Chapter 3: Throat Training
The sagging leather couch groaned under Colt’s weight as he sprawled, one booted foot planted on the worn rug, the other propped on the coffee table littered with empty whiskey glasses and a dusty ashtray. The dim light from a single brass floor lamp pooled around him, deepening the hollows of his face. He’d unzipped his jeans, freeing the thick, heavy length of his cock. It lay rigid against his stomach, already glistening darkly at the tip. The scent of old paper and leather from the crammed bookshelves mingled uneasily with the lingering jasmine and the raw, musky promise hanging thick in the air. Rae stood stiffly beside the couch, the shadow of his bite mark on her shoulder a livid purple bruise visible even in the low light. The ache between her legs from earlier was a dull, persistent throb.
"Don't just fuckin' stand there," Colt growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, fingers idly tracing the vein pulsing along his shaft. "Earn your keep. Down."
Rae swallowed, the sound loud in the stillness. Her knees felt weak, remembering the brutal stretch, the bruising grip. She sank down onto the faded Persian rug, the coarse weave scratchy against her bare shins. The leather couch sighed as she leaned forward, the smell of him – sweat, whiskey, and pure, potent male – filling her nostrils.
"Good girl," he muttered, the praise rough, almost mocking. His large, calloused hand shot out, not gentle. It tangled brutally in the hair at her nape, fisting tight, yanking her head towards his lap before she could brace herself. "Now suck it. Show me you remember how that pretty mouth works."
The blunt, hot head of his cock bumped against her lips. She parted them instinctively, a gasp escaping as he didn't wait, didn't give her time. He shoved forward, the thick crown stretching her lips wide, forcing its way past her teeth. She choked, gagging immediately as the sheer girth invaded her mouth, hitting the back of her throat. Tears sprang hot and unbidden to her eyes.
"Uh-uh," he grunted, tightening his grip in her hair, holding her head immobile. "None of that gaggin' bullshit. Open wider. Take it." He pushed another inch, relentless, his other hand coming down to grip the base, guiding himself deeper. "Yeah. There. Feel that? Gonna fill that tight little throat."
Rae's jaw ached. Saliva pooled, slipping past the corners of her stretched lips, slicking his shaft as he began a shallow, insistent thrusting. In and out. Just the head, then plunging deeper, forcing her throat to open. She fought for breath through her nose, her body trembling, hands braced uselessly on the worn leather of the couch cushion beside his thigh. The taste of him, salt and musk and skin, flooded her senses.
"Fuck, that's it," Colt groaned, his hips lifting slightly off the cushion to meet her mouth, driving deeper. The tip nudged against the resistant ring of her esophagus. "Deeper, princess. Swallow it down. Show me you can take it all." He pushed harder, holding her head down, forcing her nose into the coarse hair at his groin. Her throat spasmed violently around the invading thickness. She gagged, her body convulsing, tears streaming freely now, dripping onto his jeans.
He didn't let up. He held her there, impaled, for a long, suffocating moment. "Breathe through your nose, slut," he commanded, his voice thick with arousal. "You ain't dyin'. You're just takin' cock like you're meant to. Feel it? Feel how fuckin' deep I am?" He pulled back slightly, letting her gasp in a ragged, wet breath, then immediately slammed forward again, burying himself to the root. Her throat opened, yielding with a terrible, wet pop. He bottomed out, his heavy balls pressing against her chin. She could feel the frantic pulse of him inside her constricted throat.
He started to fuck her mouth in earnest. Short, brutal strokes, pulling back only enough to let her taste the weeping head before ramming the full, brutal length down again. Her throat made obscene, wet choking sounds with every thrust. Spit and pre-come slicked her chin, his shaft, her neck. He used her ruthlessly, the grip in her hair controlling the pace, the angle. The sounds were raw: the wet slap of flesh, his low, guttural curses, her desperate, choked attempts to breathe. "That's my good little cocksucker," he rasped, his breathing ragged. "Take it. Take that fuckin' throatpie. Made for this, weren't you? Just a warm, wet hole for my dick."
He pistoned faster, harder. His free hand dropped to her shoulder, fingers digging into the fresh bruise, making her whimper around the thick intrusion. Pain flared, sharp and bright, mixing sickeningly with the suffocating fullness, the helplessness. Her body was betraying her; a treacherous coil of heat tightened low in her belly despite the violation, despite the tears. The sheer, overwhelming dominance, the raw force of his possession, was a drug.
"Gettin' close," he warned, his voice a strained snarl. He shoved her head down hard, holding her impaled, his cock pulsing violently against the tight ring of her throat. "You swallow it. Every. Fuckin'. Drop. Or I swear to Christ, I'll pin you right here on this rug and fuck that throat until you can't scream." His hips jerked erratically. "Open wide, bitch. Take it!"
A hot, salty flood erupted deep in her throat. Thick spurts pumped straight down, coating her esophagus. She gagged violently, her body seizing, but the iron grip on her head and the relentless pressure of his cock held her in place, forcing her to accept it. He groaned, a long, low sound of utter release, hips bucking, emptying himself into the tight, convulsing channel of her throat. The taste was overwhelming, thick and bitter, flooding her mouth as he pulled back slightly, the last few pulses spurting over her tongue.
She swallowed convulsively, instinctively, the bitter fluid burning a path down. Still, some escaped, dripping from her swollen lips, streaking her chin. Colt held her there for a moment longer, panting, then finally released his brutal grip on her hair. She collapsed back onto her heels, gasping, coughing, one hand flying to her bruised throat. Spit and come slicked her lips and chin. Her throat felt raw, scraped, utterly used. She could still feel the ghost of his thickness, the echo of his command.
Colt leaned back heavily against the couch, tucking his spent cock back into his jeans with a grunt, not bothering to zip up. He watched her, his eyes hooded, unreadable in the dim light. Her chest heaved, her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. The scent of jasmine felt cloying now, sickly sweet under the stench of sweat and sex and humiliation. He reached out, not to comfort, but to smear a stray drop of his release from her chin with a surprisingly rough thumb. He held it up, glistening, before wiping it carelessly on the leather beside him.
"Better," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier heat. He picked up a half-empty whiskey bottle from the floor, took a long pull, the liquid glinting amber in the lamplight. His gaze lingered on her tear-streaked face, her trembling form, the mess on her chin. A faint, dangerous smirk touched his lips. "But we got a lot more trainin' to do if you're gonna be useful." He took another slow swallow, the sound loud in the silence that followed the brutal act, his eyes never leaving hers. The threat hung in the air, thicker than the jasmine.