The wet, choking sounds echoed off the marble walls—raw, rhythmic, obscene. Soreya's throat spasmed around Allen's cock, but her body held its position, as instructed. Kneeling. Chained. Collared. Naked. Her spine arched slightly from the strain, yet her eyes remained forward, glazed and unfocused, drowned in the effort to keep from collapsing. Every thrust filled her with fresh tears that rolled down her flushed cheeks, streaking across already dried remnants of the last ones.
Allen's hand gripped the back of her head, guiding her pace with mechanical precision. Not fast. Not wild. Just deliberate. Measured. The same way he judged nobles, the same way he cracked lies open like bones—he fucked her mouth with purpose. This wasn't indulgence. This was discipline.
