Chapter 56: First night over at Toby’s
The familiar, hollow quiet of the apartment settled around Alex the moment the door clicked shut behind Anya. It was a temporary silence, soon to be filled, but for now it felt amplified, charged with the ghost of her perfume and the memory of her last, lingering kiss. She’d dressed with a deliberate, breathtaking care: a little black dress that clung to every curve before flaring just above her mid-thigh, sheer stockings with a subtle, enticing sheen, heels that made her legs look endless. She’d spun for him before leaving, a proud, playful smile on her lips.
“For my man,” she’d said, smoothing the dress over her hips. The possessive term hung in the air, ambiguous and delicious. Was it for him, Alex, who loved to see her adorned? Or for Toby, who would peel it from her? The ambiguity was the point, and the warm, twisting knot in his stomach tightened in response. He’d told her of course she could spend the night, his voice steady, the permission a gift he gave freely.
Now, he busied himself. He straightened cushions already perfectly straight. He checked the fridge for Claire’s preferred brand of sparkling water. The digital clock on the oven marched forward with agonizing slowness. He felt like a stagehand preparing for the main act, his own role both central and peripheral.
A key turned in the lock precisely at eight. Claire breezed in, a gust of cool night air and vibrant energy following her. She carried the scent of rain and her own crisp, citrus perfume. “Cucky!” she announced, shedding a stylish trench coat to reveal a simple, elegant jumpsuit that highlighted her lean frame. She toed off her heels, her painted toes digging into the plush rug. “I come bearing gifts.” She held up a brown paper bag from the upscale Italian market down the street. “Linguine, white clam sauce, and a tiramisu that probably violates several dietary laws.”
“You’re a saint,” Alex said, the normality of it a relief.
“A very naughty saint,” she corrected, padding into the kitchen to unpack. “So. She’s gone?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Claire nodded, a knowing glint in her eye. “And how’s the headspace? All systems nominal?” She used his engineering jargon like a secret handshake, a way into his world.
“Green across the board,” he replied, falling into the bit. “A little pre-launch anxiety. Normal.”
“Good.” She found a corkscrew and opened a bottle of pinot grigio with practiced ease. “Because my mission tonight is simple: distraction and indulgence. No moping allowed. We eat, we drink, we maybe watch something terrible, and we absolutely do not think about what Thor’s hammer is currently doing to our favorite blonde.”
Alex laughed, a genuine, unfettered sound. Claire had a way of cutting through the complex weave of his emotions with a blunt, cheerful thread. They moved around each other in the kitchen with an easy, familiar rhythm, the earlier tension easing into something warm and companionable.
Dinner was a loud, messy, wonderful affair. They ate straight from the containers at the coffee table, clinking wine glasses, debating the merits of various superhero movies, and dissecting Claire’s latest dating app horror stories. Daniel, the gym-rat architect, had flaked. “Sent a pic of his ‘sprained ankle,’” Claire said, making air quotes. “The foot was a different skin tone than his face. Amateur.”
Alex felt himself relaxing into the couch, into the wine, into Claire’s infectious laughter. This was a different facet of it all—the friendship, the shared life, the intimacy that existed outside of, and yet was fundamentally entwined with, the bedroom.
Later, with the tiramisu demolished and a third bottle of wine open, they migrated to the floor on a nest of pillows. A forgettable action movie played on the TV, casting shifting blue light across the room. Claire lay on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, watching the screen. Alex sat leaning against the couch, his limbs loose with warmth.
Her jumpsuit was unzipped a fair way down her back, revealing the delicate ladder of her spine and the smooth, freckled skin of her shoulders. As she shifted, laughing at a clumsy stunt, the fabric gaped further. Alex’s gaze, unbidden, traced the line. The wine hummed in his veins, lowering inhibitions, heightening sensation. The memory of the photo from Monday—the two sets of curves, the explicit challenge—flared in his mind.
Without conscious thought, his hand moved. He reached out and placed his fingertips lightly on the small of her back, just where the fabric ended.
Claire went very still. On screen, a car exploded silently. She didn’t turn her head. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice a low murmur.
“Hey,” he echoed, his own voice thick.
He leaned down, his movement slow, giving her every chance to stop him. She didn’t. He pressed his lips to the same spot his fingers had touched. The skin was warm, tasted faintly of her perfume and salt. A soft sigh escaped her, dissolving into the movie’s soundtrack.
