Chapter 4: Morning After Degradation
The taste of him, a sour, earthy grit, was still a paste on her tongue when sleep claimed her. It was a black, dreamless void, a total annihilation of the self. She didn’t dream; she simply ceased to exist until a thick, hot pressure against her cheek brought her back.
Sunlight, filthy and diluted by grimy windows, cut through the room. She was on her side, facing the wall. Jeb was behind her, snoring a wet, phlegmy rumble. His morning erection, a rigid, vein-corded log, was nestled between her asscheeks, already leaking a viscous string of precum that glued her skin to his. It smelled ripe, a potent, unwashed musk from a night of fermenting in sweat-stained sheets.
She tried to shift away, a faint whimper escaping her. The movement only made him stir. His arm, flung over her waist, tightened. A guttural sound, more animal than human, vibrated in his chest.
“Mornin’, piglet,” he rasped, his voice clogged with sleep.
Before she could form a word, he was moving. He hitched her top leg up with a bony knee, spreading her open. His hand fumbled between them, not to guide himself inside her, but to press his swollen head against the tight, dry seam of her ass. He was crusted with the dried remnants of last night—flakes of semen, her saliva, his own sweat. He began to rut.
It was a brutal, grinding dry-hump. The coarse skin of his shaft sawed between her clenched cheeks, catching and pulling. He made no attempt at lubrication, just a relentless, piston-like drive of his hips, his pubic bone hammering against her tailbone. The friction was searing.
“Jeb—it’s dry, it’s—” she gasped, but the protest was swallowed as he slapped a calloused hand over her mouth.
“Shut it,” he grunted, his breath a hot blast of decay against her ear. “You’ll take what I give ya.”
His other hand gripped the meat of her hip, fingers digging in. He settled into a rhythm, a savage, short-stroked pounding that forced her whole body to jerk forward with each thrust. Her large, jiggling ass became a tool for his pleasure, the ample flesh quivering and clapping against his groin with every slam. The sound was a wet, meaty smack-smack-smack.
A strange, desperate heat began to coil in her own gut, shamefully responsive to the sheer dominance of the act. Her throat, still raw and torn from the night before, ached with a phantom fullness. She was just a set of holes, a warm, living fleshlight for his ancient, nasty needs.
“Yeah,” he snarled, “work that ass. Twerk on it, you little slut. Make it good for this old cock.”
Obediently, desperately, she began to push back, rolling her hips in a crude, circular motion. She twerked against him, using the weight of her bubble butt to milk the dry, brutal friction along his length. The pain blurred, transmuting into a deep, submissive thrill. She was squealing now, high-pitched and porcine, into his palm.
“Love it!” she cried, her voice muffled. “Love your codger cock! Please, more! Fuck my ass, Jeb, really fuck it!”
He chuckled, a sound like gravel in a tin can. He removed his hand from her mouth, spitting into his own palm before slicking his shaft with a crude swipe. It wasn’t enough, just a scant layer of spit over the crust, but he notched the broad, flared head against her pucker and drove in.
The breach was a white-hot tear. She screamed, her back arching. He didn’t stop, burying himself to the root in one relentless push, the ancient, unwashed length of him carving a burning path into her depths. The air inside her, trapped from the dry-humping, was forced out in a series of frantic, wet farts. Prupp… prupp-prupp…
“There’s my symphony,” he wheezed, beginning a ruthless pace.
Each withdrawal was a sticky, sucking pull, followed by a slamming return that jolted her teeth. The farting noises became a constant, damp percussion to the slaps of flesh. She drooled onto the pillow, eyes crossed, her mind dissolving into pure sensation—the burning stretch, the rhythmic internal battering, the degrading soundtrack of her own body.
The coil in her gut tightened, snapped. A shockwave ripped through her, unrelated to her own pleasure but triggered by the sheer brutal stimulation of her deepest nerves. A clear, sharp jet of fluid burst from her, soaking the mattress beneath her belly—a pathetic, involuntary squirt that left her shuddering.
Feeling her convulse around him, Jeb let out a roar. His thrusts became jagged, desperate. He pistoned into her with a final, brutal fury, then locked, buried to the hilt. Inside her, he pulsed, a deep, volcanic release that pumped wave after wave of thick, hot cum into her colon.
The volume was unbelievable. It felt like he was inflating her with cement. As he finally, slowly, pulled out, the overstuffed, abused ring of muscle had nothing left to hold. With a soft, wet, sucking sound, a slick, pinkish-red rosette of her own rectal tissue prolapsed, bulging out from her ravaged hole, glistening with his spent seed.
Jeb looked down at his handiwork, panting. He prodded it with a indifferent finger, making her whine. “Huh. Pretty.”
He rolled off the mattress, his knees popping. He stood, his spent cock dangling, dripping onto the floor. He looked at Tiffany, a broken, leaking thing on the stained sheets, her ass in the air, her insides on the outside.
“Get up,” he said, not unkindly, just stating a fact.
She couldn’t. Her limbs were jelly. He sighed, a long-suffering sound, and grabbed her by the ankle. He dragged her off the mattress. Her body thumped onto the bare, dusty floorboards. Still holding her ankle, he began to walk, pulling her naked, shuddering form behind him like a sled through the dirt and detritus of the bedroom, into the dark hall, toward the bathroom she had cleaned with such futile hope the day before.
The clean, shining tiles were cold against her back.