Reincarnated as a Femboy Slave - Chapter 132

Chapter 132: Dignity is Dead
I stood there, naked as the day I was born, clothes crumpled on the floor like they’d taken one look at the situation and collectively filed for resignation.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Words were forming, I swear they were—something clever, something charming, something that would negotiate my way out of whatever wicked “punishment” Iskanda had in mind, but the words tangled and died the moment the last of her clothing slid from her hips and whispered to the floor.

And there she stood.

All sharp elegance and soft danger, the ruby resting between her breasts like a drop of frozen blood, and lower, heavy and half-hard, hung that magnificent cock, swaying with a lazy, taunting gravity that made my breath trip over itself in response.

A tiny hiccup escaped me. Saints preserve me—a hiccup. My cock twitched with incriminating enthusiasm, as if eager to volunteer for its own funeral.

“Listen,” I started, voice cracking slightly, “I feel like we’re both reasonable adults here, and reasonable adults can agree that ‘punishment’ is just a fancy word for ‘someone’s having a power trip,’ so maybe, just maybe, we could negotiate this down to, I don’t know, a stern lecture and a strongly worded letter—”

She wasn’t listening.

In one fluid motion, Iskanda crossed the distance between us, hands finding my hips with the certainty of someone who’d already owned every inch of me—which, to be fair, she kind of did at this point—and lifted.

The world tilted; my ass met the edge of the desk with a soft, helpless thud. Scrolls skittered away like scandalized insects; ink bottles trembled; an abandoned quill rolled off the edge and met its dramatic demise against the carpet below.

“Iskanda,” I breathed, far too warm, far too fast, “this is a library. People downstairs are having emotional breakdowns over the difference between semicolons and commas, and you want to—”

“I want,” she said, low and amused, before pushing me back with one lazy finger to my sternum. “to fuck you until the only thing you remember is my name.”

I went down onto my elbows amid the chaos of her notes. Ink pots clattered. A hand-drawn diagram of the ruby fluttered off the desk and spiraled to the floor as if it wanted no part in witnessing what came next.

My legs dangled helplessly, thighs instinctively parting around her hips. The cool grain of the wood beneath me was a shocking contrast to the warmth of my over-heated skin.

She stepped a fraction closer, fitting herself between my thighs as if she’d been carved to belong there. Then her hand slid down, curling slowly around the base of her cock before giving it a few lazy strokes. It rose proud and flushed, thick enough to make my mouth run dry and my hole flutter in anticipation.

She watched my face the entire time, eyes dark with pleasure and something wickedly fond.

“Look at you,” she murmured, voice warm and rough. “Already leaking.”

“I am not—” I started indignantly, then glanced down. Okay. Fine. Maybe I was leaking, just a little. “That’s condensation. From the air. Very humid in here.”

“Uh-huh.”

Then she leaned in and brought the heavy length of her cock down against mine with a quiet slap. Once. Twice. The sound—soft, wet, impossibly filthy in the hush of the library—shot straight through my spine and scattered my thoughts like the drifting papers around us.

I stiffened fully then, leaking helplessly, smearing my pre-cum across the both of us until we were slick, shining, and trembling for more.

I tried again, voice cracking. “Someone’s going to hear us—”

“Good,” she murmured, “They should hear who you belong to.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” she asked, “You make the sweetest noises when I do.”

“I don’t—”

She shifted her hips then, just enough to let the blunt head of her cock press against my entrance, hot, insistent, brimming with intent that promised ruin and worship in equal measure.

I choked on a whimper.

She smiled then. “There it is.”

I had half a breath to panic before she snapped her hips forward and buried herself to the root in one single, devastating thrust.

The stretch hit like lightning—bright, overwhelming, perfect in its shock. I yelped, high and startled, then bit down on my lip until I tasted copper, trying to anchor myself through the violent clash between pleasure and pain.

The desk groaned beneath us; my spine bowed helplessly. Gods above, she filled me so completely I forgot how to form words, forgot everything except the heavy pulse of her cock throbbing inside of me.