His kisses became a trail, following the path of her spine upward, each one a quiet question. She arched her back slightly, a silent answer. His hands found the zipper of her jumpsuit and pulled it down steadily, the sound harsh in the quiet room. He helped her shimmy out of the top half, leaving her bare from the waist up. She rolled onto her side, facing him now, her eyes dark and unreadable in the low light.
“Turn over,” he whispered, the request more of a breath.
A slow smile touched her lips. She obeyed, rolling onto her stomach again, presenting her bare back and the graceful taper of her waist to him. His hands spread over her skin, feeling the heat, the life of her. He kissed his way down, over each vertebra, until he reached the waistband of her jumpsuit pants.
His fingers hooked into the fabric. He pulled them down, slowly, revealing the perfect, pale curves of her ass. She lifted her hips to help him, the movement effortless. Soon, she was completely naked on the pillows, bathed in the television’s ephemeral glow.
He worshiped her with his mouth. He kissed the backs of her thighs, the sensitive hollows behind her knees. He nuzzled the firm swell of her ass, his hands spreading her gently. When his tongue first made contact, a sharp, trembling gasp broke from her lips. Her fingers twisted into the pillowcase.
He ate her ass with a single-minded devotion, a focused reverence. It was an act of service, of adoration, of reclaiming a piece of the night for himself. The noises were obscenely intimate in the otherwise quiet apartment—wet, hungry sounds and Claire’s escalating, stifled moans. She began to move against him, rocking back to meet his tongue, her breath coming in ragged hitches.
“God… Alex…” she panted, her voice strained. “Fuck. That’s… oh, right there…”
A mischievous, wine-fuelled idea sparked in her haze of pleasure. With a clumsy, determined movement, she fumbled for her phone, discarded nearby. She unlocked it, her thumb slipping on the screen, and navigated to her favorites.
She hit the call button, putting it on speaker.
It rang twice before it was answered.
The sounds that poured from the phone’s speaker were not words.
They were the raw, unfiltered acoustics of sex. A deep, rhythmic thumping of a headboard against a wall. ragged, open-mouthed gasps that were unmistakably Anya’s. And lower, guttural groans that could only belong to a man of immense size.
“Annie?” Claire managed, her voice high and tight with her own building pleasure. “You… you there?”
A beat. The thumping paused for a second. “Claire?” Anya’s voice came back, strained, breathless, triumphant. “What’s—oh, god, Toby, right there—what’s up?”
Claire’s head fell back, a wild laugh escaping her as Alex’s tongue worked deeper. “Just… checking in.” She moaned, the sound loud and deliberate into the phone. “Having a… a quiet night. Alex is… keeping me company.”
Another sharp gasp from the speaker, followed by a low, masculine chuckle. “Yeah? How?” Anya’s question was a pant.
Claire’s eyes fluttered shut, her hips pushing back against Alex’s face. “He’s… ah… he’s eating my ass right now. It’s almost… almost as good as the real cock you’re getting. The one he… mmm… doesn’t have.”
The line was filled with Anya’s sudden, sharp cry of release, a sound that was half pleasure, half laughter, utterly unrestrained. It was joined by Toby’s victorious roar. For ten seconds, the only sounds were their shuddering breaths and the slow lessening of the headboard’s impact.
Anya’s voice returned, smoky and utterly spent. “You bitch,” she breathed, affection dripping from the words. “You perfect, wicked bitch. Tell him… tell him thank you. From me.”
The call went dead.
The abrupt silence in the apartment was louder than any explosion on the TV. Claire dropped the phone as if it were scalding. Her body convulsed, the teasing, competitive edge of the moment dissolving into pure, unadulterated sensation. Alex redoubled his efforts, his own arousal a painful, distant second to the act of pushing her over the edge.
Her climax wasn’t quiet. It was a full-bodied shudder, a cry that tore from her throat as she ground herself against his face, her back arching like a drawn bow. She fell apart on the pillows, trembling, gasping for air.
When she could move again, she rolled over, her body slick with sweat. She looked at him, his face glistening, his eyes dark with a complex storm of emotions. She reached for him, her hand tender on his cheek.
“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him up to lie beside her. She didn’t speak for a long time, just held him, her heartbeat slowing against his side, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. The movie credits rolled, casting the room into near darkness.
The movie credits rolled, casting the room into near darkness. The only light came from the silent television, flashing blue and white across their tangled, weary forms. Claire’s breathing had evened out, her head a comforting weight on his chest.
“You know,” she mumbled into the quiet, her voice husky and amused. “If we were in high school together, I would’ve totally bullied you.”
