Chapter 14: Curtain Call Cocksucking
The lock clicked like a bone breaking.
The sound of the retreating footsteps had vanished, swallowed by the labyrinth of backstage corridors. Now there was only the buzzy hum of the bad light, the smell of dust and their own spent sweat, and the weight of what they’d done pressing on the thin walls.
Ryan’s hand remained on the locked doorknob for a long moment, his head bowed. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep, unsteady breath. When he turned back to her, the grim resolve had hardened into something colder, more deliberate.
“They’ll be back,” he repeated, his voice low. It wasn’t a warning. It was a fact. A timeline.
He took a step toward her. Channah didn’t move. Her body felt used, hollowed out, a vessel still ringing from the brutal fucking. The torn silk of her blouse whispered against her skin as she breathed. She watched him come closer, his eyes cataloging the damage: the smeared makeup, the red marks on her throat, the dark, wet patches on her trousers.
Without a word, he reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband of her trousers. He gave a sharp tug. The button popped off, joining the scattered pearls of her blouse on the dirty floor. He yanked the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He pushed the fabric over her hips, letting it fall in a heap around her ankles. Then her underwear, already soaked and stretched. The cool, stale air hit her naked skin, making her shiver.
He stepped back, his gaze traveling over her. “Look at you.”
She was exposed, standing amid the discarded props in the flickering light. She felt no urge to cover herself. The shame had burned away, leaving behind a weird, numb purity.
“Turn around,” he said.
She obeyed, slowly turning to face the shelves of forgotten junk. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt buckle. He came up behind her, his body not touching hers. His hands settled on her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her ass. He leaned in, his lips close to her ear.
“You can still feel me inside you, can’t you?”
She could. A deep, throbbing ache, a phantom fullness. She nodded.
“Good.” One hand left her hip. She heard him spit into his palm again. Then his fingers were back, sliding through the slick mess between her legs, gathering it, before pressing two thick, wet fingers against her asshole. The muscle, already traumatized, clenched in automatic protest. He pushed anyway, working them inside with a slow, relentless corkscrew motion. She bit down on a whimper, her forehead pressing against a dusty shelf holding a box of cracked clay masks.
“It’s so loose now,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he scissored his fingers inside her. “Wide open. Like you’ve been fucking like this for years.” He pulled his fingers out. “On your knees.”
He didn’t guide her. She sank to the floor herself, the grimy linoleum cold and gritty against her knees. Before her was a piled heap of discarded stage curtains, heavy velvet the color of a stale bruise. It smelled of mold and old stage smoke.
Ryan stood in front of her. He’d freed his cock, which was hardening again, slick at the tip from her own fluids and his. It stood thick and angry against his stomach. He curled a hand in her red hair, fisting it, not gently. He pulled her face towards him.
“Open,” he commanded.
She did, letting her mouth fall slack. He guided himself past her lips, not with a thrust, but with a slow, pressing insistence. He filled her mouth, the taste of herself and him bitter and salty on her tongue. She relaxed her jaw, letting him push deeper until the head nudged the back of her throat. Her eyes watered.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his fist tightening in her hair. “Suck. Get me good and wet. You’re gonna need it.”
She obeyed, hollowing her cheeks, using her tongue. She worked him with a rhythm that was both practiced and desperate. She looked up at him through wet lashes. His head was thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out, his eyes closed. He looked like a man in agony. Or in prayer.
After a minute, he pulled himself from her mouth with a slick pop. A string of saliva connected her lips to his glistening cock for a second before it snapped.
“Now,” he said, his voice ragged. “On the curtains. Face down.”
She crawled forward, her knees scraping on the rough floor, and laid herself on the pile of velvet. The fabric was coarse and dusty against her breasts and belly. It smelled of decay.
She felt him kneel behind her. His hands gripped her hips, yanking them up, arching her back. The position presented her, exposed and vulnerable, the sore, used hole he’d been preparing glistening wet in the bad light.
He didn’t hesitate. He spat once more, a final, crude lubricant, onto his palm and slicked himself. Then he placed the broad, blunt head of his cock against her. He applied pressure. It was too much, too soon. She gasped into the musty velvet.
“Please,” she whimpered, the word muffled.
“Please what?” he growled, not relenting.
