Chapter 13: The rough wood scratches Dizzy's back as Liam devours her, his tongue spearing into her tight hole before sucking viciously on her clit - when she shatters, he stands and slams into her without warning, the water cascading over their joined bodies as he pounds her into oblivion.
huge
The silence in the kitchen after Chloe left was a physical thing, thick and humming like a transformer box. Dizzy stared at the sticky orange puddle on the floor, the overturned carton. Her body still throbbed from Liam’s fingers, from the orgasm he’d wrung from her in front of her best friend. Shame was a hot tide rising in her throat, but underneath it, a darker, more terrifying current surged: a fierce, defiant pride.
Liam’s hands were still on her face. They trembled slightly.
“I’m…” He swallowed. “I’m a fucking animal. I don’t know… I just saw you bent over and I…”
“Lost your mind?” she finished, her voice husky.
He nodded, misery etched into his handsome features. “I wanted her to see. I wanted her to know you’re not some… pity project. That this is real. That you’re… mine.” The last word was a whisper, a question.
She pushed away from the counter, her legs unsteady. She stepped around the juice, not looking at it, and walked to the sink. She turned on the tap, let the cold water run over her sticky fingers. The practical motion helped ground her. “You don’t get to claim me like a fucking parking space, Liam. And you don’t get to use me to make a point to my friends.”
He flinched. “I know. Christ, I know.”
She looked at him then, really looked. He was a mess. His hair stood up where she’d clutched it. His t-shirt was inside out. The shy, uncertain guy from last week was completely obliterated, replaced by this raw, possessive, apologetic stranger. And she had kissed him. She had pushed back against his hand.
“She’s out there having a crisis because of us,” Dizzy said, nodding toward the deck.
“I’ll talk to her. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what? That you have a previously undisclosed fetish for humiliating me in kitchens?”
“That’s not what that was!” The force in his voice made her jump. He took a step closer, then stopped, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It wasn’t about humiliation. It was about… truth. She was looking at you like you were breaking. I needed her to see you weren’t broken. You were coming. There’s a difference.”
The crude, clinical truth of it hung in the air. Dizzy turned off the water. She felt peeled open, every nerve ending exposed. She needed space. She needed to not be in this room that smelled of citrus and sex and regret.
“I need a shower. A real one. Not the one upstairs where everyone can hear.” Her voice was flat.
He understood. “The outdoor one. Around the side. It’s… private.”
Without another word, she walked past him, out of the kitchen, through the living room strewn with yesterday’s towels and beer bottles. She grabbed a cleanish towel from a pile and didn’t look back.
The path to the side yard was overgrown with scrubby beach grass that whipped at her calves. The outdoor shower was exactly as described: a three-walled cedar stall, weathered to a silvery grey, the wood spongy in places. The showerhead was a simple brass nozzle. She stepped onto the smooth stone floor, already damp from the salt air. She slid the rusted bolt across the narrow door.
It didn’t lock.
She shrugged out of her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the dry part of the stone. The air was cooler here, shaded by the house. She turned the knob. The water burst out, icy at first, then graduating to a lukewarm spray. She tipped her head back, letting it sluice over her face, her hair, wishing it could rinse the confusion from her mind.
The cedar door groaned open.
She didn’t need to look. She knew the shape of him in the space, the way the air changed. He stood there, fully dressed, just watching her through the stream of water.
“I’m not sorry for wanting you,” he said, his voice barely carrying over the spray. “I’ll be sorry for how I did it until I die. But I’m not sorry for the want.”
She kept her eyes closed. “What do you want now, Liam?”
“You. Clean. Then dirty again. On my terms this time. Just us. No audience.”
Her breath hitched. She opened her eyes. He was kicking off his shoes, pulling his shirt over his head. His jeans followed. He was already half-hard. The sight of him, purposeful and naked, erased the last of her coherent thought.
He stepped into the shower. The space was suddenly, overwhelmingly small. The spray hit his chest and ricocheted onto her. He reached past her and turned the water warmer, until steam began to mix with the salt air. Then he took the bar of rough, unscented soap from its niche.
“Turn around,” he said.
It wasn’t a request. She obeyed, presenting her back to him. His hands, slick with soap, started on her shoulders, kneading the tension there. He worked down her spine, slow, methodical, washing away the juice, the sweat, the phantom stickiness from the kitchen floor. He soaped the full curves of her ass, his thumbs tracing the divide between her cheeks with a thoroughness that made her knees weak. He washed her legs, crouching behind her, then stood again.
“Arms up.”
