Chapter 3: The Forced Feast
The brass buckle clattered loud against the flagstone floor. Bobby pushed his worn denim and thick underwear down just past his hips, and his cock sprang free.
Maggie’s breath stopped. The truck had been dark, an ominous pressure. This was daylight, explicit and undeniable. It was obscenely thick, a heavy, flushed shaft veined like marble, uncut and already glistening with a bead of moisture at the slit. The musky, animal scent of him—unwashed skin and salt—filled the space between them.
“On your knees,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It was a flat statement of what was about to happen.
Her legs gave out as if the command had severed her tendons. She sank down, the hard floor biting into her kneecaps. She stared at the furious-looking flesh presented at her eye level. Her mind screamed, a white noise of panic and properness. Her body, still humming from the climax he’d ripped from her, felt hollow and hungry.
His rough hand tangled in her red hair again, not gentle. He fisted it, controlling the angle of her head. “Open up.”
Her lips, dry and parted in a gasp, were forced wider as he guided himself toward her mouth. The broad, smooth head, slick with pre-cum, nudged against her closed lips. She resisted, a muffled sound of protest in her throat.
“Open your fuckin’ mouth, girl,” he grunted, applying pressure with his hips.
Her jaw unhinged. He pushed in.
The stretch was immediate and brutal. Her lips strained around the impossible girth. The taste flooded her senses—salty, musky, profoundly male. He didn’t let her adjust. He fed himself deeper, the thick shaft invading her mouth, pressing her tongue down, bumping against the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes.
He held there, buried in her mouth. His stomach, a solid, hairy mound, brushed against her forehead. “That’s it,” he sighed, looking down at her. “Take it. Just like that.”
He began to move. Short, shallow thrusts at first, fucking her mouth with a leisurely, possessive rhythm. The obscene, wet sounds of it echoed in the quiet kitchen—the slick slide of his skin against her lips and tongue, the soft choke every time he hit her throat. Her nose was buried in the coarse, greying hair at his base, his scent enveloping her.
“Use your tongue,” he commanded, his voice gravelly. She complied, lapping weakly at the underside of his shaft as he pistonned in and out.
“Yeah. Good girl.” His grip tightened in her hair. “Now get it wet. Real wet. Gonna need it.”
He picked up the pace, his hips driving forward with more force. Her jaw ached fiercely. Drool mixed with his pre-cum slithered down her chin, dripping onto her yellow t-shirt. She could only kneel and accept it, her own arousal, a filthy secret, dampening her panties again. The degradation was absolute. She was a thing for him to use. The clarity of that role shattered something brittle inside her, and in its place a shocking surrender bloomed.
He was muttering, a stream of filth that poured over her. “Such a pretty mouth on such a proper little wife… fuckin’ perfect. Gag on it. Choke on my dick. That’s all you’re good for right now.”
He thrust deeper, holding himself there, and she gagged violently, her body convulsing. He pulled back just enough to let her suck in a ragged, sobbing breath before shoving back in.
“You love it,” he snarled, his composure fraying. “I can feel it. Your fuckin’ mouth is suckin’ me right back.”
It was true. Despite the tears, despite the ache, her mouth had learned the shape of him and was working, sucking, her tongue circling the prominent vein. A low groan rumbled from his chest. The sound vibrated through her.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “Gonna pump this fuckin’ throat full. You swallow every drop. You hear me?”
She made a pathetic sound of assent, trapped around him.
With a final, deep grunt, he shoved himself to the hilt and held. His cock pulsed, thick and violent, in her mouth. The first burst hit the back of her throat, hot and bitter. She choked, trying to pull away, but his fist in her hair was iron. He kept coming, jet after jet, flooding her. The command to swallow was instinctual, a survival reflex. She gulped, the salty, alien taste coating her throat.
He finally stilled, breathing heavily. He slowly withdrew, his softening cock making a sticky, wet pop as it left her ruined lips.
Maggie collapsed forward onto her hands, coughing, strings of saliva and semen dangling from her mouth to the floor. She spat, trying to clear the taste, but it was deep inside her.
Bobby stood over her, tucking himself casually back into his overalls. He buckled his belt. The mundane act was more horrifying than anything that had preceded it.
He looked down at her, a heap of shame on his kitchen floor. Not hers. His now.
“Fence is about done,” he said, his voice back to its normal, rough cadence. “Should hold.” He walked to the back door, opened it. The midday sun streamed in.
Then he was gone.
Maggie stayed on the floor for a long time, the taste of him in her mouth, the ghost of his weight on her tongue. The warm sunlight touched her back, but it couldn’t reach the cold, dark thing uncoiling in her gut. It wasn’t disgust. It was what?