Lyssa knelt. It was not a choice. The collar chose for her, and her knees found the floor with a soft double knock, and she tried to speak, and what came out through the ring of the gag was a shapeless wet sound.
"Lack..."
"What?"
The word drifted into his head from elsewhere, silk-smooth and amused, in Mira's voice. 'You can have her as your private toilet or a cum dumpster, husband. Your choice. She signed everything.'
Viktor looked at the kneeling noblewoman, at the bikini, at the open, waiting mouth, at the tear standing in the corner of her furious, humiliated, helpless eyes.
He chuckled.
He looked down at his limp cock, lifted it thoughtfully in one hand, considered it, and then rose, crossed the distance, and placed the soft head against the opening held permanently for him.