She gave me a moment—just one—to adjust, one hand stroking soothing circles on my thigh while the other kept me pinned. Then she drew back and drove forward again, setting a rhythm that rattled the desk and sent centuries of scholarship skittering to the floor like startled leaves. Each thrust tore another broken sound from my throat, no matter how I tried to choke it down.

“Gods, you’re so fucking tight…” she breathed, her voice fraying at the edges as she moved. “I can feel you trying to milk me already, trying to drag me deeper even when I’m buried to the hilt. You want it that bad? Want me to pump you so full you’ll feel me for days? Want me to flood this pretty ass until it’s leaking down your thighs while you crawl back to the barracks?”

Her words melted down my spine, sweet and scorching, leaving me trembling and open beneath her.

“That’s it… take it little wolf. Take every thick, throbbing inch like you were made for it.”

My legs wrapped around her waist without permission, heels digging into the small of her back, urging her closer—deeper—because apparently my survival instincts had taken the day off.

“I should drag you downstairs right now,” she rasped, punctuating the words with a brutal thrust that slammed the desk another inch across the carpet. “Should march you naked through the aisles, bend you over the reading table while the others watch. I’d spread you wide so they could see how perfectly you take me, how your pretty little cock leaks and jerks every time I bottom out.”

She leaned forward a fraction, driving harder.

“Would you like that, darling? Want the whole library to know what a perfect little slut you are for mommy? Want them to watch me claim you over and over until the only thing left in your head is how much you need this cock?”

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t think. I merely whined and clenched around her, hips chasing every savage thrust like my body had already signed the permission slip.

“P-please, Iskanda, its too much—”

She laughed, deep and delighted, before cradling the back of my head and guiding my mouth to the curve of her shoulder.

“Bite,” she ordered.

And Saints help me, I obeyed.

I leaned in, breath trembling, lips brushing the carved line of her shoulder before I let the point of my fang graze her skin. Then I pressed my mouth to her, parted my lips, and let that lone fang sink in.

Her taste hit me instantly—warmth, salt, the faint copper thrum beneath her skin—and something deeper, something uniquely her, like power softened with heat.

Her response was immediate.

She groaned, long and filthy, hips snapping harder, faster, until the desk was rocking and scrolls were raining down around us like paper snow.

Blood welled softly against my tongue, warm as breath. Panic flashed through me—brief, bright, instinctive—my hands tightening against her back in an apology I couldn’t voice.

But she only growled, deep and possessive, fingers twisting in my hair as her body drove harder into mine.

“Harder,” she breathed—no hesitation, no fear, only that desire sharpened into command.

Her movements didn’t falter. If anything, she met the panic in me with certainty—fucking me through my hesitation, through the shock, through the way my mouth trembled against her skin—as though my bite was a gift she had been waiting for.

Everything blurred after that. I wasn’t thinking anymore. Saints, I was unraveling—pulled apart, slow and helpless, thread by trembling thread beneath the sheer gravity of her presence.

My cock rubbed helplessly against the slick heat of her stomach with every thrust, smearing us both in pre-cum and desperation. Each drag of her body against mine lit up a different nerve, a different want, a different place I didn’t know could ache like this.

She felt how close I was—some part of her always did. Her fingers slid deeper into my hair, gripping, tugging, dragging my face away from her shoulder only to press me down into the warm, sweat-damp valley of her breasts.

I whimpered there, helpless and muffled, breathing her in as she kissed my forehead with shocking tenderness.

“Fuck, I’m close,” she rasped, voice cracking beautifully. “Gods, I’m gonna cum~”

I nodded frantically against her skin, beyond words, beyond anything but the frantic coil tightening low in my belly.

Iskanda shoved me flat again, papers crumpling beneath my back, and then she was pounding into me without mercy. She lost herself in that reckless abandon, eyes wild and flushed with pure, unfiltered desire.

“Cum,” she gasped. “Cum with me—”

Her body pressed hard into mine as she buried herself deep and came with a broken cry, cock pulsing hot and thick as she flooded me in long, heavy ropes.

The sensation shattered me. I came hard between us, a sharp, helpless spurt that painted my stomach and her skin, my own shout muffled desperately against my palms.

