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Easterman’s office door slamming shut awoke you, the latch to your cage being flicked open to beckon you out. The man sulked away and slumped down in his worn, leather chair, letting you crawl into the nook under his desk. Sluggish grays examined you over his nose before he sighed, letting his guard down just a smidge.
“Daddy’s not feeling his best today, little one,” Easterman exhales defeatedly as he leans forward to undo the gag over your mouth. You stretch your jaw open and closed, working sore muscles awake. From your position, you already knew what he wanted, and you obliged without a peep.
Inching forward, your scarred hands fumble with his belt and work at the fastenings on his slacks. He could never deny how much he loved the sight of someone on their knees for him—so eager, so devoted. The chair squeaks as his weight shifts back, shoulders relaxing into the cushioned leather as you pull out a half-hard chub. Well-trained, you flit your eyes up for permission, and he only nods in return, thoughts too far away to even pretend to play along with the scene with praise or orders.
Feeling the warm cradle of a mouth around him coaxes him back to the present, though, making his eyes shut in momentary bliss. The cool metal of your fastened goggles against his stomach keeps him alert enough to focus on the pleasure and not the incessant voices in his head. Easterman combs fingers through matted hair as your head bobs steadily, haphazardly untangling strands and scratching blunt nails into the dry scalp. The moan you glottal out around him from the attention makes his own legs tense and tremble, already too worked up. It was unclear who was enjoying this more, between his ragged breaths and the slack of your jaw. Too engrossed, he doesn’t initially notice you shift beneath him, stationing yourself on his foot to grind against the shined leather, accompanied by warmth of his ankle. He only becomes privy when your rhythm gets sloppy, drooling around his cock with whimpers of need while you rut against his leg.
Easterman has no intention to halt you—not today. In fact, it only rouses him further, finding the depressing act before him all too entertaining. Fingers tighten in your hair as he shoves your head down to the hilt, a groan rattling his smoke-worned throat as he feels you gag a little from the force. He holds you steady, eyes locked on your lame form as you try to breathe around the stubby length. Your own hips rock into him, neglected sex getting off on the smallest bit of friction. Too tired to attempt the long game, he comes with a seedy sigh, globs of tangy sperm dribbling out. Before your throat can gulp it down, Easterman yanks your head off and holds it up.
“Don’t swallow,” He rasps out, trying to sound firm despite the lingering pleasure on his face. “Here—spit.”
Easterman holds out his other hand to your mouth, waiting for you to obey. You don't question it, discharging the mix of salvia and cum into his palm like an offering to a god. His chest rises and falls with a centering breath, watching the act with deceiving adoration, thankful for your docility. He observes the small puddle in his hand before he raises it to his own mouth, lapping up the fluids. The piquant mix makes his salivary glands perk as he swallows it down, returning the holy excrement to his body—musn’t waste a drop of himself. Sated eyes flicker back down to you, lowering the hand back to his lap.
“How rapacious of me,” A laugh that sounded of static and church bells rang out. “Would my puppy like the rest? It was yours, anyways.”
It’s seconds before you lurch forward to lick at his hand, savoring the remnants of essence on his skin. Settling back on your ankles, you hold the palm still with your own tarnished hands, nuzzling feverishly into him. He admires the sight with gratification, legs stretching out beside you with content.
The gleam of something wet on his shoe catches his eye, pulling his attention from you reluctantly. Shifting the leather towards the light of a lamp, he expects to see a satisfying slick from your own release. Instead, he’s greeted with the familiar ruby hue of blood, smeared across the shoe and staining the cuff of his slacks. Repulsion turns his stomach and his hand pulls back sharply, only coming back to smack you away.
“You stupid bitch!”
Abruptly standing, Easterman kicks the soiled foot hard into your side, making you yowl in pain on the tile. A few more stern kicks coil you into a blubbering ball, abdomen aching from impact. Offended curses fall off his lips as he examines his leg with a curled lip, any sign of pleasure wiped from his face.
