Chapter 3: The Morning After
The drive from Lincoln to Omaha was a blur of gray highway and the static hum of a radio station she didn’t listen to. Zoë’s hands clenched the wheel at ten and two, her knuckles pale. Every time she blinked, she saw it: the heavy, veined weight of him in her hand, the obscene glisten of her own spit on the head, the way he’d grabbed her hair. The taste, that salty-sweet thickness, seemed permanently etched onto her tongue. She’d brushed her teeth three times that morning, scrubbed until her gums bled, but it was no use. The memory was a flavor in her mind.
She’d spent the night on her own bathroom floor, curled on the cold tile, shaking. She hadn’t slept. She’d just replayed it, frame by degrading frame, each one sending a fresh lance of heat straight to her core that made her want to vomit. The shame was a physical weight, a stone in her gut. But underneath it, coiling and restless, was something else—a raw, awakened hunger that felt older than morality, than sisterhood, than anything she recognized in herself.
She needed to feel normal. She needed to be Zoë Bentley, the confident girl with the flirty smile and the lucrative side-hustle. Not whatever trembling, cock-drunk creature had been on her knees in Ritchie’s filth.
Tim’s apartment building looked especially depressing in the flat morning light. Peeling paint, a rusted swing-set in the patchy grass out front. She parked and sat for a minute, trying to assemble her face into something familiar.
His door was unlocked. It always was. “Babe?” she called, her voice sounding thin.
“In here!” His voice floated from the bedroom.
The smell hit her first: stale beer, cheap body spray, the underlying scent of unwashed sheets. The living room was a monument to inertia—a faded corduroy couch buried under fast-food wrappers and video game controllers, a massive TV silently playing a sports highlight reel. She walked through, her boots sticking slightly to the laminate floor.
The bedroom door was ajar. She pushed it open.
Tim was sprawled on the king-sized bed he was so proud of, a relic from a previous girlfriend. He was shirtless, wearing just a pair of faded boxer briefs, scrolling through his phone. The neon “OPEN” sign from the liquor store across the street bled through the blinds, painting lurid red stripes across his skinny chest and the rumpled comforter.
“Hey, you,” he said, not looking up. “You’re early. Coffee’s shit, but it’s on the counter.”
“Not hungry.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, hugging herself. She felt like a visitor in a foreign country.
He finally glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. “Whoa. You look like hell. Rough night?”
A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. She swallowed it down, the taste of bile and Ritchie’s cum replacing it. “Yeah. Something like that. Didn’t sleep.”
“Party with the girls?” He went back to his phone, his thumbs flying.
“No. Just… family stuff.” The word ‘family’ tasted like ash.
“Sucks.” He sounded completely disinterested. He put his phone down and stretched, his arms knobby and pale. “Well, since you’re here… you wanna shoot something? We’re trending on the ‘couples’ tag. Analytics say we should strike while the iron’s hot. Could do a morning-after thing. Real casual, just woke up vibes.”
It was the last thing she wanted. The idea of performing, of faking pleasure, made her skin crawl. But part of her screamed that it was the perfect antidote. This was her job. This was her normal. This was Tim—safe, predictable, uncomplicated Tim with his average body and his five dependable inches. This would erase last night. It had to.
“Sure,” she heard herself say. The word was automatic. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Awesome.” He grinned, a quick, businesslike flash of teeth. He rolled off the bed and started fussing with the ring light he kept propped in the corner, plugging in his phone to the stabilizer grip. “Keep it simple. Just you riding me. Reverse cowgirl, focus on that ass. You know the drill.”
She knew the drill. She’d done it a hundred times. It was their most popular clip. ‘Juicy Ginger Ass Rides’ – 3 minutes, $12.99. She moved to the bed, her movements feeling robotic. She pulled her vintage band t-shirt over her head, then shimmied out of her jeans. The cool, stale air of the room kissed her skin. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She never did. Her small, pale breasts felt exposed, insignificant. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her cotton panties and pushed them down, stepping out of them.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the dark reflection of the TV screen. A naked, ginger-haired woman with a flat chest and a rounded ass. An object. A product. Last night, for a few horrifying minutes, she’d been a person. A shattered, confused person, but a real one. Now she was just content again.
Tim had stripped too. He stood by the light, checking the camera frame on his phone screen. He was fully hard, a modest, familiar erection curving up from a thatch of brown hair. It looked… small. Not just average. Tiny. Like a child’s toy version of a cock.