Alex’s chest vibrated with a soft chuckle. “Yeah?”
“Oh, for sure.” She traced a circle on his sternum. “Relentlessly. Called you names, stole your books, the works.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like you deep down,” she said, as if it were the most obvious logic in the world. “And I was a little shit. It’s how I showed affection.”
He laughed, a full, warm sound that shook them both. “Then it is very good I went to school in Russia. You would have terrified me.”
“I know,” she said, grinning against his skin. She was quiet for a moment, her fingers stilling. “Speaking of things you like… why thighs? Seriously. I get legs, okay, fine. But you have a whole thing for thighs specifically. It’s very specific.”
He was silent, the shift from playful teasing to genuine curiosity taking him by surprise. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space. He stared at the shifting light on the ceiling, gathering his thoughts in English.
“A leg is… architecture,” he began, his voice low. “It is geometry. Bones and lines. It is strong. A thigh… it is the soft part. The physics are different.”
Claire propped herself up on an elbow, listening.
“It is where strength turns to give,” he continued, passion threading into his words. “It is the part that is secret. A promise. You see a skirt, you see the line, but the thigh is what is hidden. It holds the heat. When you touch it…” He made a motion with his hand. “It yields. But underneath, there is power. It is a contradiction. Soft armor.”
He looked at her, his eyes earnest in the dim light. “A calf is a muscle. A thigh is… a feeling. It is the closest to the center of everything, but it is not the center. It is the guardian. The curator. It is the part that whispers, not shouts.”
Claire watched him, her expression unreadable. Then a slow, deep smile spread across her face. “Jesus, Alexey,” she breathed. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard a man say. And I’ve heard some shit.”
He felt his face grow warm.
“No, I mean it,” she said, leaning down to kiss his shoulder. “You see it. You really see it. It’s not just a thing to you.” She settled back against him. “Annie’s are these perfect, juicy peaches. Mine are like… steel cables wrapped in satin.”
“They are both perfect,” he said simply.
She snorted. “You’re a terrible liar and a wonderful man.” She stretched, a long, cat-like motion. “I need water. And to pee. In that order.”
She disentangled herself and padded naked to the kitchen. He watched her go, the graceful shift of muscle under skin, the truth of his own words hanging in the air between them. She returned with two glasses of water, handing him one. She stood drinking hers, looking down at him on the floor.
Her green eyes tracked over him, thoughtful, a new curiosity replacing the post-orgasmic haze. She finished the water in a long, slow gulp and set the glass down on the coffee table with a definitive clink.
“That was… instructional,” she said, her voice rough. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You have a real talent, you know that?”
He gave a small shrug from his nest of pillows, a flush creeping up his neck.
Claire knelt down beside him, the soft light catching the sheen on her skin. She studied his face, his body, with an analytical focus. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, then drifted down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach. “You’re so fucking responsive. It’s like you’re wired for this.” Her touch was light, almost clinical, yet it ignited trails of fire on his skin.
Her hand paused at the waistband of his pants. Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Has anyone ever returned the favor?” she asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “Like, specifically? A guy? A girl?”
He understood her meaning instantly. The blood rushed to his face. He shook his head, a quick, tight movement. “No,” he whispered. “Never.”
A brilliant, predatory grin spread across Claire’s face. It was the same grin she’d worn when she matched with Daniel. “No one?” she breathed, as if she’d uncovered a profound secret. “Seriously? Not even a curious finger while getting pegged?”
“No,” he repeated, the word firmer this time. The admission felt huge, a vault opened.
“Wow.” She let out a low, delighted laugh. She pushed at his shoulder, her touch suddenly insistent. “Turn over. On your stomach. Now.”
The command was playful but left no room for debate. A shiver, equal parts fear and electric anticipation, raced down his spine. He rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow that still smelled of her. The fabric of his sweatpants was suddenly a confining, frustrating barrier.
He felt her weight settle across the backs of his thighs, pinning him lightly. Her hands slid under the hem of his shirt, pushing it up to his shoulders. The cool air hit his overheated skin. He heard the rustle of her movement, then felt her breath, warm and close, on the small of his back.
Her tongue touched him first, a flat, wet stroke from the base of his spine down to the top of his sweatpants. He jerked, a gasp muffled by the pillow.
“Shhh,” she murmured, her voice a vibration against his skin. “Just seeing what we’re working with.”
Her hands hooked into his waistband. She pulled his sweatpants and boxers down in one swift, efficient motion. The air was a shocking coolness on his exposed skin. He felt utterly vulnerable, spread before her.
