Chapter 42: The Morning After
The dawn light was the color of weak tea, seeping through the high windows of the master bedroom. Julian woke not to silence, but to the quiet sound of breathing that wasn’t his own. He was on the floor at the foot of the vast bed, a blanket tangled around his legs. The collar was still on.
He opened his eyes.
Izzy and Sloane sat side-by-side on the edge of the mattress, already dressed in matching silk robes. They were watching him, their expressions unreadable in the dimness. Izzy’s fingers were laced with Sloane’s, a casual intimacy that felt like a declaration.
“He’s awake,” Sloane said, her voice morning-rough.
“He is.” Izzy didn’t smile. “On your knees, Julian. Properly.”
Every muscle protested, stiff from the floor and the previous night’s humiliation. He pushed himself up, the blanket falling away. He knelt, the cold of the marble floor seeping through his thin sleep pants. The two women looked down at him, a pantheon of two.
“Open your mouth,” Izzy commanded.
He did. His heart was a frantic bird in his throat.
Izzy stood, releasing Sloane’s hand. She walked to stand directly before him, her robe parting slightly. Sloane joined her, a mirror image. They weren’t smiling. This wasn’t a game. It was a ritual.
“You’ll take what we give you,” Izzy said. It wasn’t a question.
She pushed her robe aside. She was naked beneath. She shifted her stance, and a hot, sharp stream hit his tongue. It was bitter, acidic, overwhelmingly alien. He gagged, but she made a disapproving sound. “Swallow.”
He obeyed, throat working convulsively. The warmth spread through his chest, a disgusting internal heat.
Before he could recover, Sloane took her place. Her stream was lighter, less forceful, but no less humiliating. She giggled, a bright, cruel sound. “He’s such a good faucet.” He swallowed again, his eyes watering, the combined taste foul and lingering.
Izzy nodded, a curt satisfaction. “Good boy. Now,” she said, stepping back and gesturing to Sloane, who leaned against the bedpost, spreading her legs. “Clean your girlfriend’s cunt with that tongue. Make her shine.”
The transition from one violation to the next left him dizzy. He crawled forward on the cold marble. Sloane’s folds were already damp, a different wetness. He pressed his face into her, the smell of her skin and sex cutting through the sharper odor of urine. He licked, his tongue tracing her contours, trying to find a rhythm, a way to disassociate.
Sloane wasn’t patient. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “Harder. Yeah, just there, you fucking—yes.” Her hips bucked against his mouth. She came quickly, with a short, sharp shriek, her thighs clamping around his ears. He lapped at her through it, feeling her pulse around his tongue.
Before he could breathe, hands were on his shoulders, shoving him onto his back. Izzy stood over him, her robe now fully open. Her cunt was a dark delta against her pale skin. She lowered herself, straddling his face, her weight pinning him.
“Eat Mommy’s breakfast, you filthy cocksucker,” she groaned, and ground herself down onto his mouth.
She was voracious. She fucked his face with a ruthless, driving pace, using him for her pleasure without pretense. He could barely breathe, could only manage flat, broad strokes of his tongue as she rode him. The sounds she made were guttural, animal. Her nails dug into his chest through his shirt. “That’s it… take it… you’re nothing but a fucking hole…”
Her orgasm built like a storm, tightening her whole body. She went rigid above him, a silent scream on her lips, then shuddered, a flood of her release spilling into his mouth, dripping in hot rivulets down his cheeks and chin. She collapsed forward for a second, her hands braced on his chest, breathing ragged.
Then she moved, fluid and purposeful, rolling him over onto his stomach. His face pressed into the damp rug that smelled of jasmine and now, of them. He heard the click of a latch, the whisper of leather.
“Stay down,” Izzy breathed.
The first touch of the strap-on was cold, slick with something. It pressed against him, not where he expected, but lower, at his anus. He tensed.
“Relax,” Sloane’s voice came from nearby. She was kneeling in front of him. Her hands unfastened his sleep pants, pulling them down. His cock sprang free, hard and aching. “Or don’t. It’s funnier if you fight.”
Izzy pushed. The intrusion was brutal, a slow, tearing invasion. He cried out, the sound muffled by the rug. It burned, a deep, splitting pain. She didn’t stop. She seated herself fully, her body pressed against his prone ass.
“Fuck,” she exhaled, a sound of pure carnal satisfaction.
She began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust sent a jolt of pain and a sickening bolt of pleasure through him. His body was betraying him, adapting, the friction beginning to spark something unspeakable.
Sloane took his cock into her mouth. Her technique was expert, wet and greedy, her tongue swirling around the head. The dual sensations overloaded him—the deep, violating fullness from behind, the hot, suctioning pull from the front. His moans were continuous, helpless.
“Look at him,” Izzy grunted, her pace increasing. The slap of skin against skin filled the room. “He’s taking it like a cheap whore.”
Sloane pulled off with a pop. “He’s going to come. Should I let him?”
“Do it.”
Sloane’s mouth enveloped him again, her hand working his shaft in tandem. Izzy’s thrusts became harder, faster, punishing. The pain blurred, transforming into a terrifying, mounting peak. Julian’s world dissolved into pure sensation, a dark tide pulling him under.
His climax ripped through him, violent and total. He shouted, his body convulsing as he spilled into Sloane’s mouth. She took it all, swallowing, then licking him clean with a few flat, taunting strokes of her tongue.
Izzy kept fucking him through it, through the oversensitive, shuddering aftershocks, until she found her own release with a final, deep drive and a choked gasp.
Silence, broken only by the sound of harsh breathing.
The weight lifted off him. The cold air hit his exposed skin. He heard the strap-on being unbuckled, the soft footfalls on marble.
He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He lay there, emptied, broken, his face in the wet rug. The taste of them, all of them, was a permanent stain in his mouth.
A shadow fell over him. Izzy, now re-tied in her robe, looked down. Her face was smooth, composed, but her eyes were dark hollows. She looked, for a fleeting second, as emptied as he felt.
“The housekeeper will be in at nine,” she said, her voice devoid of all warmth. “Be gone by then.”
Sloane passed her, already on her phone. “My driver’s here. Paris is going to be divine.” She paused, glanced at the wreckage on the floor. “See you around, Julian.”
They left. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Sunlight strengthened, cutting across the floor, illuminating the dust motes and the mess. Julian finally pushed himself up. His body screamed in protest. He saw the smears on his thighs, felt the raw, throbbing ache inside him. The collar was tight, a constant, strangling reminder.
He got to his feet, his movements those of an old man. He stumbled into the adjoining bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the vast mirrors. He turned the shower on scalding hot and stood under the spray, shaking, trying to scour the feeling of them from his skin.
It was no use. The violation was in the marrow. He turned off the water and stood dripping, staring at the steam-clouded glass. A single, clear thought formed in the wreckage of his mind, cold and hard as a stone.
This would end.
Not with tears, not with pleas. He didn’t know how, but it would. He would find a way. He wiped a hand over the mirror, clearing a streak. The eyes that looked back at him were not his own. They were older, darker, and for the first time, utterly devoid of fear. They were simply waiting.