Chapter 4: Mark awakens to Kyrie's mouth wrapped around his morning wood, her talented tongue swirling around his sensitive tip before taking him deep down her throat. 'Fuck baby, you taste like me,' she moans between slurping sucks, her hand working his shaft as her other pinches her own hard nipples.
The grey light was insistent, a thin, cold blade slicing through the slats of the blinds, painting pale stripes across the rumpled dark red of the sheets. Mark watched it trace the curve of Kyrie’s spine as she slept beside him, her breathing deep and even. The guilt had settled in his gut like lead, cold and solid. He should go. Now. Before the world woke up and demanded he account for himself.
He shifted, the movement slight, but it was enough.
Her hand, which had been resting on his chest, slid down his stomach, her fingers threading through his pubic hair, finding him. He was soft, spent, but her touch was proprietary, awake. Her green eyes opened, not with sleep’s confusion, but with immediate, burning focus.
“Leaving?” she whispered, her voice husky with sleep and use.
“I should.”
“No.”
Her hand tightened, not painfully, but with absolute certainty. In one fluid motion, she threw a leg over his hips and sat up, straddling his chest instead. The dim lamp from the night before still cast its low, warm pool of light, gilding the edges of her spectacular body. She looked down at him, her red hair a tangled riot against the dawn. Her cunt, swollen and glistening, was inches from his face. The mingled scent of them—her musky arousal, the sharp tang of his own dried release—flooded his senses.
“You’re not done,” she stated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate rasp. “I woke up hungry. And you’re still on the menu.”
She lowered herself, not onto his mouth, but just above it. He felt the heat of her, felt a single, warm drop of wetness fall onto his bottom lip. His tongue darted out instinctively, tasting the complex, salty evidence of their night.
“See?” she purred, shifting her weight. Her hips found a slow, grinding rhythm against the air above him. “Still dripping you. I can feel it. I want more. I want you so hard you see stars, and then I want you everywhere.”
As she spoke, her hands moved down his body. She took his cock in both of hers, her grip firm and knowing. He was half-hard, sensitive, a tender ache. But her palms were rough in just the right way, her strokes deliberate, twisting on the upstroke, squeezing the head until a bead of clear fluid welled up. She smeared it down his shaft, her eyes locked on his.
“You’re going to fuck me until I come at least twice,” she whispered, leaning forward so her breasts hung heavy, her nipples brushing his sternum. “And then, when you’re so deep inside my pussy you can’t tell where you end and I begin… you’re going to pull out.” She paused, her strokes slowing, intensifying. He felt himself thickening, filling, a reluctant but inevitable response to her whispered filth. “And you’re going to push that big cock into my ass. I want you to fill me there, too. I want your cum leaking out of both my holes all day. A reminder. For me. And for you.”
The imagery was obscene, shocking. It should have repelled him. Instead, a jolt of pure, raw lust, hotter and more desperate than anything from the night before, shot through him. He was fully hard now, painfully so, in her ruthless hands.
“Yes,” he breathed, the word less agreement than surrender.
A wicked smile touched her lips. She lifted her hips and positioned herself over his mouth. “Clean your mess first. Get me wetter. I want to be sloppy for you.”
He needed no further command. He lifted his head, his hands gripping her thighs, and buried his face in her. He licked with broad, hungry strokes, lapping up their combined essence from her folds, circling her entrance, sucking her clit until her hips jerked and a low, broken moan echoed in the quiet room. She tasted of sleep and sex and power. He drank her in until she was grinding against his mouth, her wetness slickening his chin, until she pulled away with a gasp.
“Good. Now fuck me.”
She moved, a shifting of shadows and warm skin, and knelt over his hips. He watched, transfixed, as she reached behind herself, guiding him. The head of his cock pressed against her soaked opening. She sank down in one slow, excruciating inch, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp. She was incredibly tight, hot, a velvety vise after a night of use. She took him all, until her ass rested on his thighs.
“Oh, fuck, Mark,” she sighed, her head tipping back. “It’s so much… fuller in the morning.”
She began to ride him, a slow, deep undulation that had him seeing the pale stripes of dawn light swim on the ceiling. Each stroke was a masterpiece of sensation—the clench of her internal muscles, the slap of skin, her whispered curses. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and met her thrust for thrust.
“Don’t you come,” she ordered, her rhythm speeding. “You don’t come until I tell you.”
He was a instrument under her hands, her body. The first orgasm took her quietly, a series of internal flutters that gripped him like a fist, her body going rigid above him. She bit her own wrist to stifle her cry. As the pulses subsided, she began moving again, faster, more desperately.
“Again,” she demanded, her voice ragged. “Make me come again.”
He drove up into her, angling his hips, seeking that spot he knew would unravel her. Her breath hitched. He found it. Her composure shattered.
“Right there! Right fucking there! Don’t stop! DON’T STOP!” Her voice rose, uncaring of the waking world outside. Her second climax was violent, a screaming, shaking release that had her clawing at his chest, her cunt convulsing around him in waves of intense, gripping pleasure.
The moment it began to ebb, she scrambled off him. His cock, slick and throbbing, sprang free. She shoved him onto his stomach. He heard the click of a cap, felt the cool drizzle of lube between his ass cheeks. Her fingers were there, pressing, working him open with a practiced efficiency that brooked no argument.
“Now,” she panted, her body draping over his back. Her breath was hot in his ear. “This is what I really wanted. This is where I want you to own me.”
She guided him. The pressure was immense, a tight, burning ring of resistance that gave way suddenly, swallowing the head of his cock in a shocking, deep heat. She sank down onto him, sheathing him completely in her ass with a guttural, satisfied groan.
“Fuck! Yes! That’s it… all of it…”
She began to move, her strokes shorter, tighter. The sensation was unbearable, exquisite, a friction so intense it bordered on pain. He was buried in a dark, forbidden heat, and the knowledge of where he was, coupled with the absolute submission of her position, ignited him. He reached back, grabbing a handful of her hair, pulling her head to the side so he could see her profile, her clenched teeth, her fluttering eyelids.
“Come,” she rasped, pounding herself onto him. “Fill my ass. Do it. Mark, fucking do it now!”
It was the use of his name that broke him. With a roar muffled by the pillow, he erupted. His orgasm was a primal spike driven straight up his spine, a surge of possession so total it felt like annihilation. He pumped into her, pulse after endless pulse, as she milking him with fierce, rhythmic clenches of that incredible tightness.
They collapsed together, a tangled heap of sweat-slick limbs and heaving chests. He was still inside her, softening, spent in a way that felt final. The room slowly came back into focus—the hum of the toys in their drawer, the now-bright stripes of daylight, the heavy scent of sex and perfume and them.
After a long time, she slid off him and curled against his side. She traced the scratch marks on his chest.
“You can shower,” she said softly, her earlier ferocity gone, replaced by a contented exhaustion. “But I meant what I said. I want it leaking out of me. A reminder.”
He looked at her, at the faint bruise blooming on her hip from his grip, at the utterly satiated peace on her face. The guilt was still there, the leaden weight. But layered over it now was something else, something terrifying and undeniable: a craving for this, for her, for the obliterating honesty of this room. He had crossed a line from which there was no return, and the path ahead was not back to his old life, but deeper into the shadows she illuminated.
He didn’t move toward the shower. He just pulled her closer, committing the feel of her, the smell of their union, to a memory he knew would haunt every sterile moment of the life waiting for him outside her door.
Then suddenly Kyrie said "You can shower or you can leave like you are. I've gotten what I needed and you have your wife to get back to. Thank you for taking care of my needs so excellently. Maybe one day the timing will work out perfectly again and I'll have need for you again."