Her stomach lurched.
Don’t, she commanded herself. Don’t you fucking dare compare them.
But her brain, traitorous and filthy, did the math anyway. Five inches. Maybe five and a half on a good day. Girth? Moderate. Uncut? No. He came fast, came a little. Ritchie was ten. Thick. Uncut. He came buckets. He stayed hard. He made you swallow. He made you clean it up.
“You ready?” Tim asked, climbing onto the bed. He lay back against the pile of pillows, his cock bobbing against his stomach. It looked lonely. “Just like we practiced. Start slow, tease it, talk to the camera about how much you missed daddy’s cock all night.”
Zoë crawled onto the bed, turning her back to him, positioning herself over his hips. She reached behind herself, took his cock in her hand to guide him. The feel of it was all wrong. The skin was smooth, circumcised, lacking the fascinating, mobile sheath of Ritchie’s. It fit easily in her grasp, no challenge at all. She could make her thumb and forefinger meet around it with room to spare.
A wave of such intense disappointment and disgust washed over her she almost gagged. It was like going from filet mignon to a soggy chicken nugget.
She lowered herself onto him. There was no stretch. No burning, delicious fullness. She took him all in one smooth, effortless drop, his pelvis meeting her ass with a soft smack. She was so wet, but it was a nervous, confused wetness, not arousal.
“Damn, babe,” Tim groaned from beneath her, already sounding breathy. “You’re so fuckin’ tight today.”
She wasn’t. She was loose. Empty. Achingly, cavernously empty for something that wasn’t there.
“Mmm,” she forced out, a hollow approximation of a moan. She began to move, rocking back and forth, the motion practiced and perfunctory. She looked over her shoulder at the camera’s cold, cyclopean eye on the phone screen. She pasted on a smile, the one she used for subscribers. “You like watching this ass bounce, don’t you?” she purred, the words ash in her mouth. “Missed this pussy so bad…”
“Yeah, talk dirty,” Tim gasped, his hands grabbing her hips. His grip was weak, tentative. A gentleman’s grip. Ritchie’s hands in her hair had been possessive, undeniable.
She tried to lose herself in the performance. She arched her back, slapped her own ass to make it jiggle for the camera, ran her hands over her flat stomach and up to her tiny tits. She pinched her nipples, but the sensation was distant, clinical. Her body was a marionette, and her mind was a thousand miles away, back in that stale-smelling room, on her knees.
She imagined it wasn’t Tim’s meager cock inside her. She closed her eyes and pictured Ritchie’s. The brutal thickness of it, the way it would stretch her to a burning ache, the way the swollen head would press places inside her Tim could never reach. She imagined the weight of it in her hand again, the pulse of it against her tongue. A real, unbidden moan escaped her lips.
“Fuck, yes, just like that,” Tim misinterpreted, his hips starting to piston upward in short, frantic thrusts. He was already close. She could feel the telltale tension in his thighs, the ragged edge in his breathing. He never lasted. It was part of their routine. “I’m gonna cum, Zoe—oh God—”
His orgasm was a brief, shuddering event. He gripped her hips tight, buried himself as deep as he could go—which wasn’t deep at all—and let out a strained, guttural sound. She felt the weak, warm pulses inside her. A few of them. Maybe three. Then it was over.
He collapsed back onto the pillows, breathing hard. “Holy shit,” he panted. “That was amazing. You were so into it today.”
Zoë didn’t move. She stayed perched on him, feeling the pathetic, rapid softening of him inside her. A trickle of his semen leaked out, warm down her inner thigh. The emptiness yawned wider, a physical ache in her core. She felt nothing. No satisfaction, no connection, not even the mild glow of a job well done. Just a profound, hollow disgust.
She slowly climbed off him, her back still to the camera. She reached out and tapped the phone screen, stopping the recording. The room fell into a silence broken only by Tim’s contented sighs.
“Gotta run that through the editor, add the watermark,” he muttered, already reaching for his phone. “The lighting was decent. Your ass looked incredible.”
She stood by the side of the bed, naked, the neon sign painting her body in alternating bars of red and shadow. She looked down at Tim, who was already reviewing the clip, a critical frown on his face. He was her boyfriend of three years. He was kind, in his oblivious way. He never pushed her. He thought her OnlyFans was “a cool side-hustle.” He was safe.
