let your soul fly

Your mouth pulls into a mocking smirk as his insufferably casual words replay in your mind. An afterthought, delivered just as your parents had been leaving, as though he had merely remembered to request an extra candle for his chambers.

They had not even objected.

That, perhaps, stings more than the command itself.

The fact that Ser Ormund had taken possession of her bedchamber seemed far more unsettling to your mother than his demand that her own daughter play a common serving girl for him.

But then, why should anyone trouble themselves over a widow who had already failed in the one duty expected of her? Your marriage had brought House Footly none of the prosperity promised, no lasting alliance, only a widow's blacks and the quiet disappointment your mother never failed to show you. 

And now you, the eldest daughter of House Footly, stand with a servant's tray balanced in your hands before your parents'... no…. Ser Ormund's bedchamber and stare at the iron handle, pondering how you are meant to open the door without sending Ormund's grand supper crashing spectacularly across the floor.

You shift the tray experimentally in an attempt to knock with your elbow and a goblet slides half an inch.

“Don't you dare,” you whisper to it as the door suddenly swings inward.

A startled sound escapes you, the tray tips dangerously and Ormund's hand shoots out, catching its edge before wine, supper, and your remaining dignity can tumble to the floor.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he says, “whether you intended to stand outside my door until the food went cold.”

You don’t look at him, at least you try not to but it’s rather difficult when the man has answered the door in a loosely tied robe, falling open in a deep, careless v-line across his chest. Your eyes drift lower and for one treacherous instant they stay on the spot where the folds of fabric finally meet at his waist before you wrench your attention back to the tray.

At least Ser Ormund is wearing trousers this time, you think with a smirk as you force your features into something resembling polite indifference.

Too late.

Ormund glances down at himself then back at you and the slow amusement that settles across his face is unbearable.

“Are you coming inside, or must I retrieve my supper from you piece by piece?” he says calmly. 

You lift your chin.

“I despise you.”

“Your mother has made it abundantly clear.”

“I said – I despise you.”

Ormund studies your face for a moment.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I heard you,” before stepping to the side.

An invitation or an order? With Ser Ormund Hightower, you suspect, there is very little difference. With a roll of your eyes you lift your chin even higher, step inside and head to the table to set down the tray.  

The feeling of being watched creeps under your skin the very moment you bend slightly down to begin arranging the dishes and cutlery. You ignore it until the unmistakable awareness of someone standing close behind you makes you turn sharply, nearly colliding with a broad chest.

There is scarcely a hand's breadth between you and Ormund. You take an instinctive step back. Ormund matches it with one forward.

Before you can say something, he leans in. You can feel the warmth of his breath against the side of your neck. 

Seven hells…

You close your eyes as you try to collect yourself, fighting against the heat climbing uninvited up your throat.

"...You are the most conceited..." you open your eyes and hiss. Ormund’s arm reaches out, his sleeve grazes your collarbone, the other hand braces on the table next to you as he leans further.

"...man," you finish weakly as Ormund’s hand closes around the wine flagon and without seeming to notice the way your cheeks lit up in deep crimson, he picks up a cup with his other hand and straightens only enough to pour it. 

He takes an unhurried sip before lowering the cup.

"I've found," he says with a smile that makes you regret your foolish decision against poisoning his wine before, "that most accusations of conceit are simply frustration in disguise."

You stare at him.

"I just poured myself some wine. What did you expect me to do?"

Words fail you for perhaps the first time in your life as you bite the inside of your cheek.

There is something sharp in his smile, something that makes your skin cribble.

He’s still too close, so close that you could probably count his eyelashes if you wanted, so close that you can catch the clean scent of soap lingering from his bath.

A thumb reaches the corner of your mouth and ghosts over your bottom lip.  

"You've made your point," you say. "The tray has been delivered."

"It has."

"So I'll leave."

"You seem eager."

"I am."

"I don't believe you."

Your laugh is short and sharp.

"You think I enjoy waiting upon the man who stole my home?"

"I think," Ormund replies evenly, "that if you truly wished to leave, you would have done so already."

The words catch you off guard.

"I was being polite."

"Were you?"

"Unlike some people."

His gaze flickers to the table.

"The cutlery is crooked."

You look down instinctively.

It is.

With an annoyed huff, you straighten the knife.

When you glance back, he looks openly amused.

“My lord enjoys making fun of people? You think that makes you more noble?” you lift your chin defiantly.

"I enjoy discovering how long it takes before they stop pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That they aren't curious."

"I am not curious."

"No?"

His brow lifts.

"You’ve been stealing  glances at me three times since I opened the door."

Heat rushes to your face.

"I most certainly did not."

"Liar."

"Maybe just once, to make sure you were decently dressed," you don’t sound very convincing right now.

"And, am I?"

His voice softens just enough to be dangerous.

Curse him.

"I despise you."

"I know."

You take another step back, determined to reclaim at least a little space between you, but your thighs hit the edge of the table.

Ormund’s eyes flick briefly to the table behind you, then back to your face.

"You've run out of room."

"I've run out of patience."

"I don't think so."

"Oh?"

"If you had," he says, "you would have slapped me by now."

Your heart stumbles.

"I've considered it."

"I imagine you have."

You brace your hands against the table, fingers gripping the edge. 

"It's too late for that now, don't you think, my fair lady?" 

He leans in again.

This time, the warmth of his breath ghosts across the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a shiver you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. His lips brush the line of your pulse. The contact is fleeting, almost teasing, yet it steals the air from your lungs all the same.

A thigh presses between your legs, parting them and you suck in a sharp breath as you lean heavily back on the table.

"Hush..." the single word is little more than a murmur.

The warmth of his breath brushes your ear, and your pulse answers before your pride can and for the first time since entering the chamber, your tongue fails you.

You know you ought to pull away, to swat his hand aside, to remind him exactly what you think of arrogant conquerors who mistake audacity for charm.

Instead, you find yourself held by the unwavering certainty in his gaze, infuriatingly aware of every point where he is almost, but not quite, touching you.

Seven save me! What are you doing? 

The question rings through your head, loud enough to drown out everything else.

You ought to hate him.

No, you do hate him! 

You despise every word that leaves his arrogant mouth.

Do you, really?

Then why can't you help but let your lips curl into a satisfied smile every time your traitorous mind insists on remembering this morning?

Your father's outrage.

Your mother's indignation.

The way both of them had expected to be met with apologies, explanations, negotiations...

...and instead found themselves calmly dismissed.

For the first time in your memory, someone had spoken to Lord and Lady Footly as though their displeasure simply... did not matter.

The realization had shocked you.

The satisfaction had shocked you even more.

It was ugly to admit, even to yourself.

