Chapter 53: Hot Mulatto
The heat that flooded Alexey’s face felt like a physical wave, crashing over him from neck to hairline. Sharon’s predatory gaze, locked onto the tell-tale twitch beneath the blanket, felt like a spotlight. Her question hung in the air, sharp and knowing: Getting a little hard just thinking about Priya knowing…? Turns you on, doesn’t it? Being seen.
He swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. His throat clicked. Denial was pointless. She’d not only seen the physical reaction, she’d seen into him. Again. His grey-blue eyes, usually so guarded, flickered away from hers for a second before meeting them again. "Da," he rasped, the admission scraping out, raw and low. "Yes. It… is a turn on." The words felt alien, dangerous, spoken aloud. Being seen in that raw, vulnerable, utterly owned state by someone else… by Priya… yes. It sparked an illicit thrill deep beneath the embarrassment.
Sharon’s smile widened, a slow bloom of pure, dark delight. Her thumb pressed a little harder against his pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath his skin. "Especially," she purred, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper thick with amusement, "especially getting seen by the 'hot mulatto' Priya, huh?"
Alexey’s blush deepened to a furious crimson. "Bozhe moi," he groaned, burying his face in his free hand. "Are you going to keep reminding me about this? I was drunk when I called her that!" He peeked through his fingers. "It’s… it’s not the same connotation in Russia! It wasn't meant like that!" The memory of Priya's cool, unamused stare when he'd slurred that drunken "compliment" months ago still made him cringe. He hadn't meant it racially, just… descriptively? Stupidly.
Sharon’s giggle was bright and utterly unrepentant. "Oh, I know, Leshka," she teased, her eyes dancing. "Priya knows too. She thought it was hilariously clumsy." Her hand, resting near his thigh, moved with sudden, playful speed. Not on him, but a sharp, stinging slap landed directly on the bulge tenting the blanket over his half-hard cock.
"Ah! Cyka!" Alexey yelped, flinching hard. The sharp pain cut through the arousal and embarrassment, but only for a second. The sting faded almost instantly, replaced by a fresh, insistent throb that seemed to resonate from the slap point deep into his groin. His cock, treacherously, felt fuller beneath the fabric.
Sharon just grinned, dimples deep, utterly unfazed by his curse. Her phone buzzed insistently in the other hand. She glanced down, her expression shifting to focused mischief. "Priya demands more tea," she announced, thumbs already flying across the screen again. The frantic taptaptap resumed, a counterpoint to Alexey’s ragged breathing. Schlick-schlick.
He watched her, mesmerized and mortified. She wasn't just telling Priya. She was translating the raw intimacy of their bedroom, his surrender, into digital shorthand for her best friend's entertainment. He saw the glow of the screen reflected in her dark eyes, saw the tiny shifts in her expression as she typed – a smirk here, a thoughtful purse of lips there. Schlick-schlick.
"She wants details," Sharon murmured, more to herself than him, though he heard every word. "Specifics." Her thumbs danced. Taptaptap. Taptaptap. A beat. She glanced at him, a flicker of something unreadable – permission? Anticipation? – before looking back down and typing again. Schlick-schlick.
Alexey closed his eyes, leaning his head back. The deep ache in his ass pulsed. The phantom sensation of being filled, stretched, used by the strap-on warred with the sharp memory of Sharon’s slap and the persistent, confusing arousal. He could almost hear Priya’s voice in his head, sharp and amused, dissecting his humiliation. He was pinned? Begging? Came untouched? Three times? The thought should have shriveled him. Instead, a fresh, unwelcome heat pooled low in his belly. His cock gave another distinct twitch beneath the blanket.
Schlick-schlick. Sharon let out a soft, dark chuckle. "Oh, she loves the rule," she said, her voice rich with satisfaction.
Alexey’s eyes snapped open. "What rule?" he asked, though a cold dread mixed with that sickening heat told him he already knew.
