He gives it to you

He conceals the tray in his hand, seizes a pill, and puts the tray away.

Your heart beats faster. You are at his mercy. It scares you... but it also makes you feel alive... This vulnerability is, of course, why you are here.

Your fingers are still on his wrist when the tray disappears with a rustle into the dark of his pocket—then there is only one thing left in his hand.

A single pill.

He holds it in his palm - so much bigger than the tiny hand you enjoy for the night - the way he might hold a match. Small. Ordinary. Wrong in its smallness, because everything in you has already decided it is not ordinary. Your mouth is still open. Your head is still tipped back. The invitation you made is still sitting there on your tongue like a wet, unfinished sentence.

He looks at that first.

Not at the pill. At the shape of you waiting.

“You are not being honest with me," he purred, "you are asking me to put a pill on your tongue while you’re still lying by omission.”

Quiet. Almost conversational. The kind of quiet that makes the room feel smaller.

Your pulse is in your throat, in your cunt, in the places the pill you had taken had already claimed.

He shakes the pill in his hand. Light catches the edge of his expensive watch.

He shakes your slight hand off his wrist, and reaches to caress your slender chin. His knuckles brush your throat, as his strong fingers, not quite lifting, not quite forcing, remind you that your mouth is open, and your tongue must be glistening appealingly.

The pill is close enough now that you can smell the faint, bitter coat of it. Close enough that if you leaned the last half-inch you would take it yourself and end the question.

He does not let you.

His other hand that holds the pill rests on the top of your head. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive. The way a man rests on something that is completely his, but which he has not decided whether to keep or discard.

He crouches down, looming over you now. He is so tall and broad. Even aside from having been sold to him - you feel a physical helplessness, a vulnerability next to him.

He brings his thumb and forefingers, concealing the pill, to the space between your mouths.

Not in.

Just there.

You can see the decision sitting behind his eyes and you cannot read it. He could tip it forward. He could tip it back. He could make you watch him take it and then use you while it starts. He could make you hold still with your mouth open until the heat in your crotch becomes a plea you can no longer dress as anything else.

His thumb rests at the corner of your lip.

The pill waits.

“Open,” he says, though you already are.

You obey, keeping your mouth open, lingering.

"Close your eyes."

His voice is softer now.

You obey.

You wait.

Then it's there. Something hard, warm from his hand, and round dropped onto your tongue, right where his tongue had been moments before.

You feel your pussy throb at the possibilities, and the risks.