Then her mouth was on him again, not with the tentative exploration of before, but with a deliberate, sloppy hunger. She licked a broad, wet stripe over his asshole. The sensation was blindingly direct, utterly foreign. His whole body tensed, his fingers clawing at the fabric beneath him.
“Fuck, Alexey,” she muttered, her voice thick with fascination. She spat, the wetness landing hot on his skin, and then her tongue drove forward again, less a lick and more a pointed, circling probe. It wasn’t gentle. It was messy, vulgar, and shockingly intimate.
He moaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest, as her tongue found a rhythm, pressing and retreating.
She pulled back for a moment, breathing heavily. “Jesus Christ,” she giggled, the sound unhinged and amazed. “You are so fucking receptive. It’s like you were built for this.” She gave his ass a sharp, stinging slap that made him yelp and arch his back. “I cannot believe some big-dicked stud hasn’t found you and just… claimed this.”
Her words were a bolt of lightning straight to his core. He buried his face deeper, his ears burning.
She leaned down again, her voice a hot whisper against his wet skin. “It’s a miracle you’re not gay. You’re a natural-born bottom.” She punctuated the last word with a firm, lingering press of her tongue.
The moan that escaped him then was louder than any before, a ragged, helpless sound of pure surrender. It wasn’t a moan of physical pleasure alone, though the sensation was overwhelming. It was the moan of a truth being acknowledged, spoken aloud in the most visceral way possible. The sound seemed to startle even her.
She went still for a second, then resumed with renewed, frantic energy. Her hands gripped his hips, holding him in place as she feasted. She explored him with a lascivious curiosity, humming her approval into his skin. The world narrowed to the relentless, wet pressure of her mouth, the obscene sounds filling the quiet room, and the staggering vulnerability of being so completely known.
He was hard, achingly so, his erection trapped painfully beneath him. Each flick and thrust of her tongue sent a corresponding jolt through his cock. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged heaves that fogged the pillowcase. A pressure, different from anything he’d ever known, was building low in his belly—a deep, coiling tension that had nothing to do with his confined erection.
“Claire,” he gasped, the word a strangled plea. He didn’t know what he was asking for. For her to stop. For her to never stop.
“For you to never stop,” Claire finished for him, her voice raw. She gave his ass a final, wet kiss before pulling back. He heard her shift behind him, felt her weight leave his thighs. “But we’re getting sidetracked.”
She swatted his backside, a sharp crack that echoed. “Roll over.”
He did, moving slowly, his body feeling both heavy and electrified. He lay on his back, exposed, his hard cock standing against his stomach. Claire knelt between his legs, her gaze travelling over him with an unnerving intensity. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his shaft, her touch surprisingly gentle.
She stroked him once, twice, a slow, considering motion.
A wide, wicked grin broke across her face. She looked from his eyes to his cock and back again, shaking her head in mock disbelief.
“You know,” she said, her voice light and conversational, as if discussing the weather. “It’s actually perfect.” She gave him another lazy stroke. “This. You. The whole situation.” Her thumb rubbed over his tip, spreading the bead of moisture there. “You’re the ultimate cuck, Alexey. You really, truly are.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. Her words lanced through him, hot and shameful and true.
“You get off on her being with Thor. You get off on me mocking your size. You just came in your pants a little because I ate your ass.” She laughed, a bright, musical sound that held no malice, only pure delight in the discovery. “You are a masterpiece of perversion.”
She leaned forward, her face inches from his. Her green eyes were brilliant. “But here’s the thing, Cucky. My night isn’t over.” She sat back on her heels, her expression turning pragmatic. “I need at least a couple more orgasms tonight. And well…”
She glanced meaningfully at his erection in her hand. “Even this little guy could probably manage one. If he really, really tried.” She gave him a firm squeeze that was not entirely gentle. “So you better not leave me unsatisfied. You’re going to do the best you can.”
She shifted then, moving with a sudden, decisive energy. Instead of straddling his hips, she turned herself around. In one fluid motion, she lowered herself onto his face, but backwards, so her own face was level with his legs, her knees planted on either side of his head.
The world became a blur of skin and scent and heat. The clean, musky perfume of her arousal filled his senses, overwhelming. He instinctively brought his hands up to her thighs, to steady her or himself, he wasn’t sure.
“Don’t you dare hold back,” her voice came, muffled and authoritative from somewhere near his knees. “Your one job is to make me come. Use that tongue like you mean it.”
