Chapter 37: The Morning After
He swam up from a black, dreamless depth. Consciousness returned not as a gentle dawn, but as a series of sharp, unpleasant facts. The ache in his ass was a deep, throbbing memory. The leather around his neck was a fixed, inescapable reality. The weight of an arm across his chest.
Julian opened his eyes. The morning light was stronger now, bleaching the opulence of the room into something stark and revealing. Izzy lay on one side of him, propped on an elbow, already awake. Her green eyes were clear, watching him with a calm, proprietary interest. On his other side, Anne—no, Sloane, he had to remember she’d chosen that—was also awake. Her fingers were laced with Izzy’s over his collared throat.
They were waiting for him.
“There he is,” Izzy murmured, her voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. She didn’t move her arm. “Sleep well, my love?”
He couldn’t answer. His throat was desert-dry, sealed shut.
Sloane’s gaze was different. Not triumphant, but somber, haunted. She looked at him as if from across a vast distance, her betrayal now a shared country they both inhabited. She gave his hand a small, tense squeeze where it lay on the sheet. It felt like a goodbye.
“Up,” Izzy said, the gentle tone evaporating. She swung her legs off the bed, the silk of her robe whispering. She stood, stretching, a queen surveying her domain. “On the floor. Knees.”
The command brooked no hesitation. Julian moved, his body protesting. The muscles in his thighs and lower back screamed from the previous night’s contortions. The rug was cool and slightly abrasive against his kneecaps. He kept his head down, staring at the intricate pattern, feeling the silver ring of the collar hang heavy between his clavicles.
He heard them get up. The soft pad of bare feet. A whispered giggle from Sloane, quickly stifled. They stood before him.
“Open,” Izzy said.
He looked up. They were both naked. Izzy’s expression was one of cool amusement. Sloane’s face was flushed, her lips pressed together, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a terrible, growing excitement.
“Your mouth, Julian. Open it wide.”
He parted his lips. His jaw ached.
Izzy nudged Sloane forward. “You first, darling. He’s thirsty.”
Sloane bit her lip. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a small, nervous dance. Then, with a glance at Izzy that was pure supplication, she positioned herself over him. Her pale thighs framed his view. He saw the neatly trimmed triangle of hair, still slightly damp from his earlier attentions.
A tense silence. Then a faint, hissing sound. A hot, sharp stream struck the center of his tongue. The taste was acrid, profoundly alien. Ammonia and salt. It splashed against the roof of his mouth, pooled. He gagged, his throat convulsing.
“Swallow,” Izzy commanded, her voice flat.
He had no choice. He obeyed. The liquid was warm, scalding in its intimacy. It burned a path down to his empty stomach.
Sloane’s stream trickled, then stopped. A few last drops fell on his chin. She let out a shaky, breathy giggle. “Oh, god.”
“My turn,” Izzy said. She moved Sloane aside with a gentle hand. She didn’t hesitate. She parted her labia with two fingers, a deliberate, clinical gesture, and a powerful, steady arc of urine hit him full in the face. It was hotter, stronger. It filled his mouth, overflowed, coursed over his lips and nose, dripped from his chin onto his bare chest. The smell of her, intensified and animal, filled his sinuses. He was drowning in it.
“All of it,” she said, watching him struggle to swallow as she pissed into him. “Every last drop. This is what you are. This is your function.”
He drank. When she finished, she stepped back. He knelt there, dripping, the front of his hair plastered down, his skin sticky and reeking.
“Good boy,” Izzy said, wiping herself with a careless hand. “Now, clean your girlfriend’s cunt with that tongue. Make her sweet again.”
Sloane was already lying back on the rug, spreading her legs for him. Her eyes were glazed. Julian crawled forward on his knees. The taste in his mouth was a hideous cocktail. He pressed his face between her thighs. Her flesh was already slick, but with a different, muskier wetness now. He licked, his tongue moving through the mingled fluids—her arousal, her urine, Izzy’s. It was a foul baptism. He focused on the familiar geometry of her, the swollen bud of her clit. He sucked it, needing to transform the act, to find some anchor in the skill of it.
