Try Begging Novel - Chapter 12

“Am I going to be fired…?”

This foolish mouse…

A long sigh escaped through his teeth, pressing against his lower lip.

When he told her to go, he had expected her to bolt out, and he would have immediately caught her and thrown her onto the carpet. Because he would have been aroused again.

But to ask if she was going to be fired? Her earlier boldness had devolved into such pathetic groveling that even the slightest hint of interest had turned cold.

“I’m not firing you. So please, just go.”

“T-thank you.”

The maid stammered her thanks and descended from the desk. Leon didn’t even glance at her, walking towards his chair and opening a desk drawer.

“The gun is confiscated.”

Only after he put the revolver in the drawer and slammed it shut did the maid, her face crestfallen, turn towards the door. Leon leaned back roughly, making the heavy chair sway.

He silently watched the maid scurry out the door like a rat, and he repeated to himself:

I’m only letting her go for a moment. I let her go on purpose because it’s more fun to chase her if she runs away.

But why did it leave such a sour taste, like a mouse that had freed itself from a trap and escaped?

He stared blankly at the firmly closed door, then shifted his gaze to the desk, which looked like a storm had swept through it. As the woman left and the heat dissipated, he found it pathetic that he had lost his reason like a dog in heat.

What was so special about that insignificant, even pathetic, woman?

But it didn’t last long. The reason for his loss of reason was blatantly spread out on the desk.

Leon picked up the silk handkerchief lying next to the wallet Sally had abandoned. Being white, the scattered red bloodstains in the center stood out even more. The faint scent of blood awakened his senses, and his tongue recalled its taste.

The thrilling taste, like licking a cold gun barrel; the dizzying scent of death that stung his nose; yet, the warmth and faint pulse that screamed of life.

As he retraced the taste of the maid’s blood, an old memory resurfaced in his mind. Though faded and monochrome now, the girl’s chestnut hair, turquoise eyes, and the red droplets of blood on her lips were as vivid as a colorful postcard from a holiday resort.

“You dirty pig!”

A bitter smile etched itself on Leon’s lips as he recalled the girl’s last scream. His innocent childhood ended that day.

The taste of blood he experienced on the day he first escaped the rigid duties of being the eldest son of the family. And the smell of blood he encountered from his father, who he met in a tragic state the next day.

A brief holiday spent at Abington Beach in his childhood had completely changed the meaning of blood in his life.

Deviance.

It was regrettable that his first deviance and his father’s last deviance had met with an unfortunate end. After that, Leon could no longer suppress the urge to taste blood again.

Though his path as a soldier had been set before he could even assert his own will, it was the right choice. Because personal interests pursued through deviance soon became public achievements.

Should he thank the girl named Daisy?

Daisy. A surprisingly cute name that didn’t suit her dark skin and defiant nature.

Perhaps Sally is her real name.

Every time he looked into Sally’s eyes, he harbored doubts. Although her skin was much fairer than that child’s, and chestnut hair was common, turquoise eyes were not.

If Sally was that girl, then he would finally understand why, even as he lost his reason and became aroused, he yearned to wrap a chain around her slender neck and hang her from a hook.

Sally. This name is also surprisingly cute for her audacity.

Leon roughly reopened the drawer he had slammed shut. The small revolver lay forlornly beside the box where he carefully kept the medals his father had left behind.

To nod solemnly without a moment’s hesitation when asked if she was going to shoot him. She was an interesting woman, audacious enough to challenge him despite being small enough to be a mouthful.

Leon smiled quietly, then picked up the revolver.

Where was she going to shoot? Since she tried to kick me between the legs just before I found the gun, perhaps there?

More importantly, when did she decide to shoot me? Did she slowly draw the gun tucked into the band of that old stocking every time she met me?

Suddenly, he remembered Sally carefully putting her right hand into her pocket just before he tried to kiss her.

A fox pretending to be stupid. A foolish fox, now that she’s been caught.

Sally Bristol.

Outwardly docile, but a dangerous maid who hid a dangerous object beneath her neat skirt and intended to shoot him if necessary.

And yet, a brazen woman who extorted money from him.

Among all those he commanded, she was the one who most faithfully carried out orders, yet also the most unruly.

As he added each definition, they felt unnatural, like mismatched puzzle pieces forced together. Was that why she kept piquing his interest?