“Please… fuck me.”
He drove in.
It was a brutal, uncompromising invasion. The initial stretch was a white-hot tear, a violation so complete it stole her breath. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the dusty fabric. He buried himself to the hilt in one long, punishing stroke, his pelvis slapping against the backs of her thighs. He held himself there, fully seated, letting her feel every aching inch.
“God, you’re tight,” he groaned, a shudder running through him. “Even like this. Fucking unbelievable.”
Then he began to move. It wasn’t the frantic, furious pounding from before. This was slower, deeper, more deliberate. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a full, reaming penetration. He fucked her with a grinding intensity that focused on the raw stretch, on the obscene fullness. The velvet scratched her cheek. Her fingers clawed at the material, finding no purchase.
“This what you wanted?” he hissed, his hands digging into the soft flesh of her ass, spreading her wider for him. “Huh? This dirty, nasty fuck in a closet? Knowing someone could walk in any second?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the word torn from her with each deep drive.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I wanted it!”
He picked up the pace, his thrusts gaining a harder, more punishing edge. The slap of skin on skin, the wet, slick sounds of his cock ploughing into her, filled the small room. The stack of conference chairs rattled softly in sympathy with their rhythm.
“You’re a fucking mess,” he panted, his control fraying. “A ruined, gaping mess. And you love it. I can feel you clamping down on me, you greedy bitch.”
He was right. A sick, dark heat was coiling in her gut again, born from the pain and the humiliation and the sheer physical domination. It was a deviant thrill, knowing she was taking him like this, in her ass, on a pile of garbage, with the world just a thin door away. Her cunt, untouched, wept onto the velvet beneath her.
One of his hands snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her wet, swollen clit. He rubbed rough, insistent circles, his timing off from the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. The dual sensations—the deep, brutal fullness and the sharp, focused friction on her clit—threatened to short-circuit her mind.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice guttural. “Come while I’m wrecking your ass. Let me feel you shake apart.”
The command, the filthy reality of it, was the final trigger. The coil in her belly snapped. An orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing, so intense it was almost a form of violence itself. Her cries were strangled, muffled by the curtain as her body seized around his invading length, milking him uncontrollably.
Her climax tore his control away. With a raw, shattered groan, he slammed into her one last, final time, his body locking as he pumped his release deep inside her. He collapsed over her back, his weight pressing her into the dusty velvet, his breath hot and ragged against her shoulder.
They lay like that for a long time, joined, spent, listening to the buzz of the light and the distant, vague murmur of the conference carrying on without them.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A warm trickle followed, a leaking evidence on her inner thigh.
He rolled off her, laying on his back on the floor beside the curtain pile, staring at the cracked ceiling tiles. Channah didn’t move. Her face was still buried in the fabric. She could smell their sex on it now, layered over the dust and mold.
The silence stretched, thin and brittle.
“We can’t stay here,” Ryan said eventually, his voice empty.
Channah pushed herself up on trembling arms. She looked at him. He looked gutted. All the fury, the possessive heat, had drained away. The tattoos on his arm seemed like faded ink on pale skin.
“I know,” she whispered, her own voice hoarse.
She moved to stand, her legs shaky. She found her discarded trousers and stepped into them, wincing at the feel of the fabric against her sore, soiled skin. She held her torn blouse closed with one hand.
Ryan sat up, running a hand through his tangled hair. He fastened his pants, his movements slow, mechanical. He wouldn’t look at her.
“The back exit,” he said, nodding toward a rusty fire door tucked behind a rack of old costumes. “Through the loading bay. We can avoid the main floor.”
It was a plan. An escape route. It said nothing about what came after.
He stood, finally meeting her eyes. His were hollow, the green turned to murky slate. He looked like a stranger. Or maybe, she thought with a cold clarity, this was who he had always been. And she had just never opened the right door to see it.
He walked to the fire door, brushed aside a cobweb, and pushed the bar. It opened with a groan of disuse, letting in a slash of gray, afternoon light from the alley outside.
He didn’t offer his hand. He just stood there, waiting, a silhouette against the daylight.
Channah Bloom, forty-nine years old, a therapist from New York, walked toward him on unsteady legs. She stepped over the pile of stained velvet, out of the flickering, buzzing light, and followed him into the open air.