Chapter 12: Christelle's throat bulges obscenely as Nabil's mammoth cock violates her gag reflex, his balls slapping against her chin with each brutal thrust. 'That's right, swallow it all, Madame,' he growls, twisting her hair around his fist, 'Your faggot husband ever make you drool like this?'
The chime was alien in the quiet house. Christelle set her grading pen down, the red ink blurring on the essay about Baudelaire. Sébastien was in Lyon until tomorrow. The kids were at school. She hadn’t ordered anything.
She opened the door, and the daylight vanished behind him. It was the giant from Nolan’s place, the one who’d watched with those silent, hooded eyes. Nabil. He didn’t smile. He just walked past her, his bulk filling the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the polished wood. He went straight to the living room as if he owned it and settled onto the worn sofa, the frame creaking under his weight. The family photos on the mantel seemed to shudder.
“What are you doing here? You need to leave,” Christelle said, her voice tighter than she intended. She stayed in the archway, arms crossed.
Nabil looked around, his gaze lingering on a picture of her and Sébastien at the beach. “Nice place. Cozy. Very married.” His voice was a low rumble. “Remember that night? At Nolan’s? I remember. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. About you. The teacher on her knees.”
“That has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me. Nolan shares. Especially when he owes me money.” He picked up a small porcelain trinket from the side table, examined it, set it down. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a married teacher. In her own house. While her husband’s away earning the money to pay for the sofa I’m sitting on.”
Her stomach turned to ice. “Get out.”
“Or what? You’ll call your husband?” Nabil grinned, a flash of white in his dark beard. “I’ve seen the videos, Madame. The one where you’re screaming into the pillow. The one where you’re bent over your own desk after class. I wonder what Sébastien would think. He seems like a nice guy. A soft guy.”
The threat was a physical pressure in her chest. It evaporated her outrage, leaving a hollow, sinking shame. She saw the videos playing on Sébastien’s phone, his kind face collapsing.
Nabil stood. The room shrank. He didn’t touch her. He just looked at her, then down at his own trousers. His hands went to his belt, the clasp snapping open. The zipper’s sound was obscenely loud in the silent room.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes.” The zipper descended. He pushed his jeans and boxers down over his hips. His cock sprung free, already thick and heavy with blood.
Christelle’s hand flew to her mouth. A choked, “Mon Dieu,” escaped her. It was a monstrosity. Nolan was big, but this was something else. It was thick as her wrist, veined and ruddy, the head a broad, flushed plum. It seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, a living, demanding creature. On his colossal frame, it looked both terrifying and absurdly potent.
He took two steps forward, the beast swaying. The scent of him, musk and salt, hit her. He placed a heavy, warm hand on the crown of her head. His fingers threaded into her carefully styled hair.
“You’re going to suck it, teacher. All of it.”
Her knees gave way. She sank to the rug, the wool rough against her skin. From this angle, it was even more daunting, a tower of flesh aimed at her face. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and wrapped them around the base. Her fingers didn’t touch. The heat radiating from it was feverish.
“I can’t,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I’ll never fit this in my mouth.”
“You will. You’ve taken Nolan. You’re a greedy cunt. You can take more.” He pushed his hips forward slightly, the broad head bumping against her lips. “Start licking. Get it wet for your new master.”
She flinched at the word. Master. But she leaned in, her eyes closing. She extended her tongue, a pink point against the purple dome. She licked a slow, tentative stripe across the slit, tasting the pre-cum that had already beaded there—salty, bitter, utterly male.
“That’s it,” Nabil groaned, his hand tightening in her hair. “Use that pretty teacher tongue. Bet you never do this for old Sébastien, huh? Bet his little dick gets a dry, pity suck once a month if he’s lucky.”
Christelle whirled her tongue around the head, then began to lick down the shaft. It was a landscape. Each thick vein was a ridge under her tongue. The journey from the tip to where her hand struggled to meet his coarse pubic hair took an age, her tongue flat and worshipful. She went back up, her nostrils flaring with his scent.
“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, watching her, his breathing deeper. “A respectable woman. A mother. On her knees in her living room, licking a dick bigger than her husband’s entire arm. You love this, don’t you? You love knowing your wedding ring is right there, shining while you slurp on a real man’s cock.”
She whimpered, the sound vibrating against his skin. The shame was molten now, mixing with a dark, undeniable thrill. He was right. Sébastien had never, would never, inspire this degrading awe.
“Enough teasing,” Nabil growled. His grip in her hair became inexorable. He guided her head forward, aligning the swollen head with her parted lips. “Open wide. Take your medicine.”
She opened her mouth, and he pushed. The broad crown stretched her lips into a taut ring. She gagged instantly, her throat seizing. He didn’t stop. He fed another inch, then another, the thick shaft forcing her jaws apart beyond what she thought possible.
“That’s it, choke on it,” he said, his voice thick with excitement. “Choke on it and think about your husband’ pathetic dick. Does he even make you gag? Does he even touch the back of your throat?”
Tears sprang to her eyes as he pushed deeper. Her throat opened reluctantly, a tight, convulsive sheath around the invading column. He slid further until her nose was buried in his coarse pubic hair, the entire mammoth length buried down her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes watered profusively. She made desperate, wet, guttural sounds.
Nabil held her there, impaled, for a long second, watching her face turn red. “Look at that. All the way. A proper fucking throat.” He pulled back until just the head remained, a string of saliva and mucus bridging her lips to his flesh. Then he slammed forward again, fucking her face in a relentless, shallow rhythm.
“Yeah, you’re a natural born cocksucker, Madame. Your husband should thank me. I’m giving you the fucking education you clearly need.”
Each thrust was a brutal invasion. Her jaw ached. Her throat was raw. The obscene, wet sounds of his pistoning hips filled the cozy room, a profane counterpoint to the ticking clock on the mantel. He picked up the pace, his balls slapping against her chin. She was just a hole, a warm, tight sleeve for his pleasure, her mind gone white with the strain and the filthy, undeniable truth of his words.