He placed the silver revolver in the center of the desk and lowered his hand to his waist. His belt buckle came undone in an instant, and buttons that had been on the verge of springing from his fly slipped out of their narrow holes one by one.

I want to strip the owner of that pistol. I want to see the depths of that woman’s being.

The hand holding the handkerchief, stained with the woman’s blood and tears, naturally moved downwards. Soon, the harsh rustle of soft fabric against skin broke the silence of the office. A heated sigh escaped his smooth lips.

“You dirty pig!”

Would Sally curse like that girl too? If he were to strip her naked on the cold metal table in the interrogation room, cuff her limbs to the corners, and spread her wide.

Instead of sobbing like she had just moments ago, he wished she would writhe with all her might, screaming and wailing until her cries echoed through the interrogation room.

The mere thought was sweet.

Leon leaned his elbow on the armrest of the chair, propped his chin, and looked down. A dark wet stain formed on the white cloth that enveloped his bronzed tip. As his hand moved, the stain spread, seeping into the woman’s red traces.

Where would be a good place to start?

Her mouth wouldn’t be bad. Recalling his earlier impression, it was soft, moist, and warm—quite pleasant.

To be more honest, when he pressed his tongue with his index finger, she, in her attempt to evade, instead wrapped her tongue around his finger and sucked, which was quite impressive.

First, he would grip her jaw and thrust this into her small, pink mouth. Deeply. Roughly. Until her lips lost their pink hue and turned pale blue. Her constricted throat would gasp and tighten, struggling to swallow hard flesh instead of soft breaths.

And then?

Leon’s breathing grew rougher as he imagined the next place to torment. He hooked his outstretched index finger into the knot of his black tie, which was pulled tight around his neck, and loosened it.

The dried blood on the handkerchief was dissolving in his seminal fluid, spreading. Sally’s traces, like veins, spread through the clear marks, clinging to Leon’s most sensitive points. The peculiar scent of the woman’s blood mixed with his own seminal fluid stimulated his keen sense of smell. He imagined smearing Sally’s blood on his penis, tightening his grip on the handkerchief as he rubbed it.

Would the thin membrane blocking her narrow private parts be as pink as her lips?

If he were to grip her slender waist with both hands and align the tip of his member with that membrane, Sally would wail, No! She would struggle to close her legs, which couldn’t be closed due to the handcuffs, unaware of how wantonly her breasts were shaking.

Then he would offer her a proposal. Generously. He would tell her he’d stop if she begged him to. Would she immediately flatter and beg?

In truth, he would pull her hips down without warning, declaring such things unnecessary. If he tore through the membrane with his body in one swift motion, she would curse him with the very mouth that had been pleading.

Would her insides feel as good as her mouth? He tightened his grip, reliving the moment he stirred inside Sally’s mouth.

He would thrust it all the way in, in one go, into her moist insides. Until gasping sounds escaped Sally’s torn lips.

He would slowly, very slowly, withdraw his member, buried deep within her hot flesh, ensuring his bronzed skin was thoroughly stained with a beautiful crimson.

“Haa…”

As his white, cloudy fluid burst forth and seeped into the bloodstains, Leon sighed. It wasn’t just the relief of having satisfied the desire that had tormented him all day.

“…Didn’t you say she was annoying because she was too kind?”

The woman had misunderstood the meaning of his words, “annoying because she was too kind.”

Of course. She couldn’t possibly understand that he meant, It’s annoying that I can’t put you in the interrogation room because you’re too kind.

No matter how notorious an interrogator he was, he had his own principles. First, he did not torture women. Second, he did not drag innocent people into the interrogation room.

Sally was problematic because she violated both of these principles.

If one were to tear off the leg of an ant diligently carrying a crumb of bread, they would grow bored by the time the third leg was torn off. Torturing a good person unilaterally was no different.

To punish, there must be a corresponding sin.

Leon picked up the revolver, which lay forlornly on the desk like an obscene photograph.

Illegal possession of a firearm was a clear sin. But he hadn’t used it as an excuse because it was too trivial a sin.

It had been less than a century since it was forbidden, yet countless people were still caught by the police carrying self-defense firearms according to old customs. His mother, too, surely had such a women’s revolver hidden in one of her many hatboxes.

Sally, do something worse. I want to punish you.