Chapter 7: Fully Awakened
The grey dawn light filtered through the blinds, striping the wreckage of the living room floor. Empty bottles, discarded clothes, the blanket from the couch half-dragged toward the hallway. Eric’s mouth tasted of stale beer and regret. He stood in the bright, clinical white of his kitchen, a cast-iron pan in his hand, the gas burner clicking uselessly as he tried to remember how to fucking light it.
His brain was a fog of static. The memory of her body moving on top of him on that stool, the choked sound she made when she came, the way she’d clung to him afterwards—it all played on a loop, short-circuiting any coherent thought. He needed coffee. He needed to scrub the smell of her perfume and sex off his skin. He needed to not think about the perfect, desperate arch of her back.
The burner finally caught with a soft whump. He set the pan down, reaching for the fridge handle.
He felt her before he heard her. The impossible softness of her tits, those massive, perfect spheres, pressed into the muscles of his back. Her skin was warm from sleep. Her arm snaked around his waist, her hand finding his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers, already half-hard at her mere presence. She gripped him, not gently.
“Ember,” he started, his voice gravel. “Wait—”
“No.” The word was a puff of air against his spine. Her fingers tugged his boxers down, freeing him. Her hand worked him, slick and knowing. “You’re making breakfast. I’m making you hard. It’s a partnership.”
“This is… we can’t just…” He trailed off, his protest dying as her other hand slid around to clutch at his stomach, her nails biting lightly. His hips bucked into her fist.
“We can,” she whispered, her tone dropping into that automated, breathy register he was starting to dread and crave. “You want to. I can feel it. Your cock is telling me the truth your mouth won’t.”
She was right. He was throbbing in her hand, leaking for her. With a grunt, he turned off the burner. The metal of the pan was barely warm. He turned in her embrace, seeing her face, still sleep-soft but her eyes already dark and glazed. She wore one of his old t-shirts. It swallowed her frame but did nothing to hide the thrust of her nipples against the fabric.
“Ember, seriously—”
She dropped to her knees before he could finish. She took him into her mouth in one swift, deep motion, her lips stretching around his girth. He gasped, his hands flying to the counter edge behind him for support. Her head bobbed, a desperate, slurring rhythm, her tongue working the underside of his shaft. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and obedient, a perfect pornographic picture. It was too much. He pulled her up by her hair, not gently.
“No,” he growled, the word foreign in his own mouth. “Not like that.”
A flash of something—gratitude?—crossed her face. She stood on her toes, kissing him, letting him taste himself on her tongue. “Then how, Eric? Tell me.”
He spun her around, bending her over the cool granite of the kitchen island. He yanked the t-shirt up to her shoulders, exposing the full, stunning curve of her ass. It was flawless, high and tight, the skin like polished cream. He ran a hand over it, feeling the firm muscle beneath, then brought his palm down in a sharp crack.
The sound echoed in the bright room. She yelped, then pushed her ass back toward him, a red handprint blossoming on her skin. “Yes,” she hissed.
He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging against her opening. She was already wet, slick from her mouth and her own seemingly constant need. He didn’t tease. He drove into her in one long, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck!” she screamed, her fingers scrambling against the granite.
He held himself there, immersed in the unbelievable tight, hot clutch of her. Then he pulled out and slammed back in. He set a punishing pace, his balls slapping against her, the lewd, wet sounds of their fucking filling the sterile kitchen air. Each thrust jolted her body forward.
“Talk to me,” he demanded, his voice rough.
“Your cock is so deep,” she moaned, the words tumbling out in a broken chant. “You own this pussy. It’s your fucking hole. Breed it. Ruin it.”
He gripped a handful of her highlighted blonde hair, winding it around his fist and pulling her head back. Her spine curved, her throat exposed. “Like that?”
“Harder,” she choked out. “Pull it. Make me your bitch.”
He tightened his grip, yanking until her scalp strained. His other hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting, the threat of pressure palpable. He felt her swallow against his palm. She started to tremble, her internal muscles fluttering around him in rapid, violent clenches.
“I’m gonna come,” she sobbed. “I’m gonna come on your fucking cock, please!”
“Then come,” he snarled, hammering into her, each impact driving a sharp gasp from her lips. He leaned over her, his mouth near her ear. “Come for me, you perfect little fuck toy.”
The words triggered her. She shattered, a raw, screaming orgasm tearing through her. Her cunt clamped down on him like a vise, rhythmic and milking, her legs shaking violently. He fucked her through it, the intensity of her contraction pushing him toward his own edge.
He was close. So close. He could feel the heat coiling at the base of his spine, ready to erupt inside that perfect, convulsing warmth.
“Not inside,” she panted, suddenly twisting under him. “Not yet. Please. Outside. I want to see it.”
With a superhuman effort, he withdrew, his cock slick and gleaming. She was panting, turned, and took his hand. Her eyes were wild, her makeup smudged, his t-shirt still bunched around her neck. She led him, stumbling, through the sliding glass door onto the small, private balcony overlooking his suburban backyard. The morning air was cool and damp on their sweat-sheened skin.
She arched her back, her perfect swollen tits on display to the world, her head thrown back in elation, reveling in the exhibitionist display.
“Here,” she said, her voice hoarse. She turned to face the empty street below, gripping the railing. She bent over slightly, presenting her incredible body to him—the dramatic swell of her augmented tits, the narrow waist, the red-marked ass. “Do it. Mark me.”
He didn’t hesitate. He fisted his cock, already pumping. The first thick rope of come streaked across the small of her back, white against her skin. The next splashed over the perfect curve of her right cheek. He grunted, stroking himself brutally, painting her with hot, ragged spurts. It landed on her shoulders, in her hair, a final drop catching the morning light as it fell onto the balcony floor.
She shuddered under the assault, moaning softly. When he was spent, he dropped his hand, breathing ragged. She stayed bent over the railing, come slowly dripping down her skin, a portrait of absolute debasement against the quiet, waking suburb.
A bird chirped in a neighboring tree. Somewhere, a car door slammed. A passerby looked up, startled at the debaucherous sight. She smiled and winked at him, her tits hanging over the railing.
She finally straightened, turning to look at him. She didn’t try to wipe the mess away. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable, a strange, hollow peace in her eyes. The t-shirt slipped down her body, stained now at the hem.
“Now,” she said softly, reaching for his limp hand. “You can make breakfast.”