You had spent years being reminded that your marriage had been a disappointment. Your parents had arranged it with all the confidence of merchants striking a profitable bargain. An elderly lord with fertile lands, generous coffers, and no surviving heir.

A prudent match, they had called it.

A fortunate one.

No one had asked whether you found fortune in becoming a nurse to a man old enough to be your father.

He had coughed more than he had spoken, slept more than he had laughed and within a year, he was dead.

Yet somehow, it was you who was left to answer for the failure of the match.

No lasting alliance had been forged, no child had been born to bind the two houses together and none of the wealth your parents had so confidently anticipated ever found its way to House Footly.

According to your late husband's will, every acre, every coin, every title passed neatly along the family line to his brother, while you, who had spent a year tending his fevers and measuring out his medicines, were not even mentioned.

You returned home in widow's black, from day one carrying everyone's disappointment like another layer of mourning.

It had been easier for them to resent you than to admit their careful calculations had failed.

Perhaps that was why watching Ormund unsettle them had felt so... satisfying.

He had looked your father in the eye without yielding an inch.

He had met your mother's outrage with infuriating composure.

He had reduced years of unquestioned authority to little more than an inconvenience standing in his doorway.

It was arrogant and insufferable, and somehow so magnificent.

You could still hear your mother's horrified gasp when Ser Ormund Hightower emerged from his bath with all the modesty of a man entirely untroubled by the existence of clothing.

You had very nearly laughed aloud.

Not because of your mother's expression.

Well... not only because of your mother's expression.

You had seen enough of your late husband to know that the gods did not distribute their gifts with any sense of fairness.

Ser Ormund, it seemed, had received rather more than his share.

Seven save me, you think, mortified, as the improperness of that observation hits you, then again, propriety had brought you an old husband, an early widowhood, and parents who measured your worth in coin.

Perhaps propriety had enjoyed enough victories for one lifetime.

Ormund's fingers slide beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes meet his. His thumb lingers for the briefest moment against the corner of your mouth, then ghosts your bottom lip.

"There," he says softly. "Much better."

His thumb presses more firmly against your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the soft flesh.

“Open.”

Your lips part for him on their own. His thumb slides between them, you close your mouth around it instinctively, swirling your tongue over the thick digit before sucking on it eagerly, almost greedy. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest.

“Good girl,” he whispers in your ear, the praise sliding through you like warm honey.

“See? It’s not that hard after all…” He presses his thumb harder against your tongue, holding it there for a heartbeat, then slowly drags it out. A soft, wet sound breaks the silence as it leaves your lips. “...to stop pretending.”

His fingers remain beneath your chin, holding your face tilted up to him, letting you feel the full weight of his body so close to yours, the heat rolling off him, the way your thighs are trapped against the table’s edge.

Every instinct screams at you to push him away, to salvage some scrap of dignity, but your body refuses to obey, your fingers only curl tighter around the edge of the desk to the point it hurts.

Ormund leans closer, stopping with only the smallest breath of space between your mouths. You can feel the warmth of every word before he speaks it.

"There is nothing shameful about curiosity, my fair lady," he murmurs. "And don't imagine for a moment that I failed to notice the way you looked at me this morning."

Your breath catches.

"During my exceedingly pleasant conversation with your mother."

The corner of his mouth quirks, thoroughly pleased with himself.

You swallow hard.

His gaze doesn't leave yours.

"Here's the bargain," he says quietly. "Tell me to stop."

A beat passes.

"Say the word now, and I will step away."

His voice remains calm, almost professorial, as though he were explaining some self-evident truth rather than standing close enough to unsettle every coherent thought in your head.

"But if you do not..."

He lets the sentence hang between you, studying your face with that infuriating, scholarly patience of his.

"...then I shall take your silence for what it is."

His nose brushes yours, then his mouth grazes your cheek, trailing slowly toward your ear. “Say it.” 

You open your mouth, but only a shaky exhale escapes. His lips curve against your skin in a faint, satisfied smile.

“No?” he breathes, pressing a feather-light kiss just beneath your ear. “Then be still, my lady.”

His hand slides from your chin to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking lazily along your throat. Each pass sends tiny sparks down your spine. 

Ormund’s breath fans across your ear, lips barely grazing your skin while he simply breathes you in.

His hand at your waist drifts lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip through your dress. He doesn’t tug or rush, he simply explores, learning the shape of you as if he has all the time in the world.

You whimper slightly as his palm slides down to the top of your thigh. It’s heavy and warm. Another soft, embarrassed sound escapes your throat. He smiles, slow and pleased, lips brushing your temple.

His fingers gather the fabric of your skirts, lifting them inch by inch. He pauses, thumb stroking soothing circles just above your knee.

He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear again as his hand slips between your thighs. The first brush of his fingertips along your inner thigh makes your knees tremble. He feels it immediately.

“You’re trembling,” he observes softly as his fingers glide higher. “Easy,” he whispers, steadying you with the hand still at your neck. “Just my fingers for now. Breathe.” 

You gasp as his fingers start to brush your pulsing bundle through your underwear. Your heart starts racing even faster, each thumping beat pulsing between your legs as you struggle to calm your breathing that threatens to spill into moans at any second if those thick fingers won’t stop their slow, torturous movement.  

Ormund watches your face the entire time, cataloging every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your lashes.

It’s been so long since anybody has touched you like this. No, that’s a lie. No one has ever touched you like this. 

Your wedding night had been awkward, brief, and disappointing. The few fleeting encounters you’d allowed yourself in the years since, some desperate attempts to feel something, anything, beyond the crushing monotony of your days, had been cold, transactional, and hollow. 

But this… he hasn’t even fucked you yet… by the Seven how does he do that and why does it have to be him?

“You’re thinking too much,” Ormund murmurs, as his hand slips inside your underwear. A thick, callused finger glides through your soaking wet folds and stops at your entrance. 

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “So wet. Is this what I do to you, my lady?”

You shake your head trying to deny the undeniable. Ormund smiles, that knowing, arrogant smile of him that makes you want to slap him. 

“I can feel it. Your mind is fighting, but your body… your body is welcoming me,” he slides one thick finger just inside you, barely to the first knuckle, then stills, letting you feel it. 

Fuuuuck, why does it feel so good? More, you need more… your hips jerk forward, your head snaps back and you moan, raw and unrestrained, as Ormund pushes deeper, watching every flicker of pleasure and embarrassment cross your face.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So tight. So responsive. Your body is starved for this, isn’t it?”

“Mmmmm… mmhhh,” is the only thing that rolls over your lips, your body reacts instinctively, muscles clenching around him, spine arching, fingers gripping tighter around the edge of the desk as you melt into the sensation, legs falling open just a little bit more, surrendering. 