And she felt nothing for him. Less than nothing. A gentle, pervasive revulsion.
“Tim,” she said, her voice quiet.
“Hmm?”
“Does it ever feel… weird to you? What we do?”
He looked up, confused. “Weird how? It’s money, babe. It’s easy money. And it’s kinda hot.” He grinned. “I mean, I get to fuck my smoking hot girlfriend on camera. What’s weird about that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, turning away, searching for her clothes. “Forget it.”
“You’re just freaked out from your family thing,” he said dismissively, going back to his phone. “You want a shower? I think I got some new body wash.”
She pulled her panties and jeans on, not bothering with the shirt. She needed air. She needed to not be in this room that smelled of him, of their transaction. “I’m gonna go.”
“Now? I thought we could get breakfast.”
“Not hungry.” She picked up her shirt but didn’t put it on. She held it like a security blanket.
“Suit yourself.” He was already texting someone, probably his buddy about the game later. “Hey, you okay? You seem off.”
The concern in his voice was real, if shallow. It was the final straw. He cared, in his limited capacity. And she was here, thinking about her brother’s cock while his own semen dried on her thigh.
“I’m fine,” she lied, the words cracking. “Just tired. I’ll call you later.”
She fled the bedroom, through the filthy living room, and out the front door into the bland Omaha morning. She leaned against her car door, gulping in deep breaths of air that still tasted of exhaust and failure.
She couldn’t go home. Her apartment would be full of mirrors, of her own judging reflection. She couldn’t see Tim. She certainly, God help her, couldn’t see Ritchie.
Her phone buzzed in her jeans pocket. A notification.
It was from OnlyFans. A direct message. Her heart stalled, a cold fear dumping into her veins. It was from a new subscriber. The username was a jumble of letters and numbers.
She opened it.
There was no text. Just a single, blurry, dark screenshot. It was taken from a phone, aiming at a laptop screen. On the laptop screen was a frozen video frame: her, from last night, in Ritchie’s room. Her back was to the camera, her head was tilted, her mouth was stretched wide around the thick, unmistakable head of his cock. The angle was from the side, from where his phone must have been propped on the nightstand.
The message below the image appeared a second later.
`Unknown User:` `Thought you might want a souvenir. Let's talk price.`
The world tilted, the sidewalk lurching beneath her feet. She clutched the phone, the image burning into her retina. He’d filmed it. The little bastard had filmed the whole thing. And now someone else had it.
The shame from last night curdled into something new, something icy and sharp: pure, undiluted panic. This wasn’t just a private line crossed in a moment of madness. This was a leak. This was her career, her relationship, her family, her life—all of it, dangling over a precipice.
And the worst part, the sick, hidden part that whispered from the darkest corner of her mind as she stared at the photo, was that even through the terror, she could feel a treacherous, thrilling pull looking at it. She looked powerful in the grainy image. Submissive, but connected to something raw and massive. She looked… fulfilled.
She slammed her fist against the roof of her car, the pain a bright, clean distraction. It didn’t help. The panic and the perverse arousal swirled together, a toxic cocktail that left her dizzy.
She had to find Ritchie. Now. This was his mess. He’d created it, and somehow, in the process, he’d broken something fundamental inside her. And he was the only one who lived in the same shattered world where any of this made sense.
She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she dropped them twice. Finally, she wrenched the car door open and fell into the driver’s seat. She didn’t start the engine. She just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, staring at the cracked leather.
The phone buzzed again in her hand. Another message.
`Unknown User:` `Don't bother going to your brother. He doesn't have it. I do. Clock's ticking, Zoë.`
She stared at the screen until the words bled into meaningless shapes. Clock’s ticking. The neon sign from Tim’s window reflected in her car’s windshield, a bloody smear across the glass. A cold, precise clarity cut through the panic. This wasn’t a random subscriber. This was someone who knew Ritchie, knew his room, knew how to get footage from his devices. This was targeted.
Her first, instinctive thought was to call the police. It died instantly. Explaining the screenshot would require explaining everything—the video call, the confrontation, what she was doing on her knees. It would be a nuclear detonation in the center of her life, her family, everything.
Her second thought was to drive to Ritchie’s and beat the truth out of him. But the message warned against that. He doesn’t have it. I do.