“Disgusting fucking mutt, these are Saint Laurents!” He shoves the bloodied shoe into your face, smearing the menstrual blood on your facade. “You animals have no respect for anything. I give, and I give, and you spit in the face of my generosity.”
He doesn’t tell you he didn’t care for the brand or cost of the shoe, doesn’t bother to explain that he only cares because they were a gift from his mother many years ago. That he only wore them because they were given to him when he got his doctorate, and they represented the life he had envisioned for himself—and now you’ve ruined it. Easterman shakes you off and storms to the phone, calling for nurses to come retrieve you. Leaning on the wall for support, he zips up his pants and wipes the shoe clean with tissues while he watches you writhe and cry on the floor. When three nurses push his office door open, he barks orders at them to take you.
“Clean it up; don’t bring her back until it’s handled,” he mutters frustratedly, not even bothering to look up from the tissue in hand.
The familiar textile of the worn blanket in your cage is the first thing you processed when you came to—something comforting in the unkind facility. Cleaned and changed, your stomach still thrummed with soreness from being assaulted, the skin beneath your shirt already blooming purple rosettes. The smell of cigarette smoke is what tells you he’s there with you, wafting through the wire bars around you. Easterman studies you from the couch several feet away until he rises with clinical silence. His shadow looms over your cage before he lowers to his haunches, flicking open the lock confining you. Though the door opens, neither of you move a muscle, the tension making your limbs weak with anxiety. Finally, his body eases fully to the floor with a weighted sigh, sitting cross-legged.
“C’mere.”
Easterman pats his thighs, taking in your hesitation. Your joints creak stiffly as you creep towards him, eyes wary but wanting. Once you settle into his lap, curled up like the dog he kicked, his hands find you quickly, one resting on your knee and the other rubbing at your back. The silence is too loud with confusing emotions, both of you a mess of thoughts. Easterman breaks the silence first, words hushed and careful.
“I lost my temper, over something so insignificant…It was an accident—the blood. Daddy knows that,” he starts, eyes wandering the room aimlessly. “Can you forgive me?”
He takes your silence as a good sign—no tears, no squirming. The quiet lingers as a warm hand draws circles against your back. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched you so simply, uncomplicated and elementary. It made your eyes heavy, forgetting the aches and pains that troubled your body. Warm, fresh blood leaked onto a pad in your pants, reminding you of the accident. Despite the shame, you had no intention of moving away from him, of depriving yourself of this small grace. Easterman peeks down at you, finding your eyes blinking languidly at nothing.
“I have a sister, y’know.”
The melancholic words come out on their own, spurred from the depths of his mind from the events of today. His hand moves from your back to dance fingers along your shoulder, trailing lingering warmth to your face. Your gaze flits up to him as he speaks, but he quickly averts his own eyes, focusing on a scar on your chin instead.
“She left home when I was young—fifteen, I think. We weren’t all that close, but I always looked up to her. Even after the accident, I still…”
His voice falls away, as does his attention to you, memories firing in his brain as fingers trace your skin for comfort. Easterman recalls the discolored scars on his sister’s face that mocked his adolescent carelessness. She had always been the belle of the family, and he had robbed her of being prom queen with a mindless mistake. He wondered if mother tried to make him prettier to compensate for his sister’s loss; In fairness, he had always longed to be more like her, anyways.
A dry, calloused thumb slides along the slope of your nose, his lashes fanned out as he studies you. He doesn’t understand why God punishes him by having only broken things to love.
“Do you miss her?”
Your voice, weak and tired, almost makes him jump. His hand flexes unconsciously before he comes back with a cleansing inhale, sharp and tense. Focusing his eyes, he meets yours and nods faintly, searching you for something he can’t seem to find.
“All the time,” Easterman answers in a murmur, lips barely moving.
You shift in his lap and curl into the soft flesh of his stomach, musk and smoke filling your nose. He follows suit and cradles his arms around you, letting you nestle against him like a small child without reprimand.