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he rasps, voice dark and soothing. “No one has taken care of you but I will.”

A helpless whimper escapes you. Shame and arousal twist together so tightly you can barely breathe. Your hips twitch involuntarily against his hand. 

Why does it feel so good? Why does his voice make everything worse … and better? Oh, fuck, he’s good...  so… so good…

“Ahh-ahhh,” your moan is barely muffled as he pushes deeper, thumb stroking firmer over your pearl, fingers curling against the wall of your core and pressing into that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. 

“Ser Ormund, I need to talk to you,” your mothers voice suddenly cuts through the closed door the same moment as Ormund presses a second finger alongside the first. Your hand flies to your mouth as you try to stifle the moan that claws through you. 

“No, don’t do this,” he smirks. “Don’t fight it. It’s all right, let me hear you. The Seven have made you for this,” that velvety voice edged with steel is killing you, not that those fingers inside you, curling, stretching, teasing, his thumb brushing firm, controlled circles against your pulsing bundle, is making it any easier to gather any coherent thought.  

You should feel ashamed, you should feel embarrassed. 

You don’t care. You can’t. Your head is spinning, thoughts dissolving, and every last bit of your self-control is fading away, all your senses dulled and consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, by that hypnotic voice dripping filth into your ear.  

“Tell me how good it feels,” he orders.

“Fuck… yes,... oh gods, it feels so good…,” you moan, grinding your hips into his hand, greedy for every friction you can catch, your body shakes as you feel his fingers move faster, expertly working you toward the edge and then you’re coming undone, like a common whore, pressed against the edge of the table, skirts rucked up, legs spread, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers and juices soaking his hand and running down your inner thighs. 

Your knees almost buckle and Ormund’s other arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you closer as he holds you upright.

Your eyes are heavy and half lidded, your head falls against his shoulder, your underwear is ruined, completely drenched, and your hips keep rocking instinctively chasing the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. 

“Breathe, my lady,” Ormund’s voice is a dark purr in your ear and it slowly brings you back to reality, as he withdraws his fingers from you. You whine quietly, your pussy twitching at the loss. 

Ormund is watching you, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his gaze, his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a teasing ghost of a touch.

 “Ser Ormund… it’s urgent,” another impatient knock on the door makes him wince in annoyance.

Ormund pulls you back against his chest, while his hand captures yours, guiding it downward and pressing your palm against the hardness straining beneath his pants.

Fuck, even through the fabric, you can feel him hot and pulsing. 

“I know what you want right now. Want me to ruin you, don’t you? Right here and now with your mother listening behind the door. Want me to fuck that tight, greedy pussy of yours, until you can’t walk anymore?” he murmurs against your ear and all you can do is swallow a needy wine and bite your lip to prevent it turning into a moan.

“Believe me, sweet thing, I will. I know what you need and I’m gonna give it to you,” his fingers slide up your inner thigh again, making you shudder. 

Sevel hells, you want him, you want him so badly it almost hurts. You want him fucking loose that arrogant composure, you want him moaning your name the same way you just moaned his and you don;t give a damn who is standing outside that door. 

The thought of fucking Se Ormund in your mother’s bedchambers with her battering the door from outside and begging for his attention is far more exciting than you had ever expected. 

“I want you to put that pretty mouth of yours to work, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?” his other hand reaches for your neck as he pulls you closer, thumb brushing your pulse line. 

You straighten yourself and reach for him, fingers slightly shaking. The single knot keeping his bathrobe halfway together yields in a breathstime. The laces of his breeches are more stubborn and your fingers are trembling.  Your hand slips inside, wrapping around his pulsing length and you pull him out.

Ormund inhales, drawing air through his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest, as your fingers tease over his leaking tip. 

His fingers weave through the strands of your hair with just enough force to make your scalp tingle. His grip tightens and he urges you down, his silent command unmistakable.

You glance up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, watching you, waiting.

Your fingers trail along his length, teasing, feeling the weight of him in your palm. Fuck, he’s big, thick, hot, pulsing against your skin.

Slowly, eyes still on him, you sink down, your knees hit the ground and your lips are already parting as you let your tongue flick over the swollen tip, tasting the beads of precum gathering there. 

Ormund exhales sharply, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dissipating in the thumping sound of your own heartbeat.

You take him deeper, wrapping your lips around him, savoring the way his breath hitches as he disappears into the wet heat of your mouth. His hand stays buried in your hair, firm but not cruel, guiding you in a slow, deliberate rhythm, up, down, deeper, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Take me just like that. Slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth of yours.” 

His voice drops into that low, rough register that makes your thighs press together as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, the thick head of his cock sliding over your tongue and toward the back of your throat. 

“Lady Footly, you may enter,” he turns his head slightly toward the door and calls out with a smirk. 

The door creaks open. Hurried footsteps approach and your body freezes mid-motion.

Adrenaline floods your veins, sharp and electric, making your heart hammer in your chest. Panic and arousal collide violently inside you, but Ormund’s hand in your hair holds you exactly where he wants you. You’re kneeling, mouth full, unable to pull away.

The control of it steals your breath. Shame burns hot in your chest but also something darker, something intoxicating, that you have never felt before.

Your mother steps into the room and comes to an abrupt halt. Ormund stands with his back to the door, his body and the open edges of his robe shielding you almost completely from view. Almost. 

His grip tightens in your hair. Unhurriedly he guides you back down onto his cock, resuming the slow, wet rhythm of your mouth as if nothing in the world has changed.

“Ser Ormund… what… what are you doing?” your mother’s voice cracks with shock as the lazy roll of his hips and the muffled, helpless sound you make around him leave no room for doubt.

Your heart is hammering so hard it hurts. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, yet Ormund does not release you. He tilts your head just slightly, adjusting the angle so he can sink a fraction deeper, and the stretch of your throat makes your lashes flutter. 

“As you can see, I am rather engaged at the moment, Lady Footly.” He glances over his shoulder with a faint, unrepentant smirk, voice calm, almost lazy. “But you nearly broke my chamber doors, so I assumed the matter must be of the utmost urgency. Speak, if you must.”

Ormund’s thumb brushes the corner of your stretched lips, while his other hand stays buried in your hair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs looking down at you. “Stay right there. Quietly. Let her finish her business while you finish yours.”

You can’t see your mother. Ormund’s broad frame completely blocks your view, and your own disheveled hair falls forward like a curtain across your face. All you have are the sounds: the sharp rustle of her skirts, the short, indignant scoff she makes… and then the strangled, mortified gasp as it suddenly hits her what exactly Ser Ormund is busy with.

You should feel ashamed. 