"You know the rule, cucky," Sharon said, meeting his gaze directly. Her eyes held no cruelty, just that unnerving, playful intensity. "The one you helped make. For every orgasm you gave Katya…" She paused, letting the implication hang. "You get a ruined one from me." Taptaptap. She typed it out, he knew she did. Translating their private, punishing bargain into text for Priya’s consumption. Schlick-schlick.
Alexey felt stripped bare all over again, but miles away from the bedroom. This exposure was colder, somehow. More clinical. Priya knew about the rule. Knew that his pleasure was contingent, a punishment disguised as release. Knew that Sharon controlled it absolutely. Humiliation washed over him, thick and cloying. He wanted to sink into the cushions, disappear.
Yet… beneath it, coiling like smoke, was that persistent, undeniable spark. The spark ignited by being seen. By Priya knowing the depths of his submission, the specific mechanics of his controlled pleasure. Knowing Sharon held him to an account even in his moments of climax. The complex cocktail – shame, exposure, the deep physical ache, the phantom fullness, the sharp sting on his cock, and now this revelation – churned inside him. His cock, trapped and half-hard, felt heavy and insistent against his thigh, a traitorous flag of arousal amidst the wreckage of his pride.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He just stared at the ceiling, listening to the rapid taptaptap of Sharon’s thumbs, the soft schlick-schlick as she sent piece after piece of his intimate surrender into the digital ether for Priya, the ‘hot mulatto’ who saw his hidden core. The deep ache pulsed. His cock twitched again, a small, helpless betrayal against the fabric. He felt Sharon shift beside him, her warmth pressing against his side as she focused on her phone, her quiet chuckle vibrating through him. The apartment hummed, but all he could hear was the echo of schlick-schlick and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
The apartment hummed, but all he could hear was the echo of schlick-schlick and the frantic pounding of his own heart. A sharp, deep throb suddenly lanced through his lower body as he shifted his weight on the plush cushions. He winced, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth – the deep ache from Sharon's earlier thoroughness radiating from his core.
"Still tender back there, baby?" Sharon murmured without looking up from her phone, her thumbs pausing. Her voice held a knowing lilt, a trace of that dark amusement.
He nodded stiffly, the flush from Priya's knowledge warring with the fresh pulse of physical discomfort. "Da," he managed, the word tight. "Feels... used." The blunt admission felt raw, vulnerable.
Sharon finally lowered her phone, her dark eyes meeting his. That familiar, intense blend of affection and dominance shone in them. "Good," she said softly, a small, proud smile touching her lips. "Means I did my job properly." She reached over, her fingers tracing a light, non-demanding path down his bare arm. "You took it so well, Alexey. My perfect natural bottom." She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "And we're definitely doing that again. Regularly. Just as soon as that pretty little hole recovers enough to take Mommy properly."
The promise, delivered with such tender certainty, sent another confusing jolt through him – fear, anticipation, shame, and a deep, undeniable pull towards that submission. He swallowed thickly. "Da, gospozha," he mumbled, the Russian assent automatic now.
Schlick-schlick. She sent one last message, then tossed the phone aside onto the coffee table. "Priya's satisfied. For now." She stretched languidly beside him, the movement highlighting the powerful curve of her legs beneath her shorts. "Okay, cucky. Enough drama. Let's just... chill."
They lapsed into a quieter, easier silence, the frantic energy slowly draining from the room, replaced by the comfortable weight of their shared exhaustion. Alexey let the meaningless chatter of the forgotten anime wash over him, a neutral backdrop. Sharon nestled closer, her head finding its familiar spot on his shoulder, her hand resting warmly on his chest over the blanket. The deep ache in his core settled into a constant, almost grounding thrum, a physical memory etched deep.
Hours bled into the soft glow of evening, the room dimming. Sharon stirred first. "Bedtime, mess," she announced softly, pushing herself up. She held out a hand. "C'mon. Let's get you properly looked after."
