. She started jerking me off with furious, punishing strokes. "Is this the only language your primitive brain speaks? Cock. Hole. Fuck."

Against all odds, under her brutal, hateful ministrations, I began to harden again. It was a perverse reaction to the sheer violence of her touch, the insanity of the situation.

Seeing me respond, her rage seemed to find a new, twisted outlet. She shoved me back against the couch, hiked up her own fitted trousers and underwear in one rough motion, and straddled my lap. She was naked from the waist down now, her pale, perfect pussy hovering just above my newly-hard dick. She ground herself against the head, coating me in her own slick arousal, but she kept her hips lifted, denying entry.

The sensation was maddening. Hot, wet friction without penetration. Her breath came in sharp, angry gasps against my neck.

"Don’t," she hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and a terrifying, unwanted arousal, "don’t you even think about it. This cunt is for my Dorian. Even when you breed every other slut in this place into a dripping mess, the furthest you’ll ever get..."

She shifted, angling herself so the thick head of my cock pressed not against her entrance, but lower, against the tight, forbidden pucker of her asshole. She rubbed it there, a lewd, taunting promise and denial in one.

"...is my asshole. Do you understand, you commoner stud? You get the leftovers. The scraps. The backdoor. That is your ceiling. Your limit. That is the price for even dreaming of touching what belongs to him."

She kept grinding against me, her asshole a tight, resisting circle of heat against my most sensitive part, her own body betraying her with its wetness and its tremble. She was drawing a line in the sand with her own body, and the humiliation of it, the sheer, degrading exclusivity, was somehow the hottest thing that had happened all night.

The sensation was too much. The visual of her perfect, pale ass, the feel of that tight, forbidden ring pressed against the head of my dick, the sheer, hateful dominance of her declaration... it short-circuited every bit of control I had left.

A hoarse, choked sound escaped my throat. My hips bucked up involuntarily, and I erupted.

It wasn’t a neat, contained orgasm. It was a violent, messy explosion. Thick, white ropes of cum shot out, painting a lewd stripe directly across the cleft of her ass, the hot fluid dripping down between her cheeks. Another jet hit the small of her back, splattering across her skin. Another arced higher, landing across her stomach as she was leaning over me. The final, convulsive pulse shot upward, catching her under the chin and splashing across her shocked, beautiful face.

Splurt. Splat. Sploosh.

For a second, there was absolute silence, broken only by my ragged panting.

Then Vesper looked down. She saw the cum on her stomach. She raised a trembling hand, touched her chin, and her fingers came away sticky and white. Her heterochromatic eyes, wide with utter, flabbergasted shock, met mine.

The shock melted into incandescent rage.

"You... you... FUCKING ANIMAL!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. She scrambled off my lap, slipping a little in the mess on her own skin. "You splooged all over me! You came on me like I was a fucking gutter whore’s face! You disgusting, rancid, cock-brained PIECE OF SHIT!"

She was stomping in a furious circle, cum dripping from her chin onto her bare chest. The curses that poured from her mouth were so foul, so creatively vile, they’d make a seasoned trawler captain blush and take notes. She called into question my ancestry, my hygiene, my intelligence, and the general worth of my entire species, all while gesturing wildly at the cooling sperm on her body.

But beneath the rage, in the heaving of her chest, the flush that went beyond anger on her skin, there was something else. A dark, horrified arousal. She was humiliated, furious... and undeniably turned on by the sheer, degrading audacity of it.

Her tirade eventually ran out of steam, dissolving into furious, hissed repetitions of "unbelievable" and "filthy." She stood there, trembling, covered in my cum, looking at me with an expression of pure, complicated loathing.

Finally, she took a deep, shuddering sigh that did interesting things to her cum-splattered chest. "I’m going to take a shower," she stated, her voice clipped and cold, though it still trembled slightly. "You... you should too. There’s a servant’s washroom down the east corridor. Do not track your... effluvia... on my carpets."

She turned and stalked away, leaving a trail of furious, confused, and undeniably sticky footsteps, the picture of aristocratic disdain utterly ruined by the thick, white streaks drying on her skin.

◇◇◇

The Lysander family mansion.

Dorian Lysander sat on the edge of his massive bed, his posture perfect, but a faint, tense line marred his otherwise handsome brow.

In his lap, curled against him was a young woman with hair the color of molten silver, falling in a straight sheet down her back. Her eyes, when she looked up at him, were a rare, luminous silver.

"My lord brother," she murmured, her voice soft as silk. "You seem... a little off these days. Is it because of that academy whore? That... Noel?"

Dorian’s jaw tightened. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, stilled. "He doesn’t behave like a man," Dorian said, his voice low and controlled, but a thread of pure, seething frustration ran through it. "He has no discretion. No respect for the order of things. He sleeps with anything that moves, and he does it so... openly. Like he’s proud of it. A commoner, turning the academy into his personal brothel."

He let out a short, bitter breath. "I’ve even heard whispers... that he’s sleeping with the Dean. Can you believe the audacity? The Dean. A woman of her station, debasing herself with that... that gutter-born stud. It’s an insult. To the academy. To the noble houses. To me."

Lyra nuzzled his chest, a soothing motion. "It’s alright, lord brother. He’s just a passing nuisance. A crude distraction. He has no power, no standing. He can’t touch what is truly yours."

Dorian’s arms tightened around his twin, a possessive, guilty squeeze.

"We must be more careful," he whispered into her silver hair.

"Mother’s agents have been asking questions. Too many questions. About your movements. Your... proximity to me." He felt Lyra go rigid against him. "If she found out..." He didn’t need to finish. Their mother, the matriarch of House Lysander, was a woman of glacial cruelty. As the male heir, Dorian might face punishment, disinheritance, even physical mutilation. But Lyra... for corrupting the bloodline, for seducing the heir... she would be skinned alive. Slowly. The family would make an example of her.

"I could send you away," he said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. "For a while. Just until her suspicions cool."

Lyra pulled back, her silver eyes wide and instantly swimming with tears. "Away? But... where?"

A plan, cold and pragmatic, formed in Dorian’s mind. "Vesper’s mansion," he said, forcing a calming smile onto his face. He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "My second fiancée. Her family’s wealth is obscene, and she maintains her own private estate. It’s a fortress, warded and staffed with her own people. You’d be safe there. I could visit discreetly. And you’d be far from Mother’s prying eyes."

Lyra searched his face, her tears slowing, a fragile hope blooming. "You... you would visit?"

"Of course," he said, the smile not reaching his eyes. He pulled her close again, resting his chin on the top of her head. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, his expression smoothing into one of serene, calculated control.

She was a primary threat is to his own reputation and inheritance. Lyra’s safety is a secondary concern.

If Lyra’s existence, their secret, ever truly threatened to become an issue he couldn’t contain... he wouldn’t wait for his mother. He’d kill her himself. Cleanly. Quietly. And mourn the loss of his favorite, most forbidden toy.

’Whatever...’

He just had to ensure his fiery, independent second fiancée didn’t mind an unexpected guest.