Chapter 62: The Morning After
The rain started just before dawn, a soft percussion against the bedroom window of their apartment. It washed the city clean, or tried to, but the night before was a stain that wouldn’t lift. Alex slept the dead, hollow sleep of total depletion. His stomach, still faintly queasy, was a crypt for their pleasures.
Anya did not sleep. She lay awake for hours, feeling the delicious, deep-set ache in her muscles, a personal map of the evening’s geography. Every twinge in her thighs, every sore pull when she shifted, was a souvenir. She replayed moments like a critic reviewing a masterpiece: Sam’s cruel, perfect hand on her nose, Toby’s grunt of final possession, the searing look in Alex’s eyes as he swallowed her proof of life without them.
She was tender in a way Alex had never made her. It was a good feeling. A proud feeling.
As the gray light of a rainy morning seeped into the room, she slid from the bed. Her body protested, a chorus of pleasant complaints. She moved to the walk-in closet, to the locked case on the high shelf. The silicone was cool and heavy in her hands. She strapped it on over the simple black boyshorts she’d slept in, adjusted the harness, gave herself a moment to feel the weight and the power of it. It was a different kind of weapon now.
She walked back to the bed, the soft swish of the harness the only sound. She stood over him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He looked younger in sleep, shadows under his eyes. Her perfect, perverted man. Her guttersnipe. Her love.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling his chest, her weight pinning the sheets and him beneath them. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his t-shirt. The silicone tip, cool and blunt, pressed against his lips.
His eyes fluttered open, confused, still clouded with sleep. They focused on her face, then widened as he felt the pressure on his mouth.
“Good morning,” she whispered, her voice husky from misuse. She rocked her hips just slightly, rubbing the fake cock back and forth across his closed lips. “Open.”
He obeyed instantly, his mouth opening in a slack, trusting way. She pushed the tip inside, not deeply, just enough to rest on his tongue.
“I woke up so sore,” she said conversationally, leaning on her hands on either side of his head. “In places I forgot I had. Toby… he hit something yesterday. Something you never touch.” She pushed a little deeper, watching his throat work as he tried to accommodate the intrusion without gagging. “Sam… god, Sam was an animal. My throat feels scraped raw. I can still taste him.”
Alex made a soft, choked noise. His hands came up to rest lightly on her thighs, a gesture of connection, not resistance.
“And you,” she said, smiling down at him. “My brave, filthy boy. You drank so much of them last night. They’re in your belly right now. All that cum. Toby’s. Sam’s. Mine. It’s all just… swimming around in there. Part of you now.” Her smile turned wicked. “Does your stomach hurt?”
He nodded, a tiny movement, his eyes locked on hers.
“Good.” She pulled the strapon almost all the way out of his mouth, then slammed it back in, hard. His head jerked back into the pillow with a thump. She started fucking his face in earnest, short, brutal strokes that stole his breath. “You earned that ache. You swallowed every drop like a good…” Thrust. “…devoted…” Thrust. “…little…” Thrust. “…cuckold.”
Drool began to leak from the corners of his mouth, slicking his chin. His face was flushing, his eyes watering. He was fully hard now, a desperate ridge under the comforter. His fingers dug into her thighs, kneading the muscular flesh he worshipped.
After a minute of this, she slowed. She pulled out, leaving his mouth glistening and open, panting. She dragged the silicone tip down his chin, his throat, over the cotton of his shirt, leaving a damp trail. “You want more?”
He just nodded, desperately.
“Words, Alexey.”
“Yes,” he croaked. “Please, Anya. More.”
She shifted off his chest, pulling the covers back. “On your stomach.”
He scrambled to obey, his movements clumsy with need. He pressed his face into the pillow, his shoulders tense. The air was cool on his skin.
She knelt between his legs, running her hands over the globes of his ass. She squeezed, hard. “You’re going to take this for me. All of it. Like you took everything else last night. But we’re not using the good lube.”
She spat into her hand. A thick, clear glob. She spat again. Then she slicked it over the length of the silicone dildo, the sound obscenely wet in the quiet room. “This is all you get. Your spit. Their cum is your lube today. Think about that. It’s almost enough, isn’t it?”
She positioned the blunt, damp head against him. He was tight, clenching involuntarily.
“Relax,” she commanded, and her voice was all authority. She pushed.
It burned. The spit provided a pathetic, fleeting slickness that was gone in an instant, leaving the brutal, stretching drag of silicone forcing its way into unprepared muscle. Alex gasped, his knuckles white where they gripped the sheets. A low, pained moan was muffled by the pillow.