He took her hand, leveraging himself off the couch with a soft grunt. Every step towards the bedroom sent a fresh reminder echoing from his lower back down through his thighs. The sight of their bed – the rumpled sheets, the harness discarded near the nightstand, the bottle of lube – brought the intensity crashing back for a split second.
"Lie down, stomach first," Sharon instructed gently, already moving towards the ensuite bathroom. He obeyed, lowering himself carefully onto the cool sheets, the pressure on his front a relief to his sore backside. He heard the medicine cabinet open, the rustle of packaging.
She returned moments later, a small tub of aloe-infused cream in hand. The clean, herbal scent cut through the lingering musk of sex. Her touch was clinical at first as she gently parted his cheeks, the cool air making him flinch. "Easy," she soothed, her voice low. "Just gonna make it feel better." Her fingers, slick with the cool gel, touched the tender, swollen ring of muscle with infinite gentleness.
He gasped softly at the initial shock of cold, then sighed as the soothing sensation began to spread, easing the raw sting, the deep internal ache. Her touch was careful, precise, almost reverent as she applied the cream. "There," she murmured, her thumb making tiny, concentric circles just outside the sensitive rim. "Better?"
"Much," he breathed, the tension in his shoulders finally unwinding. "Spasibo, solnyshko." Thank you, sunshine.
She capped the cream and placed it on the nightstand. Without a word, she slid into bed beside him on her stomach, her warm body a line of heat against his side. Her arm curled over his back, pulling him slightly closer. He turned his head towards her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her familiar jasmine and almond scent. Her hand rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. This quiet closeness, the safety of it after the storm, was almost overwhelming.
After a long, peaceful moment, he nuzzled her shoulder. "Sharon?" His voice was muffled against her skin.
"Hmm?"
"Can I... use my favorite pillow?"
He felt her smile against his hair. "Really? Now?" A soft chuckle vibrated in her chest. "After all that?"
"Da," he whispered. "Please. Need it."
She shifted, wriggling out of her soft cotton shorts and tossing them aside. "Okay, needy boy. Get comfy."
He moved slowly, careful of his still-tender backside, turning so they were both fully on their stomachs. He shuffled down the bed slightly, then carefully positioned himself between her legs. He lowered his head, resting his cheek and temple firmly against the warm, impossibly soft swell of her right buttock, his face nestled safely in the valley created by her generous curves and thick, toned thighs. The familiar, intimate scent of her skin, warm and musky and uniquely Sharon, enveloped him. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his body finally relaxing completely into the plush mattress and the yielding softness of her.
He nuzzled deeper, his lips brushing her skin. "Mmm," he hummed, the sound low and contented. "This... this is healing me already."
Sharon’s giggle was a soft puff of air against the sheets, her body shaking gently beneath his head. The sound, warm and affectionate, was the last thing he clearly registered before the profound exhaustion and the deep comfort of her presence pulled him under, the rhythmic sound of her breathing lulling him towards sleep.
The rhythmic sound of her breathing lulled him towards sleep, pulling him under into a deep, dreamless exhaustion. His face remained nestled securely in the warm, yielding softness of her thigh and buttock, the scent of her skin and the lingering herbal note of the aloe cream the only anchors as consciousness dissolved.
Morning light, sharp and insistent, sliced through a gap in the blinds, landing directly on Alexey’s eyelids. He groaned, shifting gingerly. The deep, resonant ache in his pelvis and lower back greeted him immediately, a persistent throb that flared as he moved. He blinked, disoriented for a second, the previous day’s intensity crashing back in fragments: Sharon’s weight, the mirror, the tears, the brutal fullness, Priya’s knowing texts, the sting of the slap, the cooling cream. Sharon was already stirring beside him, stretching with a satisfied sigh that ended in a soft groan of her own. "Ugh, Monday," she mumbled, rolling towards him. Her dark hair was a tangled halo, her eyes still heavy with sleep but instantly warm as they found his. "How’s the war zone back there, soldier?" Her hand drifted down, fingertips barely grazing the curve of his ass over the sheet.