You feel nothing but hot, burning need twisting low in your core as you suck harder. Ormund’s head tips back with a low, unrestrained groan of pleasure. The sound rolls through you like liquid heat.

You’re on your knees sucking the very man’s dick who has taken your family’s home. 

Your mother is dying from embarrassment behind his back.

Seven hells, you have never been more aroused in your whole life. 

Your tongue glides along the thick vein running down Ormund’s length and you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling him twitch against your tongue. His groan is low and guttural, barely restrained. The sound alone makes your empty core clench desperately around nothing.

“I… I…” your mother’s voice cracks, thin and horrified.

There is a frantic scramble of footsteps. Fabric hisses as she spins around. You hear the sharp, panicked intake of her breath, the hurried, almost stumbling retreat across the floorboards, and then the heavy slam of the chamber door as she flees.

Your own pulse pounds in your ears. A slow, wicked smile curves around his cock.

"Just like that," he rasps, his hips jerking slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth.

You take him deeper, moaning around him, letting the vibration send a shudder through his entire body.

"Fucking hell…," Ormund’s hand tightens in your hair, his chest rising and falling unevenly.  You can feel how close he is to letting go and coming undone right here and now. The thought alone makes you throb between your legs, but before you can push him over that edge, his fingers grip your scalp harshly and he pulls you off his sock by the hair with a slick pop. 

Your lips are wet, swollen, and you look up at him, dazed, your breath coming in short gasps, Ormund smirks down at you, his chest heaving, his cock still thick and flushed in your hand.

"Naughty little thing, you enjoyed our little show didn’t you?" he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, his voice rough with barely-contained lust. "That was good. But I’m not done with you yet."

He hauls you up. His mouth hovers just above yours, as he whispers against your lips, low and filthy: 

“Do you want me to fuck you? Want Daddy to take care of you? Poor little thing… I know you do. I know you’ve been starving for this.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already moving. Hands slide under your thighs and lift you onto the desk. 

Your ruined panties hit the floor. The broad head of his cock is already pressed against your entrance with his hand on the small of your back as he holds you in place.

“You know how to play this game, don’t you?” he asks, eyes boring into you. You nod, swallowing hard.

Your mind is hazy, body burning, every nerve tuned to him but there’s no fear, no hesitation, only raw, unfiltered desire.

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as he thrusts forward and fills you completely in one deep stroke. Your body shudders hard around the sudden, thick stretch of him.

One of his hands wraps around your throat, while the other digs into the soft flesh of your ass beneath your dress. 

Nothing else exists anymore. 

Everything fades away, the only thing that matters is Ormund and his cock twitching inside you, stretching you just right, the firm grip on your throat.

You don’t care about anything, there is no room for shame or doubt in your mind.

And then he fucks you. 

His hips snap forward in harsh, powerful thrusts, driving into you harder, deeper. His grip on your throat tightens. 

Not too much, not too far, just enough to make your head spin, and soon, you're a mess, a drooling, moaning, wrecked mess, every coherent thought shattered. 

The desk creaks beneath you as Ormund fucks you with deep, relentless strokes, burying himself to the hilt again and again. His hand grips your ass hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto every thrust.

“Look at you,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and dark with satisfaction. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.” 

His fingers tighten just slightly around your throat. He feels the way your walls flutter and clench hard around him in answer.

“That’s it. Squeeze me. Show me how much you need this.”

Your head falls back, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. You can barely form words, only raw, broken moans spill from your lips with every deep snap of his hips as the wet, filthy sound of your body taking him fills the room.

“Louder,” he commands, easing the pressure on your throat just enough to let you speak.

Your voice comes out wrecked and raw.

“More…” you moan. “Please… I need more…”

A dark, pleased sound rumbles deep in his chest. He rewards you by shifting the angle of his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist. 

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, almost painful in its intensity.

You come with a strangled, broken moan, nails digging hard into his forearms as your body clamps down around him.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, voice thick with approval. His hand flexes around your throat again as he fucks you straight through the climax. Deep, relentless thrusts, never slowing.

You can feel him swelling even thicker inside you, his breath comes hot and ragged against your cheek.

He doesn’t stop, he shifts again, angling deeper, and the new pressure makes your vision blur. Another broken moan spills from your lips. Your nails scrape down his arms, the haze of your first orgasm hasn’t really faded as you feel the pleasure start building all over again.

You can’t control it anymore, you let yourself sink back on the desk, Ormund pushes your legs up over his shoulders as he keeps pounding into you. 

“You’re going to come again,” he tells you, voice low and certain. “I can feel it. That tight little cunt is already fluttering around me.” His next thrust is especially deep, punching a sharp cry from your throat. “Do it. Come on my cock one more time, and I’ll fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be claimed. To be full of me.”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your head spins as he fucks you without mercy.

Every thrust drives you higher, the overstimulation bordering on too much until the second climax crashes over you hard and sudden. Your body seizes around him, a broken, wordless cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down in powerful, rhythmic pulses. 

“Fuck… yes,” Ormund snarls, voice raw. The tight, fluttering heat of you milking him is the last thing he needs. His rhythm stutters, then turns almost brutal for a few final strokes. With a low, guttural groan he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside you in long, heavy pulses.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. Instead he stays close, letting you feel the residual heat and the slow, soft pulses of him still inside you.

When he finally withdraws, the loss is sudden and intimate. A soft, wet sound accompanies it, and you feel the warm trickle of his release beginning to slip from you. Ormund steadies you with both hands at your waist, helping you sit more securely on the edge of the desk while your legs still tremble.

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

He gathers your hair in one fist and pulls it aside, exposing your neck. His mouth follows, pressing a firm, claiming kiss on your collarbone.

“Who would have thought Lady Footly could be such a greedy little slut,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “No one has ever fucked you properly, have they? No one has ever taken care of this greedy little cunt the way it needed.”

His hand unhurriedly slides up your thigh, fingers coating in the slick dripping down your legs, until they reach still-sensitive heat between your legs. He doesn’t push inside, just stays there.

“You came so hard for me,” he continues, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Twice. And still this needy little thing is fluttering under my hand like it wants more.” A soft, mocking click of his tongue. “Starving. That’s what you were. Starving for a man who would actually use you the way you were meant to be used.”

He presses a firmer kiss to the side of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“I’ll be waiting for my supper tomorrow evening,” he says, his hand still between your thighs, brushing slightly through your folds. “And we both know this greedy little cunt will be waiting for me too… won’t it?”

You suck in a shaky breath, feeling the faint throb of your own pulse where his fingers press into your core, making heat coil low in your belly.

Your mouth pulls into a mocking smirk as his insufferably casual words replay in your mind. An afterthought, delivered just as your parents had been leaving, as though he had merely remembered to request an extra candle for his chambers.