When my trembling finally began to ebb, she eased back with a slow, lingering pull that made me shudder all over again. She gave one last lazy stroke, letting the final streaks of her sperm splatter across my chest like she was claiming every inch of me. Her cock twitched, spent and glistening, dripping the last drops onto my skin in slow, lazy trails.

I lay there wrecked and trembling, staring at the vaulted ceiling and wondering how a single woman with two hands, a wicked smile, and absolutely no sense of moderation had just reduced me to a blissed-out pile of limbs and questionable life choices.

“Ugh~” I finally managed, dragging a finger through the mess cooling on my stomach and frowning at it. “Fuck.”

Iskanda laughed—soft, sated, impossibly amused—before reaching down to ruffle my hair with the same casual affection one might bestow upon a cat they’d just discovered was capable of reciting poetry.

“Good boy,” she murmured, voice warm and thick with afterglow. “Tonight. I have something special to teach you.” The way she said it—low, promising, dangerous—made my brain spark like a faulty lantern.

I blinked up at her, dazed beyond dignity, floating in that warm, weightless haze where the world felt too soft and my limbs felt too far from my control. “Special as in… more of this? Or special as in training? Because I have to draw a line somewhere and I’m not sure where that is anymore.”

She merely smiled—wicked, fond, unbearably composed—before stepping back to dress with the infuriating grace of someone who hadn’t just rearranged my internal geology. I, meanwhile, was struggling to remember which muscles were responsible for “standing.”

Eventually, I slid off the desk on wobbly knees, nearly slipping in a puddle of something I refused to identify, and began wrestling my clothes back on.

The fabric clung to the sticky remnants on my skin, my blouse was undeniably ruined, and my dignity had died somewhere near the beginning of this entire ordeal. And yet somehow—miraculously—I wasn’t sore. Not even a little.

I felt electric, alive—but not in the way I usually did after stealing someone’s strength. This wasn’t the familiar warmth that settled low in my belly like a stolen ember, nor the slow, heady sort of power that unfurled through my limbs like smoke. This was sharper. Brighter. A strange, glimmering clarity humming beneath my skin, as if some part of me had been quietly rewound while I wasn’t looking.

I shrugged it off for later inspection, because I was simply too overwhelmed to panic properly.

Iskanda was already fully dressed, rude, when she stalked past me, reaching into a drawer and pulling out something small and brass. She tossed it to me without warning.

I caught it purely on reflex and stared. A key. Heavy. Warm from her hand. Runes etched along its length in a script that made the shadows around my ankles ripple in recognition.

She leaned against the desk—the same desk she’d just ruined me on, mind you—with insufferable ease. “I’m guessing the ruby wasn’t your only reason for breaking into my desk,” she said.

I grinned, sheepish but nowhere near repentant, clutching the key to my sticky chest. “You know me too well. It’s quite disturbing, really.”

“That key will grant you access to the third floor,” she continued, eyes glinting. “The restricted archives. Try not to die. Or do. I’m not your keeper.” The casual way she said it had my heart doing something unhelpfully dramatic, and I brightened so fast it was almost embarrassing.

“Gods, I hope you know you’re my favorite person right now,” I declared, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Don’t tell Dunny. He’ll pout for weeks.”

Iskanda rolled her eyes, but even that was fond, and I felt absurdly proud—like being tolerated by her were a privilege carved from stone. My legs, still wobbly and attempting to negotiate their return to service, finally remembered their purpose and began the arduous process of walking me toward the aisle.

“One more thing.”

Her voice cut through the space like a blade dipped in velvet. I froze mid-step, halfway between the desk and the rows of towering shelves. “Hmm?”

“Next time we meet,” she said, voice low, sharper now, “you’ll tell me exactly what that power of yours is. The one you used on Quentin last night. No more secrets.”

Heat crawled up my neck at the memory of that night. I gave her a sloppy salute with my free hand. “Yes, ma’am. Full disclosure.”

She snorted. “Out. Now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I slipped from the row of shelves, the key warm in my palm, my body humming with stolen energy and lingering pleasure. My thoughts were already racing ahead—toward the third floor, the restricted archives, the secrets Elvina thought she could hide from me, and whatever catastrophe awaited me next.