CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mistress runs a fingertip along the inside of Hamish’s wrist, pressing lightly where his pulse thrums beneath the skin. "You know the words," she says, not a question. His exhale is steady, his posture relaxed—no tension in his shoulders, no twitch in his fingers.

"I want this," he says, looking her in the eyes, "I really want this."

He tilts his head forward, offering his throat without hesitation. The rope settles against his skin with a quiet rasp, and Mistress adjusts the knot with the same precision as tying a shoelace. Hamish’s hands remain at his sides, palms open, fingers loose.

“Turn around,” Mistress orders. Hamish obeys, Riley get’s another look at his cute butt. Mistress takes his wrists and binds them together with the other piece of rope then turning him back to face her. “There, now you can’t touch yourself.”

She strokes his cheek once, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone, then steps back to observe him—the flush creeping up his chest, the way his hips tilt slightly forward, already anticipating.

Riley shifts on the balls of her feet, her gaze flickering between the noose and Hamish’s face. Mistress doesn’t turn, but her voice smooths the silence. "Just like we practiced sweet boy," she says, her voice full of warmth.

The words land softly, an explanation Riley doesn’t need to question. Hamish’s erection is full now, the tip glistening under the lamplight as Mistress wraps her fingers around him, her strokes slow and methodical.

She pauses only once, her grip tightening slightly as she glances at Riley. "You can touch him," she offers, nodding toward Hamish’s hips. "He likes the warmth." Riley’s fingers are tentative at first, brushing the inside of his thigh before curling around the base of his cock, her touch featherlight compared to Mistress’s firm rhythm. Hamish sighs, his hips rocking forward into their hands, his breath still even, his throat still exposed.

Mistress checks the noose one last time, her fingers testing the tension of the rope where it loops over the ceiling fan. The fan doesn’t creak. The house is silent. She steps back, her hand leaving Hamish’s cock to cup Riley’s chin, tilting her face up. "Watch closely," she murmurs. "He’ll arch his back when it happens. You’ll know." Riley nods, her fingers still wrapped around him, her thumb swiping over the slit as Hamish’s breath catches—not in fear, but in anticipation.

The rope tightens with a sudden, smooth pull. Mistress doesn’t strain; her shoulders stay relaxed, her grip effortless. Hamish’s toes leave the ground, his body lifting just enough for his erection to bounce once, twice, the motion almost playful.

His knees bend instinctively, his heels dragging against the floorboards before his legs kick outward, not in struggle but in rhythm, like a swimmer pushing off the wall. The noose holds firm. His throat doesn’t constrict—his airway is already gone—but his cock pulses in Riley’s hand, twitching as if trying to communicate something wordless.

"Now, here’s why we asked you to come here," Mistress says, nudging Riley forward. Her voice is low, instructional, the same tone she might use to point out where to place a dinner plate, “Take his cock in your mouth, Meatgirl.”

“But I’ve never done that before?”

“He’s a teenage boy, he won’t care,” a sharp smack on her bare ass follows, “Do it, or I’ll hang you too if he dies horny.”

Riley hesitates only a second before leaning in, her lips parting around him, her tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft as she takes him deeper. His hips jerk once, a reflexive spasm, but Mistress steadies him with a hand on his thigh, her fingers splayed wide. The rope doesn’t sway.

The fan doesn’t tilt. The only sound is Riley’s muffled humming, the wet slide of her mouth on his teenage cock.

His legs kick again, slower this time, his toes pointing and curling in a rhythm that matches the pulse in his groin.

Riley’s nose brushes his pelvis, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks harder, her fingers working the base in tandem. His breath—what’s left of it—hitches in a way that isn’t quite a gasp, more like the quiet catch of someone remembering a pleasant thought mid-conversation.

Mistress watches, her head tilted slightly, as if observing a well-rehearsed dance. She reaches out once to adjust Riley’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear with the same care as arranging flowers. "Good," she murmurs, "Good boy Hamish."

His cock throbs in response, the tip hitting the back of Riley’s throat as his body arches, his spine curving beautifully, the noose pulling tauter. His heels drum against the floorboards twice, then go still.

Riley pulls back just enough to lick the slit, her tongue flicking over the head in quick, practiced circles. His hips buck again, but there’s no urgency to it—just the last few embers of a fire burning down. She watches his face as she takes him back in, her lips sealing around him, her throat working. His eyes are half-lidded, his mouth slack, his expression serene. Like he’s listening to distant music. Like he’s already gone.

His orgasm isn’t dramatic. No shout, no shudder—just a slow, rolling pulse deep inside him, the kind that spreads warmth outward in lazy waves.

His cock jerks in her mouth, releasing in thick, quiet spurts, the taste salty-sweet against her tongue. She swallows without hesitation, her fingers still curled around the base, milking him gently until he softens.

His toes flex once, then relax, his legs swaying slightly, the rope creaking as it settles.

Mistress steps forward, her fingers brushing Hamish’s cheek, then sliding down to check his pulse. She holds her fingers there for a beat, then nods, satisfied.

