Le Souffle Interdit de son Maître

The warehouse smelled like rust and sweat, the air thick with tension as Fée crouched between the palettes, her long fingers splayed against the concrete floor. She’d tracked *him* through the city’s back alleys, his scent clinging to the damp—expensive cologne mixed with the sharp metallic tang of blood, hinted at by dried streaks on his cuff. A *maître* who knew what to do with a girl like her. Not that she’d tell him she’d been waiting years. The men who dragged her here barked a rough command: *"Allez, putain. Show your face."* She stayed low, her tail flicking lazily, thick and covered in tiny scales. Let them think this was submission. Let them wonder if she’d drop to her knees. But the lock on his office door was her real target—its shaved metal edges promised pain, a useful distraction. The first man’s boot connected with her jaw. She grinned, blood dripping, and spread her thighs. The second grabbed his cock before she could slink away, thick around his fist. Fée laughed low through the bruise, the sound vibrating like a purr. *"You think that’s going to stop me?"* She sank her teeth into his wrist, deep enough to taste the pulse before twisting free, his breath rough and uneven. Then they’d both come—the third was already shaking the door. Fée pressed her forehead to the steel as the first’s grip clawed at her hair, yanking her up. *"She’s got him in there,"* he growled, *"you feel what’s in his veins?"* Because she did. Hot, potent, the taste lingering on her tongue. *Hungry.* The lock gave. She turned just in time to catch the second man’s face in her fist, and when he crumbled to the floor, wet and choking, she straddled him anyway—cock between her thighs, pressing like a brand. A long-fingered hand closed around her throat. "Maîtresse," he snarled, *"now. Kneel."*

Fée’s claws bit into the second man’s shoulder as she rolled her hips, grinding against his leaking cock through the rough denim. The pressure was enough—just *barely*—to make him flinch, his throaty groan splitting under her weight. She could smell his desperation, the sour tang of sweat and the sickly-sweet reek of his release already creeping toward the surface. The Maître’s grip on her throat tightened, his fingers rough against her scales. Fée hissed, not from pain, but because the contact was *too good*, the possessive heat of his touch curling into her spine. His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade: *"You’ll obey me first, and I’ll decide if you get to break me after."* She could hear the way his pulse stuttered against her teeth, sense the way his blood had already thickened with anticipation. Then his knee jabbed between her thighs, not hard enough to hurt but deep enough to make her arch into him. His other hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back with a groan. *"Beg, then."* His teeth flashed. Fée didn’t miss a beat. *"Please, Maître,"* she purred, letting the words drip with falseness she’d already tasted on his tongue. With a flick of her wrist, she knocked the third man’s head into the wall—*crack*—and used his shocked flinch to her advantage. Her free fingers slipped between her thighs, slick and eager, before she could drop to her knees. The moment his cock brushed her lips, her teeth sank into his shaft. His blood flooded her mouth. "Fuck—" His thighs tensed, but she didn’t let him go. One hand braced his chest as the other twisted the first man’s wrist, her claws dragging just enough to make his cock *throb* in his fist. The Maître was watching. And when she finally looked up, her eyes locked onto his, she knew exactly how to make him *lose control*.

The first man’s cock *jerked* in his grip, his fingers trembling as her nails dug deeper into his skin, sharp as needles. *"Putain—"* His voice cracked, the word almost a moan as she pulled back just enough to savor the burst of copper in her mouth before taking him fully again, her throat swallowing every inch. He stuttered, his hips trying to buck against her, but she held him still with a clawed hand against his chest, her other squeezing the base of his shaft, feeling the pulse there. The Maître’s boots thudded closer, each step a slow, deliberate threat. His hand on her hair wasn’t pulling anymore—it was wrapping around her throat, possessive and unbreakable. *"Enough,"* he said, and the word wasn’t a question. Fée let the second man go with a wet pop, his cock already softening in her mouth, but she didn’t move. She stayed planted on her knees, dripping the first man’s blood onto his lap. Her free hand slipped lower, fingers splayed over the second man’s chest, following the trail of fluids down to the wet spot on his jeans. *"But I haven’t even started with you,"* she whispered, her voice slick with his taste. The Maître’s grip tightened. *"Anal later,"* he growled. Then his boot was between the second man’s hands, forcing his cock down. Fée grinned, saliva glistening on her lips, and spread her thighs, letting the cold steel press against her slick folds. The first man’s fingers jerked as the Maître’s boot ground against his balls, bruising—hard enough to make her purr. *"Turn around,"* the Maître commanded. She didn’t hesitate. Before she could adjust, his cock was already at her back entrance, slick from the second man’s spilled blood—no warning, no teasing. Just *pressure*, the thick, veined head forcing against her rim. The fingers on her throat kept her planted, her mouth gaping open on a silent gasp. *"Take it,"* he snarled, not asking. She did. The stretch was brutal, her body groaning as he filled her, each inch a slow, deliberate violation. Her claws scraped the concrete, nails digging as he paused—just *breathing*—before slamming home. The first man whimpered, his cock still throbbing in her fist. *"Good girl,"* the Maître murmured, his voice rough with approval. Fée’s answer was a wet, guttural sound as he pulled back and *pounded* forward again, his grip on her throat turning her breath into ragged moans. The second man’s cock was *leaking* all over her, his fingers clawing at the palettes as her body took everything the Maître gave—*and more*. Her ass was *aching*, the stretch too much, too *good*, his balls slapping against her as he set a brutal pace. *"You’re mine now,"* he growled, his voice close to her ear, hot and dangerous. And when his fingers tangled in her hair, jerking her head back hard enough to make her cry out, she knew—*this* was only the beginning.