And then she began to move. There was no gentle warm-up, no tentative exploration. She ground herself against his mouth with a frantic, demanding rhythm, her hips rocking forward and back, pressing him into the pillows. Her folds were slick and swollen against his lips, his nose.
He opened his mouth, trying to obey, his tongue searching for the places that made her gasp. The angle was awkward, her movements controlling everything. He could only follow, licking and sucking as best he could, the taste of her, sharp and distinct, coating his tongue.
“Good,” she grunted from above his legs. “Now use your lips more. Suck. Yes, like that.”
Her praise was a fuel. He redoubled his efforts, trying to listen to her breathing, to the hitches in her moans, to guide his actions. His own arousal was a distant, throbbing ache, completely secondary.
Then he felt her hand close around his balls. Not to caress, but to hold. To possess.
“You are so fucking small everywhere,” she breathed, her voice husky with exertion and pleasure. She gave his sac a testing squeeze, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make his breath catch. “I could probably crush these with one hand. Does that scare you?”
He couldn’t answer. His mouth was full of her. He moaned instead, a desperate, affirmative sound that vibrated against her.
She laughed, a breathy, exhilarated sound. “Of course it does. And you love being scared.”
Her other hand joined the first, cupping him, rolling his balls in her palm. It was a disorienting, vulnerable sensation, being handled so casually while he served her. His hips bucked involuntarily.
“None of that,” she chided, her voice dropping to a low, teasing hum. “You stay still. Your dick doesn’t matter right now. Only your mouth does. Only my pussy does. Understand?”
She punctuated the question by letting her full weight settle onto his face. His airway compressed instantly. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to turn his head, to find a pocket of air, but she pinned him, her thighs clamping against the sides of his head. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
Just as the panic began to crest, she lifted slightly. Cool, blessed air rushed into his lungs in a ragged, sucking gasp. He hadn’t even realized he was desperate for it.
“See?” she purred, resuming her grinding motion, a little slower now. “You don’t need to breathe. You just need to make me come.”
The cycle repeated. She would bear down, smothering him completely in her heat and wetness, holding him there until his body began to strain and twitch for oxygen. Then she’d rise, just enough for him to gasp, before descending again. Each time, the deprivation made the sensory input more intense—the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her wetness mingling with his desperate efforts.
Her teasing never stopped. “Is her pussy better than mine, Alexey?” she gasped, rocking against him. “When Toby’s fucking her right now, do you think she’s thinking about your little tongue?”
His hands, which had been gripping her thighs, now flailed slightly, searching for purchase on the sheets.
“Do you think she’s comparing?” Claire continued, her rhythm becoming more erratic, more urgent. “His monster cock… to your pathetic little… thing?”
Her hand, still cupping him, gave his balls a sharp, stinging slap.
It wasn’t a playful tap. It was a sudden, bright flash of pain that radiated up through his groin and into his stomach. A hoarse, strangled cry was torn from his throat, vibrating directly into her core.
The sound seemed to travel through her. She shuddered violently above him, a full-body convulsion. “Fuck!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “Fuck, yes!”
Another slap, harder this time, a crisp, brutal impact that made his eyes water.
Another choked, pained moan ripped from him, this one longer, more ragged.
“Oh god,” Claire whimpered. His agony was her catalyst. Her hips stuttered, lost all rhythm, and then slammed down onto his mouth, holding him there, buried deep, as she climaxed. Her inner muscles clenched around his tongue in rapid, pulsing waves. Her thighs shook against his temples. She cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that went on and on.
He was drowning in her. The lack of air, the brutal pleasure-pain radiating from his groin, the visceral, consuming reality of her orgasm—it all fused into a single, unbearable point of pressure inside him. His own control shattered.
His back arched off the bed as much as her weight would allow. A broken, guttural sound, more sob than shout, was smothered by her flesh. He came, untouched, a sudden, violent eruption that striped his stomach and chest with hot pulses. The climax was sharp and agonizing, ripped from him by sheer overload, leaving him twitching and gasping when she finally, slowly, raised herself up.
Cool air flooded his lungs. He coughed, sucking in huge, desperate breaths. His body was a trembling wreck, covered in his own release, his face slick and glistening.
Claire swung herself off him, her movements languid and satisfied. She turned and looked down at his heaving form, at the mess he’d made of himself. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her flushed face.
“Wow,” she breathed, wiping a strand of sweat-damp hair from her forehead. She shook her head, her gaze traveling over his spent body. “Just… wow.” She reached out and traced a line through the cum on his stomach, her touch almost reverent. “The ultimate cuck.”