“Shhh,” she soothed, but she didn’t stop. She applied steady, inexorable pressure, sinking inch by unforgiving inch into his body. “That’s it. Take it. It’s what you wanted, watching them ruin me. This is your part. Your prize.”
He was shaking, a fine tremor running through his entire body. The pain was acute, a bright, white-hot line. But beneath it, woven through the fire, was a submission so profound it bordered on ecstasy. This was her. Claiming him. Marking him in the aftermath of being claimed by others.
When she was fully seated, buried to the hilt, she paused, letting him feel the full, impossible stretch. She leaned over his back, her blonde hair curtaining his face. “You belong to me,” she breathed into his ear. “More than you belong to yourself. Your pain is mine. Your pleasure is mine. Your orgasms are especially mine.”
She began to move. Slow, at first, each withdrawal and thrust reigniting the burn. His moans were a continuous, ragged soundtrack. He pushed back against her, meeting her thrusts, begging for more punishment with his body.
“You loved watching Sam choke me, didn’t you?” she grunted, picking up speed. The bed began to creak. “You loved seeing me used like that.”
“Y-yes,” he managed.
“And you loved cleaning up his mess.”
“Yes!”
“You’re a disgusting, perfect thing.” Her thrusts became harder, faster, athletic. The slick, wet sound of spit and effort filled the room. She reached under him, finding his cock, which was leaking desperately onto the sheets. She squeezed the base, hard. “Not yet. You don’t get to yet.”
He sobbed, a broken sound of unbearable need. The dual sensation—the brutal fullness in his ass, the denied throbbing in his cock—tipped him into a delirious space where pain and pleasure were the same color.
She fucked him like that for a long time, steady and relentless, a piston of synthetic possession. She talked to him the whole time, a filthy, loving monologue. She described the exact expression on Toby’s face when he came. She mimicked Sam’s grunts. She reminded him of the taste.
His responses dissolved into wordless, pleading sounds.
She could feel his body coiling, the telltale tremors in his thighs, the frantic clenching around her. His breathing was a ragged saw. “Please, Anya, I’m… I can’t…”
“Now,” she hissed, her own breath coming fast. “Come for me. Now.”
Her permission was a detonation. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and gut-deep, tearing a raw shout from his throat. He pulsed into her hand, into the sheets, his body convulsing around the strapon still buried inside him.
And the second he peaked, the moment the first jet left him, she let go of his cock and clamped her hand over the head, squeezing violently, trapping the rest, ruining the release, making it a stuttering, agonizing throb instead of a flood.
He whimpered, collapsing completely, a puppet with cut strings.
She slowed her thrusts, gentling them as he floated back down. Finally, she pulled out of him with a soft, wet sound. He flinched.
She watched him shudder, a pulsing wreck on the rumpled sheets. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, light and utterly merciless. It wasn’t a cruel sound, but one of pure, delighted possession.
“Aw, look at that face,” she cooed, tapping his reddened cheek. “All that work, and I just… stole it.” She traced the leaking head of his cock, making him twitch. “Frustrated, baby?”
Alex could only manage a groan, his face buried. His whole body felt hollowed out and yet still taut, the denied release a physical ache in his groin.
“Here’s the deal,” she said, her voice shifting to a business-like tone. She unstrapped the harness, the silicone making a soft thump on the mattress beside his head. “If you want to actually finish that thought, I can fuck your ass again.”
He turned his head, one blue eye peering at her, full of desperate hope.
“That’s the only way you’re coming today. Your ass.” She picked up the strapon, its surface gleaming. “But first, you have a job.” She presented it to his lips. “You’re going to suck this. The same one that was just in you. I want it dripping. Cover it with as much spit as you can possibly make.”
He stared at the object, understanding dawning. His own spent tension, the remnants of Toby and Sam from the night before, the intimate taste of himself—it was all there.
“That spit,” she continued, her smile widening, “is going to be my lube. All of it. So you better make it good.” She nudged his lips with the tip. “Now, Alexey. Get it wet for me.”
A fresh, shameful heat flooded him, somehow more intense than the physical arousal. He opened his mouth, his tongue touching the cool, faintly bitter silicone. He closed his eyes and began, his jaw still sore from the morning’s face-fucking, his throat still raw from swallowed proof.