“Perfect,” she says, her thumb smoothing over his brow as if tucking him in. Riley leans back, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, her gaze flicking up to the noose—still taut, still holding. The fan hasn’t moved.

The silence stretches, comfortable, unbroken. Mistress exhales, then turns to Riley, her hands already reaching for the rope. “Help me lower him,” she says, her tone practical, as if asking her to pass the salt. Riley stands, her knees popping slightly, and moves to grip Hamish’s thighs without needing further instruction.

Together, they ease him down, his body folding gracefully onto the floor, his limbs settling into loose, natural angles. His face is peaceful. His skin is still warm. Mistress looks at him for a minute, taking in every feature of the boy she had once called hers.

“Help me move him.”

Her voice is even with no hint of emotion towards what they had just finished doing to Hamish. She moves to lift him under his shoulders and Riley is instructed to grab his legs.

“Careful,” she says quietly. “Support his weight properly.”

Riley nods, shifting her hold slightly, her hands firming against his legs as she corrects herself without needing further instruction.

There’s no urgency.

No hesitation.

Just the steady management of something that needs to be moved.

“Take him through,” Mistress says.

Riley moves when Mistress does, keeping pace beside her as they guide him out of the lounge. The transition from one room to the next is smooth, practiced on one side, learned quickly on the other.

The kitchen is clean.

Open.

Prepared.

Mistress leads them to a large door set into the wall. She opens it without comment, revealing the walk-in freezer beyond, already cold and waiting.

“Lift slightly,” she says.

Riley adjusts again, following the instruction, and together they ease him inside. Mistress directs the final placement with small, precise movements—straightening an arm, aligning his position so he lies evenly.

“Good,” she says once he’s settled.

She steps back, looking over him briefly, not with attachment, but with quiet assessment, as if confirming the task has been completed correctly.

Riley remains where she is for a moment longer, her hands hovering slightly before she lets them fall back to her sides.

Mistress reaches for the door.

“I’ll need to call someone to dress the carcass,” she says, her tone unchanged. “Have him properly prepared.”

The word sits in the space without emphasis.

Carcass.

Riley doesn’t react outwardly.

She nods once, small and controlled, her gaze resting briefly on Hamish before the door begins to close.

Mistress shuts it firmly.

The seal settles into place with a soft, final sound.

Then she turns away, already moving back into the kitchen as if nothing has been interrupted.

Riley’s voice is quiet, but it carries.

“Did you bring me here because you wanted me to help kill him?”

Mistress stops.

The movement is immediate, though subtle. Not abrupt enough to feel reactive, but enough that the shift is clear. Her shoulders hold there for a moment, a slight tension settling into them before it eases again.

She doesn’t turn straight away.

“He always said he’d like a pretty girl to make his last moments special.”

The answer comes calmly.

Not defensive.

Not reflective.

Just placed into the space, like another piece of information that doesn’t require elaboration.

Riley watches her.

Mistress turns then, her expression composed, unchanged from before. Whatever brief stillness had passed through her is already gone, absorbed back into the same quiet control she’s held throughout.

“He was very clear about it,” she adds.

Her gaze rests on Riley for a moment longer, measuring, not unkind.

“Not everyone gets exactly what they want.”

There’s no emphasis on the words.

No weight added to them.

Just a simple acknowledgment, before she turns again and continues walking, the conversation already finished in her mind.

“So what now?” Riley asks.

The question comes more easily this time. Less hesitation. Just a need to understand where she fits next.

“Now?”

Mistress turns.

Her hand lifts without warning, her thumb pressing gently into Riley’s bottom lip, holding it there for a moment. The gesture is controlled, possessive in its familiarity, as if it belongs to the same quiet structure as everything else she’s done.

“You’ve served your purpose,” she says.

Her tone remains even.

“And I promised to take you home, did I not?”

Riley stays still under the touch, her breath catching slightly before settling again. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t question the contact.

Just nods, the movement small against the pressure of Mistress’s thumb.

Mistress holds her there for a second longer, then withdraws her hand, the contact ending as cleanly as it began.

“Good,” she says.

No warmth added. No softness removed.

Just confirmation.

She turns again, continuing toward the rest of the house, already moving forward as if the next step has been decided.

Riley follows.

The car ride passes in silence.

Riley sits in the back, her hands resting in her lap, fingers loosely folded together. They stay there without instruction, without adjustment, as if the position has settled into something natural.

She had just helped kill someone.

A boy she had never met.

The thought comes and settles quickly. Animals die all the time. It’s expected. Even Companions aren’t safe from it.

That isn’t what stays with her.

She looks down at her hands.

Still.

Clean.

Her fingers press together slightly.

There’s something else that lingers instead. Not the moment itself, but how it had felt. The closeness of it. The way she hadn’t needed to be told what to do.

She doesn’t pull away from the memory.

Doesn’t try to.

Her lips press together faintly.

It hadn’t been unpleasant.

That much is clear.

Her fingers tighten again.

Then loosen.

The car moves steadily forward.

The thought shifts slightly as it settles.

Not what she had done.

Not who it had been.

Just the quiet, persistent awareness that she might not be asked to do it again.