He winced experimentally. "Better," he admitted, his voice thick with sleep. "The cream helped. Still… noticeable." The phantom sensation of the thick silicone shaft lingered.
"Good," she murmured, leaning in to kiss his shoulder. "Shower time. We both reek of… well, us." She pushed herself up, the sheet pooling around her waist, revealing the powerful lines of her back. "C'mon, cucky. Up and at 'em."
The hot water was bliss, cascading over tired muscles and rinsing away the physical remnants of their night. Steam filled the small bathroom, softening the edges of everything. Sharon maneuvered him gently under the spray, her hands slick with her jasmine-scented body wash. She washed him with focused tenderness, her touch firm but careful over his shoulders, back, chest. She avoided the epicenter of his soreness directly, but her hands smoothed soap down his flanks, over his hips, the suds running in rivulets down his legs. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, letting the heat and her ministrations seep into him. Her touch was grounding, cleansing in more ways than one. She carefully washed his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp, pulling soft sighs from him. "There," she said softly, rinsing the last of the suds from his back. "Clean slate." She turned him slowly to face her under the water, her dark eyes searching his in the steamy haze. She kissed him, slow and deep, her body warm and slick against his. It was a kiss of ownership, yes, but also profound connection, a silent reassurance beneath the steam.
Breakfast was simple: strong black coffee for him, tea for her, toast with jam, some scrambled eggs she whipped up. He watched her move around their small kitchen, the familiar domesticity a stark, comforting contrast to the raw vulnerability of the night before. She wore just a soft t-shirt and shorts, her hair damp and curling at the ends. Every movement he made was measured. Lowering himself onto a kitchen stool required careful consideration, a slight intake of breath as his abused muscles protested. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn't send fresh echoes of the strap-on's assault radiating through his core.
Sharon noticed, of course. She placed his plate in front of him, her gaze sharp and amused. A slow, dimpled smile spread across her face as she watched him settle with deliberate slowness. "Oof," she chuckled, taking her own seat opposite him. "Walking a little funny this morning, aren't we?" She took a sip of her tea, her eyes twinkling with pure mischief. "Sitting’s definitely gonna be an… adventure today, huh?"
He grunted, focusing intently on spreading jam on his toast. "Da. A bit stiff."
"It's gonna be a long workday for you!" she continued, her voice laced with playful sympathy that didn't quite mask her delight. "Sorry for me being this rough yesterday," she added, not sounding sorry at all. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her dimples deep. "I couldn't help myself. You were just too damn perfect taking it." Her smile widened into a grin. "But I'm glad! I'm seriously glad that every time you'll wince at work from sitting? You will be thinking of me." Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. "And remembering my strapon. Tee-hee!"
He stared at her for a second, the image of him flinching at his engineering desk suddenly vivid, the phantom sensation of her harnessed thrusts merging with the real ache. The sheer, ridiculous audacity of her statement, delivered with such cheerful ownership, cut through his residual soreness and embarrassment. A startled laugh burst out of him, rough and genuine. He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Cyka blyat, Sharon," he muttered, but there was no heat in it, only weary, affectionate disbelief. He picked up his coffee cup, hiding his grin behind the rim. The deep ache pulsed as he shifted on the stool, a constant, undeniable reminder. He met her laughing eyes over the steam rising from his mug. Yeah, he’d be thinking of her. All damn day.
The deep ache in Alexey’s pelvis was a constant companion as the elevator climbed towards the engineering floor. Every step from the parking garage had been a negotiation with sore muscles and tender tissues. He felt the ghost of Sharon’s strap-on with every shift of his weight. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, unflattering glow on the industrial carpet.
