Chapter 4: Double Penetration Setup
The warmth of his release was still a tangible presence inside her, a deep, claiming heat that made her feel both utterly debased and completely cherished. They stayed like that for a long moment, collapsed in the groaning leather chair, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together in the humid, sex-heavy air.
Ryan was the first to move, his breath a warm puff against her shoulder. He gently withdrew, the sensation drawing a soft, oversensitive gasp from her. He stood on unsteady legs, his tattoos a vibrant, shifting landscape over his muscles. Without a word, he fetched a soft towel from her en-suite bathroom, the one she kept for clients who needed to compose themselves after a difficult session. The irony was not lost on her as he carefully, tenderly, cleaned her.
“The camera’s still on,” he murmured, nodding toward the tripod where the little red light glowed like a demon’s eye.
“Let it be,” she said, her voice hoarse. She slid from the chair, her legs buckling slightly as her feet hit the plush rug. She knelt on it, the fibers soft against her raw knees. She looked up at him, at his spent but still magnificent body, and a new, wicked idea began to form. The submission of before was now transforming into a quiet command.
“My turn to direct,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. She gestured for him to come closer. “On your back. Here.”
He obeyed, lowering himself to the rug in front of her, his head propped against a large velvet cushion. The ambient light from the aquarium cast shifting blue and green patterns across his skin.
Channah moved on all fours, a slow, predatory crawl. She stopped just before him, then turned, presenting herself to the camera. She reached back with both hands, spreading her cheeks wide, offering the viewer—offering him—an unflinching view of her well-used, gaping asshole, still glistening with his seed and lube.
“Look what you did to me,” she breathed, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s still so open. So empty.”
Ryan’s cock, which had begun to soften, twitched against his thigh. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his eyes darkening.
She watched him as he spat, a thick glob of saliva that landed directly on her exposed hole. It was crude, animalistic, and it sent a jolt of pure electricity through her. He then leaned forward, not with his cock, but with his hand. He pressed two fingers against her, sliding them into the slick, loosened channel with an obscene, wet sound.
“Oh, fuck,” she whimpered, her head dropping forward as he worked his fingers in and out, stretching her, reminding her body of the violation it had just welcomed. The feeling was a raw echo of his earlier possession, a promise of more. “Yes… just like that. Prepare me. I want you to fill my fucking ass again, but first… I want to taste you. I want to clean my own mess off your cock before you give it to me again.”
He withdrew his fingers, and she turned, a fluid, hungry motion. She pushed him back onto the cushion and descended upon him, taking his semi-hard length into her mouth. She could taste herself on him, the musky, intimate flavor of their joining, mixed with the faint bitterness of his cum. She sucked him hard, her tongue swirling around the head, licking him clean with a devotion that was both worship and defilement. She felt him swell and harden completely against her tongue, his hips lifting off the rug to push deeper into her throat.
“Channah… god…” he groaned, his hands tangling in her red hair.
When he was rock-hard again, she released him with a pop. “Now,” she commanded, her voice ragged with need. “My ass. I need it. I want to feel you tearing me open.”
She turned back around, assuming the same position, presenting herself. He moved behind her, his knees on the rug, his hands gripping her hips. He guided himself to her, the broad head of his cock pressing against that incredibly tight, sensitive ring of muscle.
“Breathe,” he growled.
She exhaled, and he pushed, burying himself in one long, relentless stroke. She cried out, a sharp, guttural sound that was pure sensation. It was tighter than her cunt, a fierce, burning friction that was almost too much. He held himself deep, letting her adjust to the overwhelming fullness.
Then he began to fuck her.
His thrusts were slow and deep, each one a deliberate, soul-scouring invasion. The rug bunched beneath her knees with every drive forward. She could hear the wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting, a brutal rhythm that drowned out the hum of the filter in the aquarium.
“You take my cock so well in this filthy ass,” he grunted, his voice strained with the effort of his control. “It’s swallowing me whole.”
“Harder,” she begged, the words muffled by the cushion her face was pressed against. “Don’t be gentle. I’m not made of glass.”
His control shattered. His hands tightened on her hips, surely leaving bruises, and he began to piston into her with a frantic, punishing pace. The pain blurred into a blinding, white-hot pleasure, each thrust hitting a deep, internal trigger that made her see stars. She was screaming, incoherent curses and pleas, her body shaking uncontrollably.
She felt the familiar, tell-tale tightening of his body, the sharp, staccato rhythm of his impending climax. “I’m gonna come,” he gasped, his voice raw.
“No!” she cried, shocking herself with the force of it. She pushed back against him, forcing him to withdraw. “Not inside. Not this time.”
She scrambled out from under him, turning to face him, her chest heaving. His cock, slick and gleaming, stood out angrily from his body. His face was a mask of confused, desperate need.
“On my face,” she panted, looking him directly in the eye. “I want you to cover my face. I want to feel it on my skin, in my hair. I want to wear it.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a feral hunger. He knelt up, his fist closing around his shaft, stroking himself furiously. She knelt before him, tilting her head back, closing her eyes, and opening her mouth.
The first hot, thick rope hit her cheek, splattering like paint. The second landed on her chin, dripping down her neck. The third shot across her forehead, and another splashed directly onto her parted lips. It was more than she expected, a seemingly endless volley. It felt hot and alive on her skin, the smell potent and masculine. She kept her mouth open, tasting the salty, bitter tang as it pooled on her tongue.
When he was finally spent, he collapsed back onto the rug, utterly drained.
Channah remained kneeling, the cooling spend drying on her skin. She opened her eyes, her gaze finding the camera’s unblinking lens. She didn’t wipe it away. She let it stay, a glistening, proud testament. The red light blinked once, twice, and then went out. The tape had run its course.