He pulled out at the last instant, spun her around by the collar like a doll, and aimed himself at the porridge bowl sitting at the empty place setting that had, in a more innocent world, been laid out for her breakfast.
The first jet hit the porridge like a ladle of cream. The second. The third. He held the bowl steady in one hand and milked every last thick white rope of himself into it, until the porridge had gone from beige to a rich, glistening, over-filled white, until it overflowed slightly and dripped down the ceramic.
Lyssa collapsed against the table leg, gasping, cunt gaping and drooling, tears and drool mingling on her chin.
He set the bowl in front of her on the floor.
"Eat."
She stared at it. Her jaw worked. Something of the noblewoman surfaced one final time through the wreck of the slave.
"Eat... eat what? How DARE you, I am a daughter of House Vaerin, I will not eat... my breakfast will not be... this is... have you ever heard of... HOW DARE..."
