The Dialectic of Master and Slave - Chapter 110

Volumes 1-4 + Side Stories of DMS are available uncensored on ko-fi! ※ This work contains depictions of coercive relationships, explicit language, and other graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

The Emperor caught every breathy plea and obeyed without hesitation. Jaha’s hips jerked off the bed as he sucked and licked, teasing her relentlessly until she finally gasped out:

“Hah… hurry.”

“You want me to eat your p***y?”

He didn’t hesitate to use crude language. Not when Jaha no longer minded.

For a while, he’d restrained himself—but filthy talk during s*x had long been a habit of his. Vulgar words turned him on more than any ordinary bedding. Still, if Jaha had objected, he would’ve forced himself to hold back, just as he had before.

Luckily, she’d accepted his preference. In fact, she seemed to thrive on it. Though she never said it outright, her body’s reactions were unmistakable. Once he realized that, he stopped holding back.

“Hng…!”

Jaha shook her head. Of course. He’d taught her pleasures far beyond this—why would mere oral satisfy her now?

“Or do you need this instead?”

With deliberate provocation, the Emperor freed his c**k, giving it a slow stroke. His masculine hand glided over the thick veins bulging along the monstrous length, emphasizing every inch.

It was an unbelievable size—one that could even fit inside a human body. Enough to make an ordinary woman feel fear rather than excitement. But Yoo Jaha, accustomed to it, trembled beneath it in anticipation, spilling sweet nectar. In fact, she grew restless unless her insides were stretched taut by something of that magnitude.

Not long ago, he had teased her with a prosthetic of average size, but Jaha couldn’t reach her peak. Watching her writhe and whimper, unable to ascend to perfect ecstasy no matter how hard she was f****d, he kindly informed her: An ordinary man’s p***s is only this big.

What he didn’t tell Jaha was that the prosthetic was an exact replica of what had once hung between the legs of the fallen crown prince. Before disposing of the corpse, he’d ordered an identical mold to be made. There was only one reason: he wanted to confirm whether that bastard could have ever satisfied Jaha.

She never reached climax. It meant that even if she had slept with him, she wouldn’t have felt a thing.

A man who couldn’t even satisfy one woman.

Drunk on superiority, he stomped the prosthetic—a recreation of that bastard’s lower half—into pieces. Then, he shoved his c**k into Jaha’s dripping, frustrated c**t. The moment he pushed inside, her entire body shuddered as she came. His complete victory.

Savoring the sweet triumph, he rested his still-throbbing length over Jaha’s lower belly—deliberately flaunting its size and weight. A silent reminder of just how deep it would plunge inside her.

“Should I f**k you mercilessly with this?”

Jaha gave a small nod. Had he recognized only that and moved on, he might have been perfectly happy—but then he saw her black eyes.

Empty eyes, devoid of excitement, desire, or even humiliation.

Though her cheeks burned with heat, the longer he looked into those eyes, the more Jaha seemed like a dead woman.

Once again, a chilling sense of wrongness coiled around his entire body.

Had he, perhaps, made an irreversible mistake?

No. That couldn’t be. What had he even done wrong?

He had given Jaha more wealth and affection than she deserved. Since taking her in, he had never once glanced at another woman. A man who could have taken dozens, even hundreds of women without reproach had sought and cherished only Jaha.

Even as the emperor, he had kept his fidelity and loyalty, while Jaha—a mere slave—had played around with another man. And yet, he had let it pass without punishing her.

Shouldn’t she be prostrate with gratitude for his boundless mercy?

For Jaha to dare blame or resent him was unthinkable. If anything, shouldn’t she obediently kneel, knowing her own sins?

As for killing that bastard—even with ten mouths, Jaha had no right to speak. Disposing of a slave was solely the master’s prerogative. Whether guilty or innocent, to kill or spare was the master’s will. And hadn’t that wretch deserved to lose his head? He had dared lay hands on what belonged to his master. No one in this world would dare call his judgment excessive.

He tried to ignore the needle-like discomfort piercing his heart. Like someone fleeing to avoid meeting the gaze of something terrifying, he resisted acknowledging what was right before his eyes.

From the hidden depths, slick fluid trickled out as he stroked her slippery v***a with the tip of his brush, as if painting, feigning composure as he continued the act.