Page 31 of Crushing Clover

“Unless him turning my ass into a swollen red mess turned him on, I don’t think I got anywhere with him. What does it matter to you?”

“First of all, it would make me happy if they didn’t send you away—at least not yet.”

“And second?” Aghast, I tried to focus on washing the dishes as his tongue and lips and teeth gave me shivers and made me squeak.

“Second, I’d really like to make you scream with pleasure rather than with frustration.”

He parted my ass cheeks and swiped at my back hole with his tongue. I gasped and dropped the glass I was holding so that it splashed back into the dishwater, hitting the bottom of the sink with a clunk.

Damn. If it had broken, Saint John wouldn’t have been happy.

My concern was fleeting, because Lucky stole all my concentration doing lewd and shocking things to my ass with his tongue. I never would have anticipated it feeling this incredible, and yet I was so embarrassed I wanted to push him away. A pathetic little whimper lodged in my throat, and the sound it made trying to get out was not entirely human. He traced a path around my thigh with his fingers then found my clit and rubbed there almost imperceptibly with the very tip of his finger. My body shook with the lightning bolt of need that had rekindled inside me, and I clung to the edge of the counter to keep my knees from buckling.

When I was gasping and seconds away from coming, he stopped.

I sobbed, trying to collect myself while he calmly spread lotion over my backside. He rubbed the residue into his hands, then rose and unfastened two more buttons on the dress shirt he’d lent me, pulling it open to frame my breasts. He rubbed lotioninto those next, tugging at my-still sore nipples until shocks of mini orgasms zapped through me, making me impossibly needy.

He stepped back. The shirt still gaped but was held in place by the belt, with the edges peeled back to my sides, and the back apparently tucked into the back of the belt to leave my ass bare. With my panties around my thighs, I felt embarrassingly exposed and pathetic, but I was well past caring.

He stood behind me, hanging onto the counter on either side of my body, his hard cock pressing along my spine. With his lips behind my ear, he whispered, “You’d better finish those dishes before Saint John finishes his shower, or there’s going to be hell to pay.” He nipped my ear. “And this time I’ll get to watch.”

My head was swimming, and I had to keep reminding myself that sexual release wasn’t important in the scheme of things. I was alive, and for now I was safe. I could live with some punishment, some manual labor, and a whole boatload of frustration.

Clothing askew, I kept working until every dish was clean and dripping in the drain tray. I scrubbed out both sinks. Lucky had wandered off to sit on the couch and play on his phone, but not before telling me to leave my clothing exactly as it was. I could feel him watching me from across the room, as though the phone wasn’t keeping his attention. What was a little humiliation, really? I didn’t care what these men thought of me, right?

When the buzzer for the washer went off, I walked awkwardly to the laundry room and put everything in the dryer.

As I shut the dryer door, someone grabbed me by the hair with a big hand, tugging my head back.

“Don’t forget to iron them, doll face.” I caught sight of Rush just long enough for him to bite my jaw then he let me go and walked away.

Iron them? I’d been hoping to leave them in the dryer until morning.

Not sure what else to do while I waited, I threw my ugly yellow dress and my own underwear and bra in the washer with some towels then wiped the kitchen island and counters. Every time Rush or Lucky passed me to get things from the cupboard or fridge, they would smack my ass or grope my breasts. My body buzzed with a constant awareness of them and an underlying desperation for what they refused to give me.

Were they going to fuck me before bed?

Whose bed was I going to sleep in?

Were they going to give me my own room?

Maybe I’d get the couch?

By the time I was doing the ironing, I was cold, exhausted, horny, anxious, and ready to cry.

“Like this,” Lucky corrected, taking the iron from me and showing me what to do. I’d never ironed before. Who fucking ironed?

When their uniforms were immaculate and hanging in their closets with several other identical sets, they started getting ready for bed.

I trailed after Lucky as he went back to the bathroom we’d showered in earlier, so he could brush his teeth. He found me a new toothbrush and shared his toothpaste with me.

“Tomorrow we’ll go buy you some clothes. Do you want to borrow a T-shirt to sleep in?”

“Yes, please.”

He grabbed one out of a drawer and tossed it to me. Rather than giving me privacy, he sat on the bed and waited for me to change, watching.

Men had been watching me take off my clothes for so long it shouldn’t have unnerved me—especially since I was already mostly naked—but for some reason it was different with these guys. They’d been pawing at me all evening, and I was so turnedon and tired the sensation was as pleasant as sawing a piano wire with a steak knife.

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