He started to shake. I didn’t know what was going on, so stupidly, I pulled back to ask. Warren had started to cum and hadn’t told me. As a result, I ended up getting sprayed by his massive load as he came like a fire hose. Hot, thick cum covered me from my chin down to my thighs.
I thought he might slap me, the look in Warren’s eyes so full of rage and disappointment. “Naughty girl,” he said, his voice a growl, “I’m going to have to punish you now because you didn’t drink down my seed like a good girl.”
I was still too stunned to say anything as he moved. Keeping his hand wound in my hair, he reached down with the other and hauled me up to my feet by my bound hands. Removing his hand from my hair, he scooped my messy little body up into his powerful arms and carried me from the room.
I was terrified he might just pitch me out in the street or worse. It was my paranoia talking, though. He wasn’t nearly that cruel. Or cruel at all, really. Everything he did was for my own good.
There was a metal hook fixed to the wall of the shower. Several actually, set at different heights. Choosing one of the middle ones, he clipped my bounds into it, leaving me basically immobile.
Wordlessly, he turned on the showerhead, near scalding water blasting out. Roughly, he washed all the cum off me, skirt and all, the water stinging my sensitive skin like nothing before, but I didn’t cry out. I just stood there and took it like a good girl as my lover cleaned me off.
The heat didn’t last long. As soon as the spray was turned off, the chill hit. I could feel my nipples get hard from the sudden temperature change.
“Please,” I begged, pitifully, “let me take off my skirt. It’s wet and cold.”
Warren didn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he turned his back on me and walked out of the bathroom without a word. Closing and locking the door from the outside as he went. A soon as I heard the lock click, I started to panic. What if he never came back? How badly had I screwed up?Chapter Eleven - WarrenIt might have been a bit rough. I was worried I might have gone too far, but it was also an excellent chance to test Amanda. It also wasn’t for nothing. As Moore would say, it was the only way she was going to learn.
The office wasn’t far from the bathroom. One hallway away on the third level, constituting two former bedrooms, gave me all the space I could want.
There was a story that all my money was inherited, but as with most things in the dinosaur media, this just wasn’t the case. I’d gotten an inheritance; that much was true. A rather large one, in fact. All of which was spent before I’d turned thirty. I was used to having everything and always insisted on buying the very best of everything.
I’d gotten it into my head soon after getting the money that I wanted to be a painter. It hadn’t come entirely out of nowhere. There was a rule in my family that to inherit, you had to have a job. The way we saw it, living off the family was for layabouts and European aristocrats.
While we’d gotten to the point of inherited wealth, the first few billion had come from hard work and sacrifice — as well as several very shrewd investments. Something that was never forgotten in later generations. The Protestant Work Ethic basically served as our unofficial family motto. As such, despite being filthy rich, every one of my relatives from my great-great-grandfather to the present day had an occupation if not a job. Something that kept their hands busy and, ideally, contributed something to the rest of society.
I’d loved the great works I’d seen on several trips to the museums of the world, sometimes under duress, and was just arrogant enough to think I could do the same thing. I wasn’t terrible. Everyone could tell what my paintings were supposed to be. I even sold a few to people who weren’t part of my immediate family. Yet and alas, I never did anything that approached the splendor of a Caravaggio or a Dali. Even the early Pre-Raphaelites seemed beyond my powers of creation.
The leather squeaked as I sat down in my specialty designed office chair. The entire office had been set up to my exact specifications. I needed a very particular environment for my mind to properly flow. My skills with programming far exceeding those with a brush. Though I did still indulge in paint and canvas on fairly regular occasions. It was a hard thing to shake once it got into my bones — like her.