Sloane gasped. Her hands fisted in his wet hair. “Yes… right there, Julian, please…”
He worked her with a desperate focus, lapping and sucking until the sourness was gone, replaced by the clean, salty tang of her building climax. Her hips bucked off the floor. She came with a sharp, wordless cry, her back arching, her heels digging into the rug. He stayed on her, gentling his tongue until she pushed his head away, oversensitive and trembling.
Before he could breathe, Izzy was there. She pushed him onto his back. The soaked rug was cold and shocking against his shoulders. She straddled his face, one hand braced on the foot of the bed for balance. She lowered herself, her wet, swollen folds smothering his mouth and nose.
“Eat,” she growled, grinding herself down against him. “Eat Mommy’s breakfast, you filthy cocksucker. Clean me.”
Her taste was overwhelming. Musky, complex, layered with the remnants of the strap-on lubrication and her own powerful scent. He had no leverage. He could only use his tongue and the pressure of her movement. He licked and probed, his world reduced to the dark, salty weight of her. She rode his face with a ruthless rhythm, her moans building above him. She was using him like a toy, a living, breathing implement for her pleasure.
“That’s it… use that tongue… you fucking belong there…” Her thighs clamped around his head. Her orgasm hit her, a series of hard, pulsating shudders. He felt her clench around nothing, a phantom grip, as her juices flooded his mouth, hotter than her piss had been. She groaned, a long, shuddering sound of pure release, and collapsed to the side, leaving him gasping, her essence dripping from his chin.
He lay there, wrecked. He was hard, his cock straining against his stomach, a traitorous, aching pulse.
Izzy saw it. She smiled, a predator’s grin. “Flip him over.”
Sloane, still breathing heavily from her own climax, moved to help. Her hands were gentle as they rolled him onto his stomach. The rough rug burned his sensitized skin. Izzy was buckling the harness again. He heard the slick sound of more lubricant.
“Sloane, be a darling and tend to that,” Izzy said, nodding at his erect, neglected cock.
The blunt pressure returned, pressing against his sore entrance. He braced, but there was no preparing for it. She pushed the silicone into him in one slow, inexorable thrust. He cried out, the sound muffled by the rug.
At the same time, Sloane’s mouth enveloped his cock. Her lips were warm, hesitant at first, then hungry. She bobbed her head, taking him deep, her tongue swirling. The dual sensation was insanity—a brutal, stretching fullness behind him and a wet, sucking heat surrounding him. His body was a battleground of opposing signals: violation and pleasure, degradation and reward.
Izzy set a punishing pace. Each thrust jolted him forward, his cock hitting the back of Sloane’s throat. She gagged, but didn’t pull away. Tears leaked from her eyes as she worked him, her hands gripping his hips.
“You’re nothing but a hole,” Izzy chanted, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she fucked him. “My hole. Say it.”
He couldn’t. His mind was fracturing under the sensory onslaught.
“Say it, Julian, or I stop. She stops.”
The threat of being left in this agonizing limbo was worse. “I’m your hole!” he choked out.
“Whose?”
“Yours! Izzy’s! Mommy’s!” The words were torn from him, raw and true.
It was the permission she needed. Her thrusts became erratic, frantic. Sloane felt him swell in her mouth, his balls tightening. She sucked harder, milking him with her throat.
The climax that ripped through Julian was annihilation. It was not pleasure, but a seismic discharge of pure submission. He came into Sloane’s mouth with a broken shout, his body convulsing as Izzy slammed into him one final time and held there, her own cry joining his.
Sloane swallowed, every drop, then collapsed beside him, coughing.
Silence, save for their ragged breaths. Izzy withdrew. Julian heard the harness drop. Then, nothing.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He felt emptied, scoured out. The collar was the only thing holding his head to his body.
He heard the soft sounds of them rising, of feet padding toward the bathroom. The shower turned on. Steam, smelling of jasmine soap, began to drift into the room.
They left him there. On the soaked, reeking rug. Trembling, used, his throat raw from swallowing their truths and their lies. The sun climbed higher, a clean, indifferent gold, illuminating the crumpled, collared shape on the floor. The ring of silver gleamed, a cold, perfect circle in the light. It was the only part of him that looked new.