Chapter 10: Tasting His Own Medicine
The command hung in the air, a blade falling between them. Paul’s body, still humming from his orgasm, went rigid. The warm, spent feeling evaporated, replaced by a cold clarity. Her eyes weren’t soft anymore. They were the same eyes that had assessed him in the dressing room, that had pictured a stranger’s hands on her in Jamaica.
He didn’t move.
“Paul.” Her voice was flat. A reminder. “My turn.”
A hollow ache spread through his chest. The validation he’d felt moments ago now felt like a pitiful reward, a dog given a treat for performing a trick. He was still inside her, growing soft, and the intimacy of it curdled. He withdrew, the separation feeling obscenely loud. The smell of their sex, once a private musk, now seemed clinical in the afternoon light.
He slid down the bed, the sheet whispering under his skin. The black lycra of the thong was damp with sweat, clinging to him as he positioned himself between her thighs. She opened for him without a sound, one knee falling to the side, a deliberate offering. Her pussy was glistening, flushed, a mixture of her own wetness and his semen, which had begun a slow, milky trickle onto the sheet beneath her.
He looked up at her. Her face was propped on a pillow, watching him. Her expression was expectant, instructive. Not passionate.
He lowered his head.
He started with her clitoris, the way he’d done it in the morning. His tongue made slow, broad circles. He felt her tense, then release a sigh. Her hips gave a slight, involuntary lift. She enjoyed it. He could feel the delicate bud hardening under his tongue, could taste her familiar, sharp-sweet tang. For a fleeting second, it was just them, a biological echo of their old routine.
Then her hand came down, not in his hair, but on his shoulder, guiding. She pressed down, shifting his angle. “Lower,” she said, her voice a husky instruction. “Go lower. Lick around my hole. It’s leaking.”
Paul froze, his mouth still on her. His mind screamed. He knew what she wanted.
“Do it.”
He closed his eyes. He let his tongue trail down through her folds, past the sensitive nub, through the softer, swollen flesh, until the tip of his tongue found the source of that trickle. The taste changed. It became musky, saltier, underscored by a faint, bitter note that was unmistakably him. His own semen, mixed with her arousal. His stomach clenched.
He licked, tentatively, around the pucked rim. The act was staggeringly intimate yet profoundly degrading. He was cleaning her, consuming his own spent seed.
“Yeah,” she breathed, and her voice had a thread of genuine pleasure in it now, twisted as it was. “Just like that. Get it all.”
He complied, moving his tongue in careful, slow strokes, collecting the viscous fluid. The bitterness coated his tongue. He fought a gag reflex, swallowing reflexively.
“Good,” she said, her fingers now threading loosely through his hair, not pulling, just resting there as a marker of ownership. “You need to get used to that taste, Paul.”
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His tongue worked mechanically.
“I’m serious,” she continued, her tone conversational, as if discussing grocery items. “This is important practice. You should get comfortable tasting semen.”
A cold knot tightened in his gut. His eyes were still shut tight.
“Because I will come home with other men’s cum inside me sometimes. Now that I’m allowed.” She said ‘allowed’ like it was a privilege he had granted, a twisted gift. “Marcus, obviously. Maybe others. After Jamaica, who knows?” Her hips lifted slightly, pushing herself more firmly against his mouth. “You’ll want to taste me when I get home. You’ll want to be intimate with me. And that means you’ll have to taste them on me. In me. So it’s good. This is good. You’re practicing with your own. It’s easier.”
Each word was a precise, icepick jab to a previously unimagined depth. The graphic logistics of it, the calm premeditation, shattered any last pretense. This wasn’t a fantasy she was dragging him into. It was a manual. A set of rules for a new world where he was a custodian of another man’s leavings.
His tongue stopped moving.
Lisa sighed, a sound of mild impatience. She pressed down on his head with more force. “Don’t stop now. You haven’t made me come yet. Keep going. Lick my clit. But remember the taste.”
Paul’s jaw ached. He lifted his head just enough to shift back to her clitoris. The taste of his own release was still thick on his tongue, a pervasive reminder. He focused on the mechanical task, using his fingers to spread her, applying pressure with the flat of his tongue the way she usually liked.
Her breathing hitched. The instructional tone left her voice, replaced by low, shuddering moans. She ground herself against his face, her fingers finally tightening in his hair, pulling hard. “Fuck, yeah… right there… don’t stop…”
He was a tool. An implement for her pleasure. The realization was as bleak as it was absolute. He shut down the thinking part of his mind and became just a mouth, a tongue, a set of hands holding her open. The sounds she made, the way her thighs trembled, were the same as before, but the context poisoned them. He was giving her an orgasm fueled by her vision of a future without him at its center.
Her climax built quickly, a violent tide. She cried out, a raw, guttural sound that wasn’t his name, just a release of tension. Her body arched, then went limp, her grip in his hair slackening.
Paul stayed there, his face buried in her, breathing in the mixed scent of sex and conquest. He was numb.
After a moment, she nudged him with her knee. He moved back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He couldn’t look at her.
He heard the rustle of the sheets as she sat up. He stared at the pattern on the duvet, at the discarded lavender lingerie set perched on the nightstand like a promise to someone else.
Lisa swung her legs off the bed and stood. She walked, naked, to their en-suite bathroom. He listened to the faucet run, the sound of her splashing water on her face. She returned, not bothering to cover herself. She stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at him where he still knelt on the floor, a supplicant in a black thong.
“You did good,” she said, her voice calm, almost warm. She reached out and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair. It was a patronizing gesture. “See? You can learn.”
She turned and picked up her robe from a chair, slipping it on, tying the belt with a neat, final bow. “I’m going to order some food. You should shower.” She paused at the bedroom door, glancing back. Her gaze was thoughtful, distant. “The practice was good. But at some point… it won’t be your own. Just so you’re ready.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Paul remained on the floor. The taste in his mouth—her, him, the future—was indelible. He looked at the closed door, then at the bed, at the small, damp spot where his tongue had cleaned their mixed fluids from her skin.
The silence in the room was no longer charged. It was empty. It was the silence of a cell after the warden has delivered the new rules and walked away.
He started getting dressed again. He left the thong on. Lisa had said she liked it, after all.