Fée’s breath came in sharp, broken gasps as the Maître’s cock stretched her ass beyond its limit, the sweat on his thick thighs slicking against her bare skin. His grip only tightened when her body trembled—*not from fear, but from the relentless pressure of the first man’s fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision blur.* "Please… *" Her voice was a rasping plea, the words muffled by his cock in her mouth. The first man stuttered, his hips bucking, but she stayed locked in place, her ass taking the Maître’s brutal thrusts like a perfect, willing slave. The second man’s fingers fumbled against her folds, his voice hoarse. *"She’s gonna fucking swallow us whole—"* The Maître didn’t answer. His free hand dropped, fingers slick with her blood and salty sweat as he found her clit—*hard*—and pinched. The shock of pain made her writhe, her body clenching around him, pulling him in deeper. His cock *swelled*, veins pulsing with the force of his grip on her hip as he snarled. *"Squirt for me."* Not a question. A demand. She barely had time to obey before the first man’s fingers loosened, his cum flooding her throat as she choked on it, his hands tangled in her hair, his nails digging into her throat. The second man’s fingers *twisted* in her as the Maître ordered, *"Now her. Swallow that too."* Fée didn’t get a second to adjust. The Maître’s cock *pulsed*, hot and thick against her insides, before—with a choked groan—he buried himself *deeper*, his shaft *bucking* violently as the first man’s fingers squeezed her clit, sending white-hot pleasure crashing down her spine. Her ass clenched around him, body giving in as she came hard, her cum dripping down her thighs, pooling on the second man’s ruined jeans. The Maître’s thrusts never faltered. *"Terminé…"* he growled, his voice turning dark as his cock *pulsed* with his own release. *"…pour maintenant."*

The Maître’s breath was hot in her ear, his weight pressing her forward as the last tremors of her orgasm faded. His cock twitched inside her, still pulsing with slow, possessive aftershocks, and Fée *moaned*—this time, not from the pain in her ass, but from the deep, aching stretch of his release coating her insides. The first man—still panting, his fingers trailing over her face—growled, *"You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you?"* His blood-slicked cock throbbed, softening only slightly before it *jerked* back to life. *"But not yet done with you."* The Maître’s grip on her throat *lessened*—just enough to let her gasp, but not enough to escape. *"She can wait."* His thumb worked her clit in rough circles, and Fée’s knees *buckled* into the concrete. *"Your ass,"* he added, his voice rough, *"is getting another lesson."* A boot *kicked* apart the second man’s legs, the cold steel dragging over his sweat-glazed skin before slamming between his thighs—*not bruising this time, but driving him forward.* The Maître’s weight lifted, his cock slipping out with a wet, obscene *pop*, and Fée hissed at the sudden absence, her hips twitching back for more before the first man’s fingers *tightened* on her throat. *"No,"* the Maître said darkly, pushing the second man’s cock toward her mouth with his free hand. *"You’ll take what I give you."* His knee *pressed* down hard, grinding the first man’s cock between her ass cheeks. *"And we’re not fucking rushing."* The concrete *scraped* her knees raw as she spread for them, her body already betraying how badly she *wanted* this. The second man’s cock filled her mouth first—*wet from the Maître’s blood, hot from her throat*—while the first man’s was already *slipping* between her thighs, fingers guiding it as the Maître’s knee forced her to part wider, to stretch. *"This,"* the Maître muttered, *"is how we break you."* Fée’s body *squeezed* around the pair of them, her nails clutching the air as her walls clenched—*not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming need.*