I burned the edges of the roast because I was trying not to drip on the flame.
The plug sat heavy in my ass. Every time I reached for salt, my cheeks clenched and a warm line of Vincent’s c*m tried to escape around the base. Oil still shone in the crease under my t**s. My dress was a joke — bunched, stained, riding up the fat of my ass if I so much as breathed wrong. Bare feet on cold tile. n*****s stiff from being out in the kitchen air for hours.
At seven I carried plates into the dining room like that.
Vincent at the head. Elias to his right. Roman already smiling like he’d placed a bet on how long I would last. I set the food down. My t**s hung over the china. A drop of whatever was still leaking from me hit the hardwood by Roman’s chair.
He caught it on two fingers, held them up,