She lifted them. He washed her armpits, the sides of her breasts, his knuckles grazing her nipples, making them peak instantly. He turned her to face him. His eyes were black, his focus absolute. He soaped her chest, her stomach, his hands sliding lower, through the rough curls between her legs. He parted her folds, washing her with a blunt, intimate precision that was more devotional than hygienic.
“Rinse,” he commanded, his voice tight.
She turned, letting the water carry the suds away. He washed himself quickly, efficiently, his eyes never leaving her. When he was done, he turned off the water.
The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and the distant crush of waves. They were both dripping, steam rising from their skin in the cool, shaded enclosure.
He backed her up until her shoulder blades hit the wet, splintery cedar. The wood was cold against her heated skin. He pinned her there with his body, his hands braced on the wall on either side of her head. Water droplets clung to his dark eyelashes.
“You’re going to come on my tongue,” he stated, his voice low and raw. “Before I fuck you against this wall. And you’re going to look me in the eye when you do it.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He lowered his head and took one peaked, sensitive nipple into his hot mouth. He suckled hard, then bit down with just enough pressure to make her cry out, her back arching off the wall. He lavished the same rough attention on the other breast, his hands now gripping her hips, holding her in place. His mouth was a brand, his stubble scratching her tender flesh.
Then he sank to his knees on the wet stone.
The sight alone—Liam Walker, on his knees before her in this crumbling stall—stole the air from her lungs. He pushed her thighs apart with insistent hands. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward, buried his face between her legs, and licked a broad, wet stripe from her opening to her clit.
A ragged sob escaped her. His tongue was relentless. He licked into her, fucking her with it, then circled her clit with a focused, brutal pressure. He groaned against her, the vibration ricocheting through her entire pelvis. He used his thumbs to spread her wider, holding her open for his devouring mouth.
“Taste yourself,” he muttered, pulling back for a second, his chin glistening. “Taste how much you want this. Even after everything.”
Then his mouth was on her again, his tongue spearing inside her, his lips sealing around her clit to suck. Hard. The rhythm was punishing, perfect. She tangled her hands in his wet hair, not to guide him, but to anchor herself as the world began to dissolve into a white-hot point of sensation.
“Look at me,” he growled against her flesh.
Her eyes, which had squeezed shut, flew open. She looked down. His dark, hungry gaze was locked on hers from between her thighs. He was watching her unravel. The intimacy of it, the raw exposure, was more devastating than any touch. He sucked her clit deep into his mouth and flicked his tongue over it.
She came with a shattered scream, her body buckling, her knees giving way. He held her up, his mouth working her through the violent pulses, drinking every drop of her release until she was whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
He rose, water and her wetness smeared across his mouth and jaw. He was fully erect, his cock thick and rigid against his stomach. He turned her roughly, pressed her front against the wet wall. The cedar was rough against her nipples, her cheek.
He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and without a word, notched the broad head of his cock against her soaked entrance. He pushed in, not slowly, but with one continuous, inexorable thrust that filled her completely, stretching her tender tissues, making her gasp at the sudden, delicious fullness.
“This cunt,” he breathed into her ear, his chest plastered to her back. “This perfect, greedy cunt is mine now. You understand? You came for me. You dripped for me. You take my cock like you were made for it.”
He began to move. Deep, grinding strokes that rubbed every swollen, sensitive part of her inside. Each thrust drove her harder against the unyielding wall. She could feel the muscles of his thighs slapping against hers, hear the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, of him plunging into her slickness. The crude, animal sounds of it were unbearably erotic.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his pace quickening, becoming more frantic. “Tell me whose you are.”
Her mind was gone, lost in a haze of friction and possession. “Yours,” she panted, the word torn from her. “Fuck, Liam, yours.”
It was what he needed to hear. A guttural roar was ripped from his throat. He slammed into her one final, devastating time, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm hit. She felt the hot, pulsing jet of his release inside her, again and again, as his body shook against hers.
He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wall, both of them breathing in ragged, synced gulps. The smell of wet cedar, sex, and sea salt filled the tiny space.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of his cum mixed with the water on her thigh. He turned her around, gathered her against him. They stood there, clinging to each other, naked and spent in the dripping quiet.
From around the corner of the house, the sound of the screen door slamming shut echoed, too hard. Then Chloe’s voice, thick with tears, carried on the ocean wind.
“…just pack the car, Ben. I can’t be here.”
The wet cedar grain imprinted itself on Dizzy’s cheek. Liam’s body went rigid against her back at the sound of Chloe’s voice and the subsequent slam of a car door. The spell shattered, leaving behind a naked, complicated shame. “Fuck,” Liam breathed, the word a hot puff against her shoulder. He released her, his hands leaving pale prints on her hips.
