I spun her around, throwing her onto the small, creaky bed. I didn't give her a second to recover. I grabbed her ankles and shoved them back toward her ears, exposing her completely. I dived back in, the angle allowing me to reach depths that made her eyes roll back in her head.
"Look at me, Lydia," I commanded.
She looked, her gaze hazy and shattered. I watched as I moved inside her, the way her flesh stretched and turned red around my entry. I reached down, my thumb finding her clitoris and rubbing it with a fast, heavy pressure that sent her over the edge.
"I'm coming! I'm coming, Aristarkh! Oh god, it's too much! You're breaking me!"
She began to convulse, her legs shaking uncontrollably as a massive orgasm took hold of her. I didn't let up. I rode her through her climax, my own release building like a tidal wave in my gut. I wanted to fill her so full that she'd be leaking my mark for the rest of the night.
I let out a low, guttural roar as I erupted. The heat was staggering, a massive discharge that filled her to the brim and overflowed, the white cream spilling out and staining the coarse wool of her blankets. She wailed, her voice echoing through the thin walls, a final, public declaration of her ruin.
I stayed buried inside her for a long minute, watching the way her chest heaved as she tried to find her breath. She looked broken, her thirty-seven years of dignity stripped away in a single hour of absolute debasement.
The next morning, the silence in the servant quarters was far louder than the noise we'd made.
Lydia walked to the kitchens with her head bowed, her steps stiff and awkward. Every time she moved, she felt the cooling slickness between her thighs, a constant reminder of what had happened against that door. She could feel the stares. The other servants didn't look at her face; they looked at her neck, where the dark bruises I'd left were plain for everyone to see.
"Lydia, the Master's breakfast is ready," the cook said, her voice lacking the usual respect. There was a smirk playing at the corner of the older woman's mouth.
Lydia took the tray, her hands shaking. She could hear the whispers behind her the moment she turned her back.
"Did you hear the door hitting the wall? I thought the frame was going to break."
"And the way she was screaming his name... I never thought she had it in her."
Lydia felt like she was walking through a gauntlet. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders. She was no longer the respected head servant; she was the girl the Master used when he was bored. Yet, as she reached the upper floors, she found herself touching the marks on her neck, her heart racing at the memory of the way I'd looked at her while I filled her.
She was ruined, her reputation in the dirt, and she knew that the next time I called, she would lock that door and give me everything all over again.