They had not even objected.

That, perhaps, stings more than the command itself.

The fact that Ser Ormund had taken possession of her bedchamber seemed far more unsettling to your mother than his demand that her own daughter play a common serving girl for him.

But then, why should anyone trouble themselves over a widow who had already failed in the one duty expected of her? Your marriage had brought House Footly none of the prosperity promised, no lasting alliance, only a widow's blacks and the quiet disappointment your mother never failed to show you. 

And now you, the eldest daughter of House Footly, stand with a servant's tray balanced in your hands before your parents'... no…. Ser Ormund's bedchamber and stare at the iron handle, pondering how you are meant to open the door without sending Ormund's grand supper crashing spectacularly across the floor.

You shift the tray experimentally in an attempt to knock with your elbow and a goblet slides half an inch.

“Don't you dare,” you whisper to it as the door suddenly swings inward.

A startled sound escapes you, the tray tips dangerously and Ormund's hand shoots out, catching its edge before wine, supper, and your remaining dignity can tumble to the floor.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he says, “whether you intended to stand outside my door until the food went cold.”

You don’t look at him, at least you try not to but it’s rather difficult when the man has answered the door in a loosely tied robe, falling open in a deep, careless v-line across his chest. Your eyes drift lower and for one treacherous instant they stay on the spot where the folds of fabric finally meet at his waist before you wrench your attention back to the tray.

At least Ser Ormund is wearing trousers this time, you think with a smirk as you force your features into something resembling polite indifference.

Too late.

Ormund glances down at himself then back at you and the slow amusement that settles across his face is unbearable.

“Are you coming inside, or must I retrieve my supper from you piece by piece?” he says calmly. 

You lift your chin.

“I despise you.”

“Your mother has made it abundantly clear.”

“I said – I despise you.”

Ormund studies your face for a moment.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I heard you,” before stepping to the side.

An invitation or an order? With Ser Ormund Hightower, you suspect, there is very little difference. With a roll of your eyes you lift your chin even higher, step inside and head to the table to set down the tray.  

The feeling of being watched creeps under your skin the very moment you bend slightly down to begin arranging the dishes and cutlery. You ignore it until the unmistakable awareness of someone standing close behind you makes you turn sharply, nearly colliding with a broad chest.

There is scarcely a hand's breadth between you and Ormund. You take an instinctive step back. Ormund matches it with one forward.

Before you can say something, he leans in. You can feel the warmth of his breath against the side of your neck. 

Seven hells…

You close your eyes as you try to collect yourself, fighting against the heat climbing uninvited up your throat.

"...You are the most conceited..." you open your eyes and hiss. Ormund’s arm reaches out, his sleeve grazes your collarbone, the other hand braces on the table next to you as he leans further.

"...man," you finish weakly as Ormund’s hand closes around the wine flagon and without seeming to notice the way your cheeks lit up in deep crimson, he picks up a cup with his other hand and straightens only enough to pour it. 

He takes an unhurried sip before lowering the cup.

"I've found," he says with a smile that makes you regret your foolish decision against poisoning his wine before, "that most accusations of conceit are simply frustration in disguise."

You stare at him.

"I just poured myself some wine. What did you expect me to do?"

Words fail you for perhaps the first time in your life as you bite the inside of your cheek.

There is something sharp in his smile, something that makes your skin cribble.

He’s still too close, so close that you could probably count his eyelashes if you wanted, so close that you can catch the clean scent of soap lingering from his bath.

A thumb reaches the corner of your mouth and ghosts over your bottom lip.  

"You've made your point," you say. "The tray has been delivered."

"It has."

"So I'll leave."

"You seem eager."

"I am."

"I don't believe you."

Your laugh is short and sharp.

"You think I enjoy waiting upon the man who stole my home?"

"I think," Ormund replies evenly, "that if you truly wished to leave, you would have done so already."

The words catch you off guard.

"I was being polite."

"Were you?"

"Unlike some people."

His gaze flickers to the table.

"The cutlery is crooked."

You look down instinctively.

It is.

With an annoyed huff, you straighten the knife.

When you glance back, he looks openly amused.

“My lord enjoys making fun of people? You think that makes you more noble?” you lift your chin defiantly.

"I enjoy discovering how long it takes before they stop pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That they aren't curious."

"I am not curious."

"No?"

His brow lifts.

"You’ve been stealing  glances at me three times since I opened the door."

Heat rushes to your face.

"I most certainly did not."

"Liar."

"Maybe just once, to make sure you were decently dressed," you don’t sound very convincing right now.

"And, am I?"

His voice softens just enough to be dangerous.

Curse him.

"I despise you."

"I know."

You take another step back, determined to reclaim at least a little space between you, but your thighs hit the edge of the table.

Ormund’s eyes flick briefly to the table behind you, then back to your face.

"You've run out of room."

"I've run out of patience."

"I don't think so."

"Oh?"

"If you had," he says, "you would have slapped me by now."

Your heart stumbles.

"I've considered it."

"I imagine you have."

You brace your hands against the table, fingers gripping the edge. 

"It's too late for that now, don't you think, my fair lady?" 

He leans in again.

This time, the warmth of his breath ghosts across the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a shiver you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. His lips brush the line of your pulse. The contact is fleeting, almost teasing, yet it steals the air from your lungs all the same.

A thigh presses between your legs, parting them and you suck in a sharp breath as you lean heavily back on the table.

"Hush..." the single word is little more than a murmur.

The warmth of his breath brushes your ear, and your pulse answers before your pride can and for the first time since entering the chamber, your tongue fails you.

You know you ought to pull away, to swat his hand aside, to remind him exactly what you think of arrogant conquerors who mistake audacity for charm.

Instead, you find yourself held by the unwavering certainty in his gaze, infuriatingly aware of every point where he is almost, but not quite, touching you.

Seven save me! What are you doing? 

The question rings through your head, loud enough to drown out everything else.

You ought to hate him.

No, you do hate him! 

You despise every word that leaves his arrogant mouth.

Do you, really?

Then why can't you help but let your lips curl into a satisfied smile every time your traitorous mind insists on remembering this morning?

Your father's outrage.

Your mother's indignation.

The way both of them had expected to be met with apologies, explanations, negotiations...

...and instead found themselves calmly dismissed.

For the first time in your memory, someone had spoken to Lord and Lady Footly as though their displeasure simply... did not matter.

The realization had shocked you.

The satisfaction had shocked you even more.

It was ugly to admit, even to yourself.

You had spent years being reminded that your marriage had been a disappointment. Your parents had arranged it with all the confidence of merchants striking a profitable bargain. An elderly lord with fertile lands, generous coffers, and no surviving heir.