They dressed in silence, the earlier ferocity replaced by a stiff, miserable practicality. Dizzy’s shorts and tank top clung to her damp skin. They avoided each other’s eyes as they trudged back across the sharp grass toward the house. The bright afternoon felt accusatory.
Chaos greeted them in the living room. Chloe was haphazardly stuffing bikinis and sundresses into a large canvas bag, her face blotchy. Ben stood awkwardly by the sliding door, his usual easygoing expression replaced by pained neutrality. “You don’t have to leave, Chlo,” he said, his voice carefully calm.
“The hell I don’t!” Chloe snapped, not looking up. “I just saw my best friend get… I don’t even know what that was. And you!” She finally wheeled on Dizzy, tears brimming again. “You just let him? After everything we’ve talked about? About your worth?”
Dizzy crossed her arms, a defensive hunch she immediately hated. “You set this whole thing up. You shoved us together. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Not that! Not some… aggressive kitchen counter… thing while I watched! I wanted you to have a nice time. To feel pretty.” Chloe’s voice broke. “Not used.”
Liam stepped forward. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It looked exactly like that!” Chloe shot back.
Ben rubbed his forehead. “Okay, everyone just… cool it for a second.” He looked at Liam, then at Dizzy. “Look. What happened was… intense. And maybe not for an audience.” He turned to Chloe, his voice dropping into a private, earnest register. “But you’re not seeing it clearly, babe. You were so focused on Dizzy’s face, you missed his. That wasn’t a guy using someone. That was a guy who’s completely fucking lost his mind over someone.”
Chloe stared at him. Her breathing slowed. The room hung suspended.
“How would you know?” she whispered.
Ben’s cheeks flushed slightly. He exchanged a long, silent look with Liam, who gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod. Ben let out a long breath. “Because we’ve talked about it. Not about them, specifically. About… wanting that. The realness of it. The lack of… pretense.” He took Chloe’s hand. “You think we came down here just for the sun and sand? We had a hope. Maybe a stupid one.”
Chloe’s anger seemed to deflate, replaced by a wary confusion. “A hope for what?”
“That maybe they’d get it,” Ben said, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “That maybe they’d see something in each other that we see in them. And that maybe, if things went well… we could all be open. Really open.”
Dizzy felt the floor tilt. “Open how?”
Liam’s voice was gravel. “They’re into swinging, Dizzy. They have been for a while. They thought… we might be compatible.”
The word landed in the quiet room like a stone. Swinging. It felt both absurd and, in a dark, secret corner of her mind she rarely acknowledged, terrifyingly plausible. It explained Chloe’s relentless matchmaking, Ben’s easy acceptance of Liam’s presence, the charged, watchful atmosphere that had permeated the weekend.
Chloe watched Dizzy’s face, her own expression softening into something apologetic and hopeful. “We didn’t want to scare you off. We just… we enjoy it. Together. It makes us closer. And we care about you both so much. We thought if you two connected…” She trailed off, biting her lip. “It was a fantasy. A really poorly executed one.”
Silence stretched, thick and liquid. Dizzy looked at Liam. His jaw was tight, his eyes asking a silent, urgent question. The memory of his mouth between her legs, his cock filling her against the shower wall, the raw possession in his voice—it wasn’t disgust she felt. It was a reckless, unraveling curiosity. He gave a slight, almost helpless shrug, as if to say, My mind is gone. I follow you.
“A session,” Dizzy heard herself say, the words foreign on her tongue. “What does that even… entail?”
Chloe’s eyes widened with cautious hope. Ben squeezed her hand. “Whatever we all agree to,” Ben said. “No pressure. A exploration. In our suite. It’s… private.”
Liam found Dizzy’s gaze and held it. “Your call,” he said, the words simple and absolute.
The ascent to the master suite felt like walking to an execution or a coronation, Dizzy couldn’t decide which. Her heart was a frantic animal in her chest. The room was spacious, with a vast bed and a balcony overlooking the dunes. On a velvet-covered chair sat an open leather case, its contents gleaming under the soft lamp light: coiled silicone in flesh tones and vibrant colors, bottles of lube, leather cuffs, and small, sinister-looking metal clips.
“Christ,” Liam murmured, staring at the array.
“We like to be prepared,” Ben said with a weak smile, clicking the door shut behind them. The sound of the latch engaging was final.
Chloe, now seeming to shed her guilt in favor of a gentle, guiding enthusiasm, approached Dizzy. “We start slow. We communicate. Always.” She took Dizzy’s hand, leading her to the edge of the bed. “I want you to learn me. Let me show you what I like.”
She lay back on the crisp white duvet, pulling her sundress up and off, revealing her familiar, slender body. Dizzy’s mouth went dry. This was Chloe. Her best friend. The one who’d held her hair back after too many tequila shots.