He licked along the length with broad, devoted strokes, then took the head into his mouth, sucking earnestly to work up saliva. He coated every inch, his spit shining in the gray morning light, a humble offering. The act itself was a deeper submission than anything before it.
Anya watched, her hands on her hips, her expression one of fond ownership. “Good boy,” she murmured. “Make a mess for me.”
When she finally took it back, it glistened, thoroughly wet with his effort. She fastened the harness again, the damp straps cool against her skin. “On your back this time,” she instructed. “I want to see you.”
He rolled over, his body protesting, his cock already stiffening again against his stomach. The sight of her mounting the bed, the slick toy pointing at him, made his breath catch.
She knelt between his legs, lifting his knees to his chest. She positioned the spit-slicked tip against him, not pushing, just letting him feel its presence. “You ready for your reward?”
He nodded, biting his lip.
She didn’t ease into it. She pushed forward with the same steady, brutal pressure as before. The spit provided a better slide, but it was still a harsh, stretching invasion. His back arched off the bed, a sharp cry escaping him.
“I know,” she whispered, leaning over him, her blonde hair tickling his chest. She began to move, a deep, grinding rhythm designed to reach the untouched place within him. “This is what you get. This is all you get.”
He was sobbing within minutes, his hands gripping her forearms, his legs trembling around her. The sensation was a wire sawing through his core, fraying his last nerves. Every thrust was a punishment and a gift.
“Tell me,” she demanded, her own breathing becoming ragged. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You!” he choked out, the word torn from him. “Only you, Anya, please—”
Her hand darted out, thumb and forefinger finding his right nipple. She pinched, hard, the sharp pain a bright jolt that made him yelp and arch further. She twisted.
“You love this,” she said, her voice raked raw from her own heavy breathing. She wasn’t asking. She watched his face, the tear that escaped the corner of his eye and traced a hot path into his hairline. A fresh, slick warmth pulsed between her own legs at the sight. “You love it when I’m mean to you. When I remind you who’s in charge.”
She shifted her rhythm, angling deeper, and pinched his other nipple with her free hand, rolling the nub between her fingers until he cried out again, a broken sound that was mostly pleasure. His cock jumped against his stomach, leaking steadily.
“Look at you,” she marveled, fucking him with deep, measured strokes that stole his breath. “Crying and hard. My beautiful mess.” A giggle escaped her, light and incongruous with the force of her thrusts. “Your ass is gonna be sooo sore after I’m done with it. You’ll feel me the day after tomorrow at work. Every time you sit down in your big, smart engineer’s chair, you’ll remember this. You’ll remember how you begged for it.”
He could only nod, his words dissolved into gasps that hitched with each penetration. The pain from her pinches radiated out, mingling with the deep, internal burn until his entire nervous system was a live wire, singing only for her.
She leaned down, her hair curtains around their faces, and licked the tear from his temple. It tasted salt and clean. “You swallowed all of them for me,” she whispered, her pace never faltering. “Now swallow this.”
Her thrusts became frantic, less controlled, driven by the wet sight of his submission and the taut coil of her own need. The bed slammed against the wall in a final, protesting rhythm. Alex’s hands scrabbled at her back, blunt nails digging into her skin, anchoring himself as she drove him toward the edge again.
“Come,” she commanded, her voice cracking with the strain. “Now. For me. From this.”
It wasn't a release he had to chase this time. It was a seizure that took him. His body bowed, a silent scream locked in his throat as his orgasm was punched out of him by the relentless fucking. It was less a flood than a brutal, dry heave of sensation, wrenching and empty and overwhelming.
She rode him through it, grinding deep, until his body went limp beneath her, spent and shuddering. Only then did she still, buried inside him, both of them panting in the jasmine-scented air.
She slowly pulled out. He winced, a full-body flinch. The sound was wet, final.
Anya unhooked the harness, letting the toy fall aside. She stretched, a languid, satisfied movement, then collapsed beside him on the damp sheets. She traced a finger through the mess on his stomach, then brought it to her mouth, tasting him. She smiled.
“You did so good,” she said, her voice soft now, almost sleepy. She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand, and looked at his wrecked, beautiful face. “All last night. And just now.” She kissed his shoulder. “My perfect, perverted cuckold.”
He turned his head, his blue eyes glassy. He tried to speak, but only a rasp came out.
“Shhh,” she said, smoothing his hair back. “Don’t talk. Just feel it.” Her hand drifted down, fingers lightly tracing the red, swollen skin between his legs. He jerked, oversensitive. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You’ll feel that. For days.”
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing nothing away.