A prudent match, they had called it.

A fortunate one.

No one had asked whether you found fortune in becoming a nurse to a man old enough to be your father.

He had coughed more than he had spoken, slept more than he had laughed and within a year, he was dead.

Yet somehow, it was you who was left to answer for the failure of the match.

No lasting alliance had been forged, no child had been born to bind the two houses together and none of the wealth your parents had so confidently anticipated ever found its way to House Footly.

According to your late husband's will, every acre, every coin, every title passed neatly along the family line to his brother, while you, who had spent a year tending his fevers and measuring out his medicines, were not even mentioned.

You returned home in widow's black, from day one carrying everyone's disappointment like another layer of mourning.

It had been easier for them to resent you than to admit their careful calculations had failed.

Perhaps that was why watching Ormund unsettle them had felt so... satisfying.

He had looked your father in the eye without yielding an inch.

He had met your mother's outrage with infuriating composure.

He had reduced years of unquestioned authority to little more than an inconvenience standing in his doorway.

It was arrogant and insufferable, and somehow so magnificent.

You could still hear your mother's horrified gasp when Ser Ormund Hightower emerged from his bath with all the modesty of a man entirely untroubled by the existence of clothing.

You had very nearly laughed aloud.

Not because of your mother's expression.

Well... not only because of your mother's expression.

You had seen enough of your late husband to know that the gods did not distribute their gifts with any sense of fairness.

Ser Ormund, it seemed, had received rather more than his share.

Seven save me, you think, mortified, as the improperness of that observation hits you, then again, propriety had brought you an old husband, an early widowhood, and parents who measured your worth in coin.

Perhaps propriety had enjoyed enough victories for one lifetime.

Ormund's fingers slide beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes meet his. His thumb lingers for the briefest moment against the corner of your mouth, then ghosts your bottom lip.

"There," he says softly. "Much better."

His thumb presses more firmly against your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the soft flesh.

“Open.”

Your lips part for him on their own. His thumb slides between them, you close your mouth around it instinctively, swirling your tongue over the thick digit before sucking on it eagerly, almost greedy. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest.

“Good girl,” he whispers in your ear, the praise sliding through you like warm honey.

“See? It’s not that hard after all…” He presses his thumb harder against your tongue, holding it there for a heartbeat, then slowly drags it out. A soft, wet sound breaks the silence as it leaves your lips. “...to stop pretending.”

His fingers remain beneath your chin, holding your face tilted up to him, letting you feel the full weight of his body so close to yours, the heat rolling off him, the way your thighs are trapped against the table’s edge.

Every instinct screams at you to push him away, to salvage some scrap of dignity, but your body refuses to obey, your fingers only curl tighter around the edge of the desk to the point it hurts.

Ormund leans closer, stopping with only the smallest breath of space between your mouths. You can feel the warmth of every word before he speaks it.

"There is nothing shameful about curiosity, my fair lady," he murmurs. "And don't imagine for a moment that I failed to notice the way you looked at me this morning."

Your breath catches.

"During my exceedingly pleasant conversation with your mother."

The corner of his mouth quirks, thoroughly pleased with himself.

You swallow hard.

His gaze doesn't leave yours.

"Here's the bargain," he says quietly. "Tell me to stop."

A beat passes.

"Say the word now, and I will step away."

His voice remains calm, almost professorial, as though he were explaining some self-evident truth rather than standing close enough to unsettle every coherent thought in your head.

"But if you do not..."

He lets the sentence hang between you, studying your face with that infuriating, scholarly patience of his.

"...then I shall take your silence for what it is."

His nose brushes yours, then his mouth grazes your cheek, trailing slowly toward your ear. “Say it.” 

You open your mouth, but only a shaky exhale escapes. His lips curve against your skin in a faint, satisfied smile.

“No?” he breathes, pressing a feather-light kiss just beneath your ear. “Then be still, my lady.”

His hand slides from your chin to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking lazily along your throat. Each pass sends tiny sparks down your spine. 

Ormund’s breath fans across your ear, lips barely grazing your skin while he simply breathes you in.

His hand at your waist drifts lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hip through your dress. He doesn’t tug or rush, he simply explores, learning the shape of you as if he has all the time in the world.

You whimper slightly as his palm slides down to the top of your thigh. It’s heavy and warm. Another soft, embarrassed sound escapes your throat. He smiles, slow and pleased, lips brushing your temple.

His fingers gather the fabric of your skirts, lifting them inch by inch. He pauses, thumb stroking soothing circles just above your knee.

He leans in closer, lips grazing your ear again as his hand slips between your thighs. The first brush of his fingertips along your inner thigh makes your knees tremble. He feels it immediately.

“You’re trembling,” he observes softly as his fingers glide higher. “Easy,” he whispers, steadying you with the hand still at your neck. “Just my fingers for now. Breathe.” 

You gasp as his fingers start to brush your pulsing bundle through your underwear. Your heart starts racing even faster, each thumping beat pulsing between your legs as you struggle to calm your breathing that threatens to spill into moans at any second if those thick fingers won’t stop their slow, torturous movement.  

Ormund watches your face the entire time, cataloging every hitch in your breath, every twitch of your lashes.

It’s been so long since anybody has touched you like this. No, that’s a lie. No one has ever touched you like this. 

Your wedding night had been awkward, brief, and disappointing. The few fleeting encounters you’d allowed yourself in the years since, some desperate attempts to feel something, anything, beyond the crushing monotony of your days, had been cold, transactional, and hollow. 

But this… he hasn’t even fucked you yet… by the Seven how does he do that and why does it have to be him?

“You’re thinking too much,” Ormund murmurs, as his hand slips inside your underwear. A thick, callused finger glides through your soaking wet folds and stops at your entrance. 

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest. “So wet. Is this what I do to you, my lady?”

You shake your head trying to deny the undeniable. Ormund smiles, that knowing, arrogant smile of him that makes you want to slap him. 

“I can feel it. Your mind is fighting, but your body… your body is welcoming me,” he slides one thick finger just inside you, barely to the first knuckle, then stills, letting you feel it. 

Fuuuuck, why does it feel so good? More, you need more… your hips jerk forward, your head snaps back and you moan, raw and unrestrained, as Ormund pushes deeper, watching every flicker of pleasure and embarrassment cross your face.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So tight. So responsive. Your body is starved for this, isn’t it?”

“Mmmmm… mmhhh,” is the only thing that rolls over your lips, your body reacts instinctively, muscles clenching around him, spine arching, fingers gripping tighter around the edge of the desk as you melt into the sensation, legs falling open just a little bit more, surrendering. 