Her third thought, quiet and despairing, was to give in. To pay whatever they asked, to hope it went away. But blackmailers never stopped. She knew that from the horror stories other creators shared in private forums. Once you paid, you were a piggy bank forever.
She had no good moves. Only terrible, escalating ones. And beneath the fear, a deeper, more terrifying engine was humming: the memory of the power she’d felt in his room wasn’t just the power he’d taken, but the power she’d surrendered. It had been real, in a way nothing with Tim had felt in years. It had been disgusting, and wrong, and it had felt more honest than any smile she’d faked for a camera.
A dry, heaving sob wracked her. She folded over the steering wheel, her forehead pressing against the cool plastic. She cried for the simplicity she’d lost, for the brother who was now a stranger, for the boyfriend who felt like a roommate, for her own body which had become a traitorous landscape of conflicting wants. She cried until her throat was raw and her eyes burned.
When the tears finally stuttered to a stop, leaving her hollowed out and shaky, only one path remained visible in the wreckage. It was the worst path. It was the only one that addressed both the blackmail and the screaming, shameful need in her gut.
She picked up her phone. Her fingers left damp smears on the screen. She didn’t go to her messages. She went to her recent calls. She tapped his name.
It rang. And rang. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
He picked up. No greeting. Just the sound of his breathing, shallow and cautious.
“Someone has it,” she said, her voice scraped raw. “They messaged me. A screenshot. From your phone.”
A long silence. Then, “Fuck.” It was a whisper, full of genuine horror. “Zoë, I didn’t—I don’t know how—”
“I don’t care.” The words were flat, final. “I don’t care how. You filmed me. You filmed us. And now it’s out there.”
“I’ll find it, I’ll delete it, I’ll wipe my whole fucking phone—” he babbled, the scared kid from the night before returning.
“It’s not on your phone,” she interrupted, exhaustion weighing down every syllable. “They have it. They’re asking for a price.” She swallowed, the next words sticking in her throat. “I need to see you.”
The silence this time was different. Thicker. Charged. “Why?”
Because I can’t think straight. Because I’m terrified. Because when I close my eyes I don’t see that stupid screenshot, I see your cock and I taste you and I feel your hand in my hair and I hate myself for wanting it again.
She didn’t say any of that. “We need to figure this out. In person. Not over the phone.”
“Okay,” he said, but the word was tentative. The power dynamic from last night was still there, but it was fragile, up for grabs. “When?”
“Now. I’m coming to Lincoln.”
“Alright.” A pause. She could almost hear him thinking, the gears turning past the fear. The memory of his command—Suck my balls—hung between them on the line. His voice changed, dropping, losing its panicked edge and gaining a sliver of that unsettling calm. “But it’s not just a talk, Zoë.”
Her breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you don’t just get to come here and scream at me and leave. You want to come into my space again? After what happened?” He took a deliberate breath. “You want my help with this? You want… whatever else you want?”
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry.
“Then you let me fuck your ass,” he said, the sentence delivered with a blunt, shocking clarity. No vulgar embellishment. Just a stark term and a stark condition.
Revulsion, hot and immediate, flooded her. “Ritchie, Jesus Christ—”
“That’s the deal,” he said, and his voice held. It wasn’t a sneer. It was a statement. “You take it in the ass from me. All of it. However I want. Then we’ll talk about your problem.”
She wanted to hang up. She wanted to drive her car into a river. She wanted to say no. The word formed on her lips.
But her other hand, the one not holding the phone, had crept between her own legs, over her jeans. She pressed down. A bolt of sharp, undeniable sensation shot through her. It wasn’t arousal for him, she told herself. It was just stress, adrenaline, the messed-up wiring of a crisis. But her body wasn’t listening to her mind’s lies anymore.
“You’re sick,” she whispered, but it lacked the fire from last night. It sounded like a confirmation.
“Probably,” he agreed, a faint, dark thread in his voice. “Are you coming or not?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She saw the screenshot. She saw Tim’ disappointed, average cock. She felt the echo of a fullness that had ruined her for anything else.
“Yeah,” she breathed, the word tasting like surrender. “I’m coming.”
The line went dead.
