Chapter 13: Training the Little Cocksucker
His hand tightened in her hair, not a caress but a claim. He had not released her since the door of the penthouse suite clicked shut behind them. Now, he used that grip like a leash, leading her across the expanse of polished marble floor, past the low-slung couches and the gleaming, empty champagne flutes, toward the open door of the bedroom.
Her body thrummed with a traitorous anticipation. The sleek, sunlit sanctuary she’d shared with Kimi just hours before—laughing about his podium finish, her perfume and his cologne mingling in the air—was about to be defiled. The thought made her cunt clench, empty and aching.
“Here,” Toto said, his voice devoid of its earlier mocking warmth. It was cool, instructional. He stopped her beside the vast king-sized bed, its covers still rumpled from her lazy morning with Kimi. With a sharp downward pressure, he forced her onto her knees. The plush carpet was a cruel contrast to the punishment she knew was coming. “You understand your position?”
She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide. She saw her own reflection, small and kneeling, in the mirrored closet doors. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you?” He unbuttoned his trousers with deliberate slowness, the sound of the zipper gratingly loud in the quiet room. He freed his cock, already thick and hardening in his hand. He didn’t stroke it. He merely presented it to her, a fleshy idol. “You have a talented little cunt. I’ve broken it in nicely. But a useful whore needs more than one hole. This,” he said, tapping the head against her cheek, leaving a damp smear, “is going to learn the exact shape of your throat. I’m going to train your gag reflex away. I’m going to fuck this pretty mouth until you can take me all the way to the base without a tear. You’ll breathe through your nose and take it. You’ll learn to love the feel of it hitting the back of your throat. It’s all you’re good for.”
His words painted a vivid, degrading picture. Her breath hitched. She felt a fresh trickle of wetness between her legs. The need was a physical pain.
“Please,” she whispered, the word scraping her raw throat.
“Please, what?” He moved the tip to her lips, tracing the seam. “Use your words. Tell me what you are begging for.”
She closed her eyes, shame a hot wave. “Please, sir. I need your cock in my mouth.”
He rewarded her by pushing past her lips. The invasion was immediate, stretching her jaw. She had a second to feel the weight of him on her tongue, the salty pre-come leaking against her taste buds, before his hands flew to the sides of her head, fingers tangling brutally in her curls, holding her skull in a vise.
He didn’t let her adjust. He shoved forward, burying himself deep.
Her eyes flew open, blind with panic. The thick head battered past her constricting throat muscles, a brutal, unyielding intrusion. Her body revolted. A violent gag convulsed through her, her stomach lurching. Tears sprung instantly to her eyes, blurring the image of him standing over her, watching dispassionately. She couldn’t breathe. Her nose flared, sucking in air that wasn’t enough. He held her there, impaled, until black spots danced at the edges of her vision.
When he pulled back, it was only an inch, just enough for a thin, wheezing gasp to tear into her lungs. Then he slammed back in, deeper.
“There,” he grunted, establishing a ruthless, shallow rhythm. In, out. Each thrust punched into her throat, each withdrawal dragged his rigid flesh against the roof of her mouth. She gagged rhythmically, uncontrollably, her throat spasming around him in a wet, choking harmony. The sounds were obscene: wet slaps, choked gags, his low grunts. “This is what you are now,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of his control. “A throat for the team principal to use. A convenience. My personal fleshlight.”
She moaned around him, the vibration earning a sharp hiss from between his teeth. Her hands, which had fluttered uselessly at her sides, were yanked behind her back and pinned there by one of his large hands. Helpless. Entirely at his mercy. Drool, thick and stringy, escaped the tight seal of her lips and dripped onto the expensive carpet between her knees.
And she was alight. The lack of air, the brutal domination, the absolute reduction to a single, servicing function—it burned away every coherent thought except one: more.
A sharp, digital trill sliced through the humid air.
Toto didn’t miss a stroke. He shoved deep into her gullet, held her there, and with his free hand, pulled his phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen.
“It’s James,” he said conversationally, as if he weren’t fucking her face. “Be quiet. A single gag, and I’ll make you regret it. You’ll be swallowing for a week.”