“Go on,” Liam said softly from behind her. His hand settled on the small of her back, a point of heat and steadiness.
Dizzy knelt on the plush carpet between Chloe’s spread legs. The intimate, musky scent of her was both strange and known. Chloe guided Dizzy’s head down gently. “Use the flat of your tongue first, right on the clit. Slow circles.”
Dizzy obeyed, the action feeling clinical at first. Then Chloe moaned, a genuine, shuddering sound, and her hips lifted. “Yeah, just like that. Now harder. Flick it.”
Dizzy lost herself in the mechanics, in the feedback of Chloe’s gasps and the tightening of her thighs. She licked and sucked, following whispered instructions—“A little lower,” “Two fingers inside, curl them up”—until Chloe’s body was bowing off the bed, her hands fisting in Dizzy’s hair. It was a lesson in power, in giving pleasure, and it ignited a hungry pride in Dizzy’s gut.
She felt movement on the bed behind her. Ben’s large, warm hands slid up her thighs, pushing her shorts and damp panties down. Liam was there too, his lips on her neck, his hands covering her breasts. A bottle clicked open, and cool lube dripped onto her exposed backside.
“You’re doing so good, Dizzy,” Ben murmured, his voice husky. “Keep making her feel good. We’ve got you.”
Then Ben’s thick cock was pressing against her entrance, slick and insistent, and he pushed in with a low groan, filling her in one deep stroke. At the same moment, Liam, guided by Ben’s lubed hand, pressed the head of his own cock against her other hole, the tight, untouched pucker of her ass. Dizzy froze, a muffled cry against Chloe’s clit.
“Breathe,” Liam commanded into her ear, his voice straining. “Just breathe through it.”
He pushed. The burn was exquisite, a white-hot撕裂 of impossible fullness. She screamed, the vibration against Chloe pushing her friend over the edge. Chloe came with a shattered cry, her cunt pulsing against Dizzy’s mouth, her back arching wildly.
“Oh god, yes, just like that, you perfect girl,” Chloe chanted, her hands clutching Dizzy’s hair as she rode out the waves. The orgasm seemed to last for minutes, long, shuddering contractions that finally eased into trembling aftershocks.
Panting, Chloe pushed herself up on her elbows, a wicked, spent smile on her face. “That was incredible. You deserve a surprise.” She slid from the bed and went to the closet, returning with a harness already strapped to her narrow hips. The silicone cock attached to it was monstrous: a deep purple, easily ten inches long and thick as a beer can, with a prominent, ridged head.
Dizzy stared, paralyzed. Ben and Liam were still buried inside her, a dual presence that stretched her to a dizzying limit.
“Lie back,” Liam told Chloe, his voice tight with strain. Chloe complied, settling onto her back on the floor, the monstrous dildo pointing toward the ceiling.
Ben and Liam lifted Dizzy from the bed as if she weighed nothing, turning her to face Chloe. They lowered her, guiding the massive silicone head to her swollen, dripping opening. “Sit,” Liam said.
She sank down. The stretch was immediate and unbelievable, a burning, gradual invasion that forced a broken groan from her throat. She could only take about half its length before the pressure felt like it would split her in two. She rocked tentatively, the ridges scraping her inner walls with a brutal, delicious friction.
“Not enough,” Ben grunted. He produced two small, silver nipple clamps from the chair, their tiny teeth gleaming. He attached them to Dizzy’s nipples in quick, practiced motions. The sharp bite made her gasp, a bright pain that arrowed straight to her core.
Then, in unison, Ben and Liam pushed down on her shoulders. They forced her down, down, onto the giant strap-on, impaling her further than she thought possible. A ragged scream tore from her throat as her cunt was stretched wider, wider, until her pubic bone was flush against Chloe’s, the entire monstrous length buried inside her. Her eyes rolled back, vision blurring.
They began lifting and dropping her, using her body like a toy, fucking her helplessly onto the silicone cock. Each downward plunge stole her breath, each upward pull made the clamps tug and bite. Just as a rhythm built, a terrifying, addictive rhythm, Liam pulled her completely off.
He turned her around, her back to Chloe now. He guided the slick, purple head back to her ravaged entrance and pushed her down again, re-impaling her in one brutal stroke. “Lick her nipples,” he ordered, his own breathing harsh.
Dizzy leaned forward, her tongue finding Chloe’s hard, pink nipple. As she swirled her tongue, Chloe, with a devilish grin, reached up and pinched the chain connecting the clamps on Dizzy’s breasts. She pulled, yanking Dizzy’s nipples taut, the sharp, sweet pain making Dizzy cry out against her skin.
Then she felt Liam, hard and eager, pressing