The drive to Lincoln was a nightmare of hyper-awareness. Every semi-truck felt like a pursuing threat; every slowdown made her clench the wheel tighter. She replayed his demand on a loop. You let me fuck your ass. She’d done anal before, with Tim, a few times when they were drunk and it seemed like a fun idea. It had been uncomfortable, a little painful, mostly forgettable. The thought of Ritchie, with his impossible size, trying to fit there was the stuff of medical diagrams and tearing pain.
And yet.
And yet her skin felt too tight. Her nipples peaked against the cotton of her shirt the entire drive. A low, persistent throbbing had taken up residence between her legs, a rhythm set to the hum of the tires on asphalt. She was agreeing to be hurt. She was agreeing to something degrading. She was walking into it with her eyes open, and her body was humming in anticipation.
She parked outside his apartment complex, the same dismal building from the night before. It felt like a year had passed. She sat for five full minutes, watching the curtain in his window. It didn’t move. He was waiting.
She got out. The afternoon sun was harsh, highlighting the cracks in the pavement. She walked up the stairs, each step heavy. She didn’t have her key this time. She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately. He filled the doorway, backlit by the dim hall light. He looked different. The tears, the panic, the wretchedness were gone. His eyes were shadowed, but his jaw was set. He wore a plain grey t-shirt and sweats that did nothing to hide the dormant, heavy bulge between his legs. He looked at her, his gaze traveling from her tired eyes down to her trembling hands.
“Hey,” he said, his voice neutral.
“Hey.” She stepped past him into the apartment. The smell was the same—stale pizza, boy—but it was cleaner. The boxes were stacked neater. The futon was made. He’d cleaned up, anticipating her. The act felt more intimate than anything that had happened the night before.
He closed the door. The lock engaged with a solid thunk. The sound sealed them in.
The awkwardness was a physical presence. They stood in the middle of his small living room, three feet apart, strangers who knew each other’s most secret tastes. She hugged herself. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“You want a drink or something?”
“No.”
Silence stretched, tight and unbearable. The unspoken deal hung in the air between them, huge and grotesque. She’d come here for that. She’d agreed to it. But now, in the quiet daylight of his tidied apartment, the mechanics of it seemed impossible. How did they start? How did they move from this strained silence to the violent intimacy he’d demanded?
“Ritchie,” she started, her voice breaking. “About last night, I—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, but his voice wasn’t harsh. It was firm. “Don’t talk about it. Don’t analyze it. It happened. This is happening.” He took a step toward her. He was taller, and he used it now, looking down at her. The latent dominance he’d discovered was closer to the surface, no longer fueled by her anger but by his own grim resolve. “You came here for my cock. You said you wanted it again. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
She wanted to deny it. To slap him. To run. She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion.
“Say it.”
She looked up at him, her green eyes wide with shame and a desperate hunger. “I want your cock,” she whispered.
A tremor went through him. His control was a brittle thing, too. He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek for a moment before he tucked a loose strand of ginger hair behind her ear. The touch was startlingly gentle. “Then stop thinking. Just feel.”
He leaned in. Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. She stood frozen, watching his face come closer. His lips were fuller than Tim’s, slightly chapped. She could smell his toothpaste, the clean cotton of his shirt.
Their lips met.
It was a soft press, tentative, almost chaste. A brotherly kiss. It lasted a second. Two. Then his mouth opened, just a fraction, and the tip of his tongue touched her bottom lip.
A jolt, electric and devastating, arced through her. Every barrier, every rational objection, crumbled into dust at that simple point of contact. A small, broken sound escaped her throat, and she surged forward, her arms looping around his neck, pulling him down to her. Her mouth opened under his, and the kiss exploded.
This was nothing like the performative, sloppy kisses she shared with Tim for the camera. This was deep, hungry, and devastatingly sincere. His tongue filled her mouth, exploring her with a possessive intensity that made her knees weak. She tasted mint and something uniquely, essentially him. Her fingers tangled in his messy brown hair, pulling him closer, wanting to erase any space between them. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging in, aligning their bodies. She could feel him, hard and insistent already, pressing against her stomach through his sweats.
They stumbled backward, a clumsy, conjoined mess of lips and hands, until her back hit the wall beside the door. He pinned her there, his body a long, lean line of heat against hers. The kiss grew rougher, more devouring. He bit her lower lip, sucked on her tongue, consumed her with a single-minded focus that left her breathless and mindless. This was not a prelude. This was the main event. This kiss was a claiming.
When he finally broke away, they were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. A string of saliva connected their mouths for a second before it snapped.