He managed the walk to his cubicle, his gait deliberately measured, trying to mask the stiffness radiating from his core. Lowering himself into his ergonomic chair required careful planning. He braced his hands on the armrests, easing down millimeter by millimeter, a sharp intake of breath escaping as his weight finally settled and the familiar, deep throb intensified where he met the seat. Fuck. Okay. Don't move.
"Oof, Volkov. Rough weekend? Or did you finally try Brenda’s Zumba class?" Brenda from Facilities leaned around the cubicle partition, grinning, holding a cardboard tray with two steaming coffees. Her eyes were bright, oblivious.
Alexey forced a tight smile, carefully adjusting his position, trying to find a sweet spot that didn’t make him want to leap back up. "Something like that, Brenda. Just... stiff." The understatement burned. He pictured Sharon’s dimpled grin, her voice echoing: ‘Every time you wince, you’ll be thinking of me.’
"Tell me about it!" Brenda chuckled, setting one coffee on his desk. "Thought you’d fallen off a horse! Get some liniment!" She bustled off, humming. Alexey stared at the schematic glowing on his dual monitors, the lines and symbols blurring momentarily. He shifted again, wincing as the movement sent a fresh pulse of soreness deep into his ass. Tee-hee, indeed. The phantom slam of Sharon’s hips, the stretch, the raw ache – it flooded back, visceral and immediate. He gripped his mouse, knuckles white. All damn day.
Lunchtime crawled. The thought of navigating the bustle of the break room, finding a spot, sitting down again only to have to get back up… it felt like medieval torture. His lower back protested at the mere idea. His ass felt bruised, deep inside. The memory of Brenda’s comment stung with unwanted humor. Fuck it. He pulled out his Tupperware container of leftover stir-fry Sharon had packed, the fragrant sesame smell suddenly unappetizing. He’d eat at his desk. Hide. Minimize movement. He just needed to get through the afternoon.
He’d managed a few bites, the food like ash, when his phone buzzed on the desk beside his keyboard. Sharon’s name flashed on the screen. A text. He hesitated, a prickle of apprehension cutting through the dull ache. He thumbed it open.
The image loaded in stages, pixelated at first, then snapping into horrifying, crystal-clear focus.
It was Sharon.
On her knees.
Under what looked like a restaurant tablecloth draped low.
Her vibrant dark hair was slightly mussed.
Her lips, usually curved in laughter, were stretched obscenely wide around the thick, flushed base of an unmistakable cock – Mark’s. The sheer girth, the prominent veins, the dark thatch of hair… it filled the frame. Her eyes, lifted towards the camera lens, were wide, glistening, unmistakably watering. Not crying in distress, but the watering of deep throat effort, mascara slightly smudged beneath her lashes. In them, shockingly clear despite the strain, was a fierce heat, a challenge, and a shared, illicit understanding aimed directly at him, the viewer.
The caption below screamed:
> Fed me at lunch :) Hope you’re having a good day, Cucky!
Time stopped. The fluorescent hum vanished, replaced by a roaring silence in Alexey’s ears. He stared at the photo, the details searing into his brain: the polished leather of Mark’s shoe visible near her knee, the crumpled linen tablecloth edge, the impossible thickness disappearing into her mouth, the single damp track on her flushed cheek, the defiant, watery gaze locked onto the lens. Onto him.
Heat exploded in his face, then plunged down into his gut, a nauseating cocktail of shock, humiliation, and a traitorous, unwelcome jolt of arousal so intense it stole his breath. His cock, trapped and ignored in his work pants, gave a violent, painful throb against the fabric, betraying him utterly.
The stir-fry container sat forgotten. His workstation, the schematics, Brenda’s laugh down the hall – it all dissolved into meaningless noise. The only reality was the image on the small, glowing screen and the deep, echoing ache in his body where Sharon had claimed him the night before. He heard his own breath, ragged and shallow, saw his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the desk edge.
"Goddamn you," he whispered, the words a raw scrape in his throat, lost in the office drone. His traitorous body throbbed in unison with the photo’s obscene promise.