Chapter 5: Parallel Torment
The cruel grip on his shaft was a brand. Michael gasped, his entire body bowing against the couch as the tidal wave of his orgasm crashed against an impossible dam. The other Michael’s fingers were iron, his breath hot and laughing against his ear. "Watch," the double commanded, voice thick with shared lust. "She doesn't come, you don't come. That’s the game."
On screen, the two men held Laura down on the sunbed, her skin gleaming with sweat and seawater. One relentlessly fucked her with three fingers, the slick, obscene sounds just audible over the binaural hum. The other traced her tight, forbidden hole, pressing just the tip of his finger against it, making her whimper and buck. "Beg for it," he growled. "Beg for us to wreck this pretty little ass."
But in the humid, neon-tangled reality of the apartment, a different Laura was moving. His Laura. The one from his imagination, given wet, warm flesh by the chocolate’s madness. She crawled across the floor between his spread legs, her eyes huge and dark, fixed not on the screen but on the throbbing, captive cock in his double’s fist.
"Please," she whispered, the word a puff of air against his balls. She nuzzled the heavy sac, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt and pre-cum that coated him. "Please, Michael. Let me worship it. Just let me put my mouth on you while you watch. I need it."
Her hands slid up his inner thighs, trembling. She didn’t grab, only caressed, her touch reverent. She pressed her face against the hot, velvety skin of his shaft, inhaling deeply. "You smell so good," she moaned, her voice cracking. "Like sex and power. This beautiful, perfect cock. I dream about it. I wake up soaked thinking about the weight of it on my tongue."
On the television, the Laura on the yacht screamed, a raw, broken sound as the man’s finger finally pushed past her tight ring, burying itself to the knuckle inside her ass. Her body convulsed, but the men just laughed, holding her down.
The other Michael chuckled, his grip tightening a fraction, making the original Michael see stars. "Hear that? She’s getting there. You gotta wait your turn."
But the Laura on the floor was crying real tears now, her desperation a tangible heat. "I’ll be so good for it," she sobbed, her lips brushing the thick vein that ran along the underside. "I’ll suck you like a goddess, Michael. I’ll take every fucking inch down my throat and thank you for choking me with it. Just let me taste you. Please, sir. Please, daddy. Let this stupid, hungry whore have a taste of your perfect dick."
Her begging was a counterpoint to the brutality on screen—soft, worshipful, addictively submissive. She opened her mouth, her pink tongue extended, and slowly, agonizingly, licked a long, wet stripe from his balls all the way to the flared, leaking head.
Michael grunted, his hips jerking. The sensation was electric, almost painful in its intensity. The other Michael’s hand held him fast, an immovable anchor.
"Look at her," his double hissed, nodding at the screen. The man was now pumping two fingers in and out of Laura’s ass in time with the other’s fingers in her cunt, a ruthless, punishing rhythm. She was sobbing, begging them to let her cum.
The Laura on the floor took the weeping head into her mouth. Her lips formed a perfect, suctioning seal. Her eyes rolled back in ecstasy as she swirled her tongue around the sensitive crown, collecting the bitter-salt pre-cum. A deep, guttural groan rattled from her throat as she savored it. "So sweet," she mumbled around him, her words slurred by fullness."You taste like heaven. You taste like my fucking purpose."
She began to bob her head, taking him deeper with each descent. Her hands came up to cradle his balls, rolling them gently, then stroking the base of his shaft where his double’s hand was clenched. Her worship was total, absolute. Every slurp, every gasp for air, every choked moan was a hymn dedicated to his flesh.
"I want it to fuck my face," she panted, pulling off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening head. "I want you to forget her up there and just use my mouth. Make me your cock sleeve.Please. I exist to swallow this magnificent dick. Look at it… it’s so thick, so angry and red. It’s beautiful. It deserves a warm, wet, grateful hole. Give it to me. Fuck my throat raw.Claim it."
Her words, filthy and adoring, wound around the soundtrack of the other Laura’s degradation. The two realities merged—the violent denial on screen, the soft, desperate worship at his feet. The pressure in Michael’s groin was nuclear.
On screen, the men finally roared, "Cum, you dirty bitch!" and the yacht Laura shattered, her body seizing as a orgasm wracked her, torn from her by force.
"Now," the other Michael snarled, and his punishing grip vanished.
The dam broke.
Michael’s vision whited out. A raw, animal shout ripped from his lungs as his climax detonated. The Laura on the floor saw it in his eyes and plunged down, taking him to the hilt, her nose buried in his pubic hair. He felt the first violent pulse hit the back of her throat.
She gagged, but held still, her eyes streaming as she took it. Thick, hot ropes shot down her esophagus. He fucked upward into the wet, tight heat of her mouth, his hands tangling in her hair, holding her down as he emptied himself completely, each spurt a blinding release of tension. She swallowed desperately, noisily, milking him with her throat muscles until he was spent, shuddering, sensitive to the point of pain.
She finally pulled off, gasping, cum and saliva slick on her chin. She looked ravaged, triumphant. She licked her lips, then leaned forward to clean his softening cock with gentle, kittenish laps, worshipping him to the last drop.
On the screen, the scene had faded to black. The apartment was silent save for their ragged breathing and the low, eternal thrum of the beats. The other Michael was gone, vanished back into the periphery of his mind.
Only the taste of chocolate and the profound, echoing emptiness of release remained.