“Bedroom,” he commanded, his voice rough.
He didn’t wait for her to move. He took her hand and led her, not with a gentle pull, but with a firm, guiding grasp. The passive submission she’d felt last night began to settle over her again, a heavy, welcome cloak. He pushed the bedroom door open. The clean futon waited.
He turned to face her. “Take your clothes off. I want to see you.”
Last night, he’d ripped them off in anger. Today, he was making her perform. It was a different kind of power. Hands trembling, she obeyed. She pulled her t-shirt over her head, revealing her small, bare breasts, her nipples tight and peaked. She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them and her plain cotton panties down her legs in one motion, stepping out of them. She stood naked before him, under the harsh light of the single bulb, more exposed than she ever had on camera.
His eyes drank her in, roaming over her flat chest, her narrow waist, the swell of her hips and the round, full curves of her ass. His gaze was hot, appreciative, but analytical too. He was inspecting what was his. “Turn around,” he said. “Hands on the wall.”
She turned, placing her palms flat against the cool plaster. She heard the rustle of his clothes behind her. Then his warmth was at her back. His hands smoothed over her shoulders, down her spine. He knelt behind her.
His mouth found the small of her back first. A hot, open-mouthed kiss. Then his tongue, tracing the line of her spine down to the top of her ass. He spread her cheeks with his hands, his grip firm and unresisting. The cool air hit her most intimate place, followed immediately by the devastating, wet heat of his mouth.
He didn’t go straight for her center. He worshipped her ass. He kissed each globe, bit the firm flesh gently, licked the crease where thigh met cheek. It was slow, deliberate, decadent. She moaned, her forehead pressing against the wall. No one had ever paid this kind of attention to her body, not even close. Tim’s foreplay was a checklist. This was devotion of a profane, intoxicating kind.
Then his tongue found her other hole.
He licked a slow, flat stripe from her perineum up over the tight, puckered ring of muscle. She jerked, a shock of pure sensation blazing through her. “Ritchie…”
“Shhh,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot. “I’m just tasting.”
He did it again. And again. Then the tip of his tongue became a point, circling the rim, teasing, coaxing. He was relentless. He spit, the wet sound obscenely loud, and used the moisture to lubricate his probing. He pushed, just the very tip of his tongue, inside.
The intrusion was minute, but the taboo of it was absolute. Her brother’s tongue was inside her ass. The thought should have made her vomit. Instead, she pushed back against his face, a low, guttural groan tearing from her throat. He took it as invitation. He began to tongue-fuck her in earnest, shallow, rhythmic plunges with his stiffened tongue, spitting to keep her slick. The sensation was bizarre, invasive, and incredibly arousing. It wasn’t about pleasure in a straightforward way; it was about surrender, about being opened and used in the most private way imaginable.
“You taste perfect here too,” he growled, his voice muffled against her skin. “So fucking tight. Gonna ruin you for anything else.”
He worked her until she was trembling, her legs shaking, moaning nonsense into the wall. Only then did he stand up. She heard him step back. “On the bed. On your back.”
She obeyed, crawling onto the futon, collapsing onto her back. He stood at the foot of the bed, naked now. He was fully erect, his huge cock standing out from his body like a battering ram, the foreskin partially retracted, the head dark and glistening with precum. It was even more intimidating in this context, with his quiet command and her naked submission. It was a tool of conquest.
“Suck it,” he said. “Get it nice and wet for your ass. You know how.”
She moved to the edge of the bed, positioning herself on her knees before him. This time, there was no rage, no punishment. Just a hungry solemnity. She took him in her hand, leaning forward to run her tongue from the base of his heavy balls all the way up the thick underside vein to the tip. She swirled her tongue around the head, collecting the bead of precum. It was the same addictive, salty-sweet flavor. She moaned around him, the vibration making him hiss.
She took him into her mouth, using both hands to steady the incredible girth. She couldn’t take him deep, but she worked what she could with a fervent, sloppy dedication. She sucked, she licked the slit, she nuzzled his balls. She was showing off, proving her skill, worshipping the instrument of her own impending ruin. He let her, his hands resting lightly on her head, not forcing, just guiding.
“Good,” he breathed. “So good. Now get on your hands and knees.”
She turned, presenting herself to him. He climbed onto the bed behind her. She felt the blunt, slick head of