He accepted the call, putting it on speaker.
“Toto. We need to talk about the Barcelona upgrades.” James Vowles’ crisp, technical voice filled the bedroom.
Toto pulled his cock all the way out, a thick strand of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening head. She dragged in a ragged, silent, shuddering breath, her chest heaving. He leaned against the bed frame, his phone held casually.
“I’ve seen the data. The tunnel numbers are promising, but the correlation is still off by three percent.” As he spoke, he guided himself back into her open, waiting mouth. Not a thrust. A slow, deliberate re-entry, filling her up again. He left her there, stuffed, as he listened.
“We think it’s a suspension harmonics issue. Kimi’s feedback this morning suggested the rear was—”
“—Kimi is still learning to separate driver feel from measurable reality,” Toto interrupted smoothly, his hips giving a tiny, almost absent-minded rock. The movement made her eyes water. “Trust the numbers, James. Not the boy’s instincts.”
The boy. Her Kimi. Discussed so dismissively while she knelt, a secret filled with his boss’s cock. The humiliation was a fuel. Her cunt wept.
She remained perfectly still, a statue of submission, her throat working helplessly around him. She focused on breathing through her nose, on not triggering her gag reflex, on being the good, quiet hole he demanded.
“Understood. We’ll proceed with the original spec. And the media schedule for Montreal?”
“Push the Thursday presser back an hour. I have… a prior engagement.” Toto’s eyes looked down, meeting hers. They were dark with a chilling possession. He withdrew slowly, and the cool air on her wet lips was a shock. “Email me the finalized plan. I have to go.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. The casual violence returned to his movements. His hand was back in her hair in an instant.
“You kept quiet,” he acknowledged, his voice dropping back into that intimate, menacing register. “Good. Now you can make some noise.”
He didn’t give her a chance. He pulled her head forward as his hips pistoned, fucking her mouth with a renewed, singular purpose. This was no longer training. This was use. Each slam was deeper, harder, a raw claiming of her airway. She choked and spluttered, the gags returning, but now they were part of the rhythm, a music of degradation. Her nose was running. Tears carved hot paths through the mess on her face. Her bound hands clenched into useless fists behind her.
It was the most alive she had ever felt. Every nerve ending screamed. She was nothing but a warm, wet socket for his pleasure, and in that reduction, she was free.
His pace became erratic, his breaths short, sharp barks. “Going to come down your worthless little throat,” he grunted. “Swallow it. Every fucking drop. It’s your protein for the day.”
The final, brutal thrusts were a machine-gun staccato against the back of her throat. A guttural roar tore from him as his hips jammed against her lips, sealing her nose against the coarse fabric of his trousers. A hot, pulsing flood erupted deep in her gullet, thick and bitter, with a chemical aftertaste that had nothing to do with his usual clean scent. It was the adrenaline, the power, the essence of his dominance.
She swallowed convulsively, her throat working in ragged, obedient spasms to take every drop, just as he’d commanded. A few traitorous tears of effort leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes. As the pulses subsided, he held her there, waiting, listening to the final wet gulps.
When he finally pulled out, it was with a slow, slick drag that left her mouth feeling cavernous and used. She collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, a thick strand of saliva and cum dripping from her swollen lips to the carpet. Her whole body trembled, her muscles screaming from being held in submission for so long.
Then her thighs clenched, a violent, involuntary spasm. A ragged, broken cry muffled itself against the carpet fibers as a second orgasm, shocking in its intensity, ripped through her. It was a dry, wrenching wave, purely internal, lighting up every nerve he’d just brutalized. Her hips jerked against nothing, seeking friction, finding only the devastating echo of her own convulsions.
Toto had been watching her with a detached, post-coital satisfaction, tucking himself away. He froze. His eyes, sharp and analytical, tracked the unmistakable tremor in her legs, the way her back arched, the silent scream in her shoulders. He saw the fresh, dark patch of wetness blooming on the inner thighs of her jeans.