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he rasps, voice dark and soothing. “No one has taken care of you but I will.”

A helpless whimper escapes you. Shame and arousal twist together so tightly you can barely breathe. Your hips twitch involuntarily against his hand. 

Why does it feel so good? Why does his voice make everything worse … and better? Oh, fuck, he’s good...  so… so good…

“Ahh-ahhh,” your moan is barely muffled as he pushes deeper, thumb stroking firmer over your pearl, fingers curling against the wall of your core and pressing into that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. 

“Ser Ormund, I need to talk to you,” your mothers voice suddenly cuts through the closed door the same moment as Ormund presses a second finger alongside the first. Your hand flies to your mouth as you try to stifle the moan that claws through you. 

“No, don’t do this,” he smirks. “Don’t fight it. It’s all right, let me hear you. The Seven have made you for this,” that velvety voice edged with steel is killing you, not that those fingers inside you, curling, stretching, teasing, his thumb brushing firm, controlled circles against your pulsing bundle, is making it any easier to gather any coherent thought.  

You should feel ashamed, you should feel embarrassed. 

You don’t care. You can’t. Your head is spinning, thoughts dissolving, and every last bit of your self-control is fading away, all your senses dulled and consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, by that hypnotic voice dripping filth into your ear.  

“Tell me how good it feels,” he orders.

“Fuck… yes,... oh gods, it feels so good…,” you moan, grinding your hips into his hand, greedy for every friction you can catch, your body shakes as you feel his fingers move faster, expertly working you toward the edge and then you’re coming undone, like a common whore, pressed against the edge of the table, skirts rucked up, legs spread, thighs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers and juices soaking his hand and running down your inner thighs. 

Your knees almost buckle and Ormund’s other arm sneaks around your waist, pulling you closer as he holds you upright.

Your eyes are heavy and half lidded, your head falls against his shoulder, your underwear is ruined, completely drenched, and your hips keep rocking instinctively chasing the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. 

“Breathe, my lady,” Ormund’s voice is a dark purr in your ear and it slowly brings you back to reality, as he withdraws his fingers from you. You whine quietly, your pussy twitching at the loss. 

Ormund is watching you, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his gaze, his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a teasing ghost of a touch.

 “Ser Ormund… it’s urgent,” another impatient knock on the door makes him wince in annoyance.

Ormund pulls you back against his chest, while his hand captures yours, guiding it downward and pressing your palm against the hardness straining beneath his pants.

Fuck, even through the fabric, you can feel him hot and pulsing. 

“I know what you want right now. Want me to ruin you, don’t you? Right here and now with your mother listening behind the door. Want me to fuck that tight, greedy pussy of yours, until you can’t walk anymore?” he murmurs against your ear and all you can do is swallow a needy wine and bite your lip to prevent it turning into a moan.

“Believe me, sweet thing, I will. I know what you need and I’m gonna give it to you,” his fingers slide up your inner thigh again, making you shudder. 

Sevel hells, you want him, you want him so badly it almost hurts. You want him fucking loose that arrogant composure, you want him moaning your name the same way you just moaned his and you don;t give a damn who is standing outside that door. 

The thought of fucking Se Ormund in your mother’s bedchambers with her battering the door from outside and begging for his attention is far more exciting than you had ever expected. 

“I want you to put that pretty mouth of yours to work, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?” his other hand reaches for your neck as he pulls you closer, thumb brushing your pulse line. 

You straighten yourself and reach for him, fingers slightly shaking. The single knot keeping his bathrobe halfway together yields in a breathstime. The laces of his breeches are more stubborn and your fingers are trembling.  Your hand slips inside, wrapping around his pulsing length and you pull him out.

Ormund inhales, drawing air through his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest, as your fingers tease over his leaking tip. 

His fingers weave through the strands of your hair with just enough force to make your scalp tingle. His grip tightens and he urges you down, his silent command unmistakable.

You glance up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, watching you, waiting.

Your fingers trail along his length, teasing, feeling the weight of him in your palm. Fuck, he’s big, thick, hot, pulsing against your skin.

Slowly, eyes still on him, you sink down, your knees hit the ground and your lips are already parting as you let your tongue flick over the swollen tip, tasting the beads of precum gathering there. 

Ormund exhales sharply, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dissipating in the thumping sound of your own heartbeat.

You take him deeper, wrapping your lips around him, savoring the way his breath hitches as he disappears into the wet heat of your mouth. His hand stays buried in your hair, firm but not cruel, guiding you in a slow, deliberate rhythm, up, down, deeper, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching you with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Take me just like that. Slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth of yours.” 

His voice drops into that low, rough register that makes your thighs press together as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, the thick head of his cock sliding over your tongue and toward the back of your throat. 

“Lady Footly, you may enter,” he turns his head slightly toward the door and calls out with a smirk. 

The door creaks open. Hurried footsteps approach and your body freezes mid-motion.

Adrenaline floods your veins, sharp and electric, making your heart hammer in your chest. Panic and arousal collide violently inside you, but Ormund’s hand in your hair holds you exactly where he wants you. You’re kneeling, mouth full, unable to pull away.

The control of it steals your breath. Shame burns hot in your chest but also something darker, something intoxicating, that you have never felt before.

Your mother steps into the room and comes to an abrupt halt. Ormund stands with his back to the door, his body and the open edges of his robe shielding you almost completely from view. Almost. 

His grip tightens in your hair. Unhurriedly he guides you back down onto his cock, resuming the slow, wet rhythm of your mouth as if nothing in the world has changed.

“Ser Ormund… what… what are you doing?” your mother’s voice cracks with shock as the lazy roll of his hips and the muffled, helpless sound you make around him leave no room for doubt.

Your heart is hammering so hard it hurts. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, yet Ormund does not release you. He tilts your head just slightly, adjusting the angle so he can sink a fraction deeper, and the stretch of your throat makes your lashes flutter. 

“As you can see, I am rather engaged at the moment, Lady Footly.” He glances over his shoulder with a faint, unrepentant smirk, voice calm, almost lazy. “But you nearly broke my chamber doors, so I assumed the matter must be of the utmost urgency. Speak, if you must.”

Ormund’s thumb brushes the corner of your stretched lips, while his other hand stays buried in your hair.

“Good girl,” he murmurs looking down at you. “Stay right there. Quietly. Let her finish her business while you finish yours.”

You can’t see your mother. Ormund’s broad frame completely blocks your view, and your own disheveled hair falls forward like a curtain across your face. All you have are the sounds: the sharp rustle of her skirts, the short, indignant scoff she makes… and then the strangled, mortified gasp as it suddenly hits her what exactly Ser Ormund is busy with.

You should feel ashamed. 

