I can’t help wondering if I might give in eventually. It’s only been one night and he already makes me hot as hell. How can I possibly take a whole month of this torture?
I swallow again because Farrow has wrapped his fist around his cock, and after making sure I’m still watching, he starts to stroke himself, slowly. I blink, confused and conflicted by how much it turns me on. Watching him jerk off, and knowing that I’m the reason he’s rock hard, the reason he needs to get off. He’s turned on by me and that is hot.
Then I shake myself back to my senses. I can’t let him see that I’m enjoying this. I roll away, turning my head toward the wall. But Farrow grabs my shoulders and rolls me back over. Grips the back of my hair, pinning my head in place.
“Watch me,” he says. “Watch how I come thinking about your sexy little virgin body.”
I grimace and tug at his grip, but he holds me still, his hand gripping so hard it hurts. “This feels like forcing me,” I point out, scowling up at him.
He laughs, low and dark. “I’m just holding you here. Letting you look. You could close your eyes, Pamona. Or…” He starts to speed up, his fist pumping harder and stronger along his cock. “You could touch my cock, if you want.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t make a difference, but I can see the way he tenses, his breath hitching at the thought of me touching him. “It’s your choice to resist,” he adds, his voice going even deeper as he jerks off faster, faster. “Or are you scared that just touching my cock will turn you into a slut?”
I thought I’d already come more than I could possibly come in one night, but I feel my belly tighten and my legs clench all over again, watching him pleasure himself. He starts to tense, his teeth clenched, his breathing hard, and I can’t help it. I lean closer, watching the way the tendons in his arms are taut and his hand clenches hard around his long, stiff cock.
I’m still leaning in when he lets out a loud, guttural growl, and comes, his hand still pumping. I startle, jumping back, but some of his cum lands on my cheek. I wipe it off, startled, and stare at the smooth white liquid on my finger, surprised by the warmth, not to mention the scent that’s filling the room, wafting off him in waves. So different from the way I smell. It’s a mix of sex and pure him, his heady, dark scent. It makes me want to lift my finger to my mouth and taste him. Find out if he tastes as good as he smells.
When I look up again, expecting him to urge me to lick his cock or something else I won’t want to do, he’s already zipping his jeans closed. His eyes are faraway, focused somewhere else, and he leaves the room quickly, without a backwards glance, shoulders drawn tight. Almost like he regrets what happened.
I stare after him, confused. Then, alone with no one to witness, I lift my finger to my lips and flick my tongue across his cum lightly.
I shiver.
Because it doesn’t taste like I expected. He tastes better. Addictive.
4
It’s been two days since I last saw Farrow. The cook brings my meals to the room, and every time she comes by, she scolds me, saying I need to get out of this room, stretch my legs.
“You’re going to make yourself sick in here,” she says with a narrowed glare.
But I don’t listen to her until nearly the end of the second day. Then, finally, the boredom and restlessness begin to take its toll.
I start exploring the upstairs hallway. But aside from a few more bedrooms, and a locked door that I can only assume must be Farrow’s room, I don’t find much of interest. I head downstairs, and eventually find myself in a huge, mostly empty room. There’s a piano in the corner, but nothing else, not even a sofa or chair.
On the walls, however, there are paintings. Tons of them, some landscapes and animals, a caged bird, a wild fox creeping through a glen. But mostly, there are portraits of two people. A little boy, in various stages of growth—a toddler, running through the grass; a schoolboy in uniform fidgeting on a chair—and a beautiful woman. A woman whose haunting, icy blue eyes look familiar.
I’m staring at the largest portrait of her, when I hear someone step up behind me. I draw in a sharp breath and whip around, almost expecting to find Farrow there, ready to scold me or punish me for sneaking around this room, a room that, while unlocked, has the air of abandonment and privacy.