He dropped to a crouch with a suddenness that made her flinch. His fingers, impersonal and clinical, pressed against the soaked denim. He felt the heat, the residual tremors. His gaze snapped to her face, searching her blown pupils, her wrecked mouth.
“You came,” he stated, his voice low with genuine astonishment. It wasn’t a question. “Just from that. From sucking my cock. You didn’t touch yourself. Not once.”
She could only whimper, pressing her forehead into the carpet, humiliated by her body’s betrayal, by the raw evidence of its programming.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. The detached satisfaction vanished, replaced by a blazing, focused hunger. He’d broken her cunt. He’d trained her throat. Now he’d discovered this: her body was a live wire, responding to pure degradation. It was a revelation more valuable than any data from the wind tunnel.
“Unbelievable,” he whispered, his voice thick with new obsession. His hand slid from her thigh to the button of her jeans, popping it open with a deft flick. The zpper tore down. “You greedy, perfect little slut. Your pussy just gets off on being used, doesn’t it? On being nothing but a set of holes.”
He didn’t pull her jeans off. He just yanked them down roughly around her knees, along with her panties, trapping her legs. The cool penthouse air hit her wet, exposed cunt, making her jolt. He was already hard again, springing free from his trousers, thick and angry and ready.
He fisted his cock, stroking it slowly as he watched her, a scientist observing a fascinating, reactive specimen. “You’re going to come again,” he promised, his tone conversational, terrifying. “Just from my cock in your mouth. You’re going to choke on it because you love the burn. You’re going to gag on purpose because the sound makes my balls tighten. You’re going to slurp up every bit of filth I give you because you’re desperate for it.”
He guided himself back to her lips. She opened for him instantly, a frantic, willing hunger overriding the ache in her jaw. This time, she met his thrusts, forcing herself to take him deeper, faster. She deliberately constricted her throat, creating a tight, milking pressure she knew he craved. She let the gags come loud and wet, she slurped obscenely, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked with a desperation that was no longer an act.
“Yes, you filthy bitch,” he hissed, his hips driving forward to meet her efforts. “Just like that. Choke on it. That’s your purpose.”
He fucked her throat with a possessive fury, spurred on by the discovery of her twisted wiring. His words spilled over her, a dark blueprint for her future. “I’m going to have you under my desk during strategy meetings. You’ll be quiet, just your throat working. I’m going to feed you my cock in the back of the motorhome while Kimi gives his post-race interview just outside. You’ll come listening to his voice, won’t you? You’ll come untouched while another man uses your mouth.”
The image, the violation of her last sacred space, detonated inside her. A third orgasm, sharper than the last, sliced through her core. She screamed around his cock, the vibration tipping him over the edge. His release flooded her, a seemingly endless torrent she swallowed in frantic, sobbing gulps, her body still quaking from her own untouched peak.
His release flooded her, a seemingly endless torrent she swallowed in frantic, sobbing gulps, her body still quaking from her own untouched peak.
She collapsed onto her side, coughing, her throat raw and burning with the aftertaste of him—bitter salt and something metallic, like adrenaline made tangible. Her jeans were still tangled around her knees, the denim rough against her trembling thighs.
Toto watched her, his breathing slowly evening out. He adjusted his trousers, the mundane sound of a zipper somehow obscene in the stillness.
"Look at you," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her bones. "A complete mess. And you loved every second of it."
Alessia tried to form words, but her mouth felt swollen, used. She could only manage a wet, incoherent sound. Her cunt, untouched and throbbing, clenched around nothing, a fresh ache of emptiness that was sharper than the pain in her jaw.
The memory of his words—under my desk, during strategy meetings—flashed behind her eyes, not as a threat, but as a promise. It terrified her. It electrified her.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her arms shaking with the effort. She looked at him, at the smug satisfaction etched into his features.
"Please," she whispered, the word torn from her raw throat. It was hoarse, barely audible.
He raised an eyebrow. "Please what? You'll have to be specific."
She swallowed, wincing at the soreness. Her voice gained strength, fueled by a desperation that humiliated her even as it drove her. "More. I need more. Please, sir. Use me again."