You feel nothing but hot, burning need twisting low in your core as you suck harder. Ormund’s head tips back with a low, unrestrained groan of pleasure. The sound rolls through you like liquid heat.

You’re on your knees sucking the very man’s dick who has taken your family’s home. 

Your mother is dying from embarrassment behind his back.

Seven hells, you have never been more aroused in your whole life. 

Your tongue glides along the thick vein running down Ormund’s length and you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling him twitch against your tongue. His groan is low and guttural, barely restrained. The sound alone makes your empty core clench desperately around nothing.

“I… I…” your mother’s voice cracks, thin and horrified.

There is a frantic scramble of footsteps. Fabric hisses as she spins around. You hear the sharp, panicked intake of her breath, the hurried, almost stumbling retreat across the floorboards, and then the heavy slam of the chamber door as she flees.

Your own pulse pounds in your ears. A slow, wicked smile curves around his cock.

"Just like that," he rasps, his hips jerking slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth.

You take him deeper, moaning around him, letting the vibration send a shudder through his entire body.

"Fucking hell…," Ormund’s hand tightens in your hair, his chest rising and falling unevenly.  You can feel how close he is to letting go and coming undone right here and now. The thought alone makes you throb between your legs, but before you can push him over that edge, his fingers grip your scalp harshly and he pulls you off his sock by the hair with a slick pop. 

Your lips are wet, swollen, and you look up at him, dazed, your breath coming in short gasps, Ormund smirks down at you, his chest heaving, his cock still thick and flushed in your hand.

"Naughty little thing, you enjoyed our little show didn’t you?" he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, his voice rough with barely-contained lust. "That was good. But I’m not done with you yet."

He hauls you up. His mouth hovers just above yours, as he whispers against your lips, low and filthy: 

“Do you want me to fuck you? Want Daddy to take care of you? Poor little thing… I know you do. I know you’ve been starving for this.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already moving. Hands slide under your thighs and lift you onto the desk. 

Your ruined panties hit the floor. The broad head of his cock is already pressed against your entrance with his hand on the small of your back as he holds you in place.

“You know how to play this game, don’t you?” he asks, eyes boring into you. You nod, swallowing hard.

Your mind is hazy, body burning, every nerve tuned to him but there’s no fear, no hesitation, only raw, unfiltered desire.

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat as he thrusts forward and fills you completely in one deep stroke. Your body shudders hard around the sudden, thick stretch of him.

One of his hands wraps around your throat, while the other digs into the soft flesh of your ass beneath your dress. 

Nothing else exists anymore. 

Everything fades away, the only thing that matters is Ormund and his cock twitching inside you, stretching you just right, the firm grip on your throat.

You don’t care about anything, there is no room for shame or doubt in your mind.

And then he fucks you. 

His hips snap forward in harsh, powerful thrusts, driving into you harder, deeper. His grip on your throat tightens. 

Not too much, not too far, just enough to make your head spin, and soon, you're a mess, a drooling, moaning, wrecked mess, every coherent thought shattered. 

The desk creaks beneath you as Ormund fucks you with deep, relentless strokes, burying himself to the hilt again and again. His hand grips your ass hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto every thrust.

“Look at you,” he growls against your ear, voice rough and dark with satisfaction. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.” 

His fingers tighten just slightly around your throat. He feels the way your walls flutter and clench hard around him in answer.

“That’s it. Squeeze me. Show me how much you need this.”

Your head falls back, mouth open, eyes half-lidded. You can barely form words, only raw, broken moans spill from your lips with every deep snap of his hips as the wet, filthy sound of your body taking him fills the room.

“Louder,” he commands, easing the pressure on your throat just enough to let you speak.

Your voice comes out wrecked and raw.

“More…” you moan. “Please… I need more…”

A dark, pleased sound rumbles deep in his chest. He rewards you by shifting the angle of his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. Your thighs begin to shake around his waist. 

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, almost painful in its intensity.

You come with a strangled, broken moan, nails digging hard into his forearms as your body clamps down around him.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, voice thick with approval. His hand flexes around your throat again as he fucks you straight through the climax. Deep, relentless thrusts, never slowing.

You can feel him swelling even thicker inside you, his breath comes hot and ragged against your cheek.

He doesn’t stop, he shifts again, angling deeper, and the new pressure makes your vision blur. Another broken moan spills from your lips. Your nails scrape down his arms, the haze of your first orgasm hasn’t really faded as you feel the pleasure start building all over again.

You can’t control it anymore, you let yourself sink back on the desk, Ormund pushes your legs up over his shoulders as he keeps pounding into you. 

“You’re going to come again,” he tells you, voice low and certain. “I can feel it. That tight little cunt is already fluttering around me.” His next thrust is especially deep, punching a sharp cry from your throat. “Do it. Come on my cock one more time, and I’ll fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be claimed. To be full of me.”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your head spins as he fucks you without mercy.

Every thrust drives you higher, the overstimulation bordering on too much until the second climax crashes over you hard and sudden. Your body seizes around him, a broken, wordless cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down in powerful, rhythmic pulses. 

“Fuck… yes,” Ormund snarls, voice raw. The tight, fluttering heat of you milking him is the last thing he needs. His rhythm stutters, then turns almost brutal for a few final strokes. With a low, guttural groan he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside you in long, heavy pulses.

He doesn’t pull out immediately. Instead he stays close, letting you feel the residual heat and the slow, soft pulses of him still inside you.

When he finally withdraws, the loss is sudden and intimate. A soft, wet sound accompanies it, and you feel the warm trickle of his release beginning to slip from you. Ormund steadies you with both hands at your waist, helping you sit more securely on the edge of the desk while your legs still tremble.

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

He gathers your hair in one fist and pulls it aside, exposing your neck. His mouth follows, pressing a firm, claiming kiss on your collarbone.

“Who would have thought Lady Footly could be such a greedy little slut,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “No one has ever fucked you properly, have they? No one has ever taken care of this greedy little cunt the way it needed.”

His hand unhurriedly slides up your thigh, fingers coating in the slick dripping down your legs, until they reach still-sensitive heat between your legs. He doesn’t push inside, just stays there.

“You came so hard for me,” he continues, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Twice. And still this needy little thing is fluttering under my hand like it wants more.” A soft, mocking click of his tongue. “Starving. That’s what you were. Starving for a man who would actually use you the way you were meant to be used.”

He presses a firmer kiss to the side of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“I’ll be waiting for my supper tomorrow evening,” he says, his hand still between your thighs, brushing slightly through your folds. “And we both know this greedy little cunt will be waiting for me too… won’t it?”

You suck in a shaky breath, feeling the faint throb of your own pulse where his fingers press into your core, making heat coil low in your belly.