Chapter 5: Taken
The bolt slid home with a soft, definitive click. Silence, save for the thrum of her own pulse in her ears. The bathroom was cooler, the air sharp with the scent of his soap and something more primal beneath it. Sarah leaned back against the door, her body humming.
Her reflection in the large, matte-black mirror was a stranger. Flushed cheeks, smeared lipstick, hair mussed from his grasping hands. The sheer blouse dishevelled. She placed her palms flat on the cool porcelain of the vanity, trying to steady herself, to think. The wedding band on her left hand glinted under the amber lights.
This is it, a voice inside her whispered, clear and cold amidst the heat. Walk out. Now. Say you’re unwell. Go home to your husband.
She saw it all in a flash: the quiet apology, the retrieval of her coat from the chaotic living room and taxi home
But another sensation overpowered it. A deep, throbbing ache between her legs, a sticky, soaked reminder of his touch. The memory of his voice, low and possessive in her ear. You’re a greedy slut. Her own breath hitched.
Her eyes locked with the desperate woman in the glass. A slow, deliberate shake of her head. No.
Her tight trousers were alreqdy open the zip sdown to her crotch. She pushed them down out of them, The blouse followed, buttons slipping free until it fell open and she shrugged it off her shoulders. She stood there in just her white sheer bra and tiny, saturated thong. She quickly reapplied her lipstick with a hand that barely trembled. Then she bent, slipping her feet back into the high white high heels. The click of the stilettos on the tile was a statement.
She unlocked the door.
The bedroom air seemed thicker, charged. He was waiting. Not on the bed, as she’d somehow expected. He was seated naked in a low, deep armchair in the corner opposite the bathroom door. His athletic body was sprawled in a posture of complete, indolent ownership. One arm rested along the back of the chair, the other draped over the side, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on his thigh.
His legs were spread wide, arrogantly open, putting everything on display. And there, rising thick and rampant from a thatch of dark hair, was his cock and balls. The cock was erect, utterly hard, a vein pulsing along its substantial length. It looked huge, monstrous in the dim light, the head flushed a deep, angry purple and his large balls hung heavily below. The unapologetic sight of him, posed like a king on a throne of his own making, stole the air from her lungs. She gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Ethan’s face. His eyes, dark and hungry, travelled from her face, down her body clad only in lace and sharp, white heels, and back up again. They lingered on the damp patch darkening the front of her thong.
“There she is,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t move from the chair. “Had a little think in there, did you? A moment of doubt?"
She couldn’t speak. She could only stare.
His gaze dropping again to her knickers. “How desperate have you been to this properly?”
She swallowed, her throat dry. The words, when they came, were hoarse, stripped of all pretense. “So desperate,” she whispered.
“Louder.”
“I’ve been desperate,” she said, her voice gaining strength, fueled by the raw exposure of the moment. “I need it.”
He nodded, a single, satisfied dip of his chin. “I know you did.” Finally, he moved. Not to get up, but to gesture with his chin towards the bed. “Get those panties off. Now. Then get on the bed. On your hands and knees. Face away from me. I want to see that married arse in the air, begging for it.”
The command was crude, absolute. Any last shred of hesitation burned away under its heat. Her fingers hooked into the sides of her thong. She peeled the wet silk down her thighs, letting it fall to her ankles before she stepped out of it. The air was cool on her exposed skin. She didn’t cover herself. She walked, the heels loud on the wooden floor, to the side of the bed.
She climbed onto the duvet, the linen cool against her knees and palms. She assumed the position he demanded, her back arched, her head down. The posture was one of complete submission, her most private body presented to him like an offering.
From the chair, he let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Fucking hell, Sarah,” he breathed. She hear d him stand, the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the room. He stopped behind her. She could feel the heat of his body, the intensity of his gaze roaming over her. “Look at that arse. Perfect, round, just asking for it.” A calloused hand landed on one cheek, not caressing, but grasping, kneading the flesh roughly. “And this pussy.” His thumb swept through her folds, collecting the wetness there. He held his glistening thumb in front of her face, though she couldn’t turn to see it. “Dripping. you're absolutely fucking dripping. Are you desperate?”
“Yes,” she moaned into the sheets, the crude words shaming and exciting her in equal measure.
She heard him move, walking around the bed, coming into her field of vision. She kept her head down, watching from beneath the fall of her hair.
He stopped directly in front of her where she knelt. His legs, muscular and dusted with dark hair, were planted wide. Her gaze travelled upward, over his hard thighs, past the thick thatch of dark curls, to the rigid weight of his erection. It swung slightly with his movement, the sight of it, so close and so blatantly offered, made her mouth water.
Without a word, he pivoted and lay back on the center of the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. He settled against the pillows, his legs apart arrogantly displatying his thick hard cock . Every part of him was on display. The late afternoon light from the window cut across his torso, highlighting the sweat-slicked definition of his muscles.
“I’ve been thinking about this all fucking week. Since I first saw you staring.”
She swallowed, her throat tight.
“I’ve been thinking,” he continued, his tone conversational yet laced with steel, “about what that pretty mouth would feel like wrapped around my cock.” He let the words hang, letting the crude image solidify in the air between them. “I want to know if you suck dick like a bored married woman, or like a whore.”
A shudder ran through her. The dual insult, the reducing her to those two crude categories, should have enraged her. It only pulsed between her legs, a fresh, hot ache.
“Crawl,” he said, the single word a whip-crack.
She moved. On hands and knees, the white duvet soft beneath her palms, she crawled the short distance from the foot of the bed to where he lay. The journey felt endless, her exposed body a spectacle under his relentless gaze. She was aware of every sway of her hips, every contraction of muscle.
She stopped when her face was level with his groin. The scent of him was overwhelming here—clean skin, masculine sweat, and something darker, primal. His cock lay inches from her lips, a thick, veined pillar of flesh. A bead of clear fluid gleamed at the tip.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She lifted her eyes from his cock to his face. His expression was hard, expectant, utterly confident.
“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Show me your tongue.”
A hot wave of shame washed over her, followed immediately by a jagged spike of desire so intense it felt like panic. She obeyed, parting her lips, letting her tongue rest on her bottom lip.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise somehow more degrading than his insults. His hand came up, not to guide her, but to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her blonde hair. He didn’t push. He just held her there, a captive audience to his arousal. “Now suck it. Make it wet. Get it nice and slick for that tight little cunt of yours.”
She leaned forward, closing the final inch. Her lips touched the hot, smooth skin of his shaft first, just below the head. She kissed it, a timid, closed-mouth press.
“None of that sweet wife shit,” he growled, his fingers tightening in her hair. “Open wide. Take it. I want to feel your teeth, just a little. I want to feel your throat.”
She opened her mouth wider, her jaw straining. She took the head inside, the taste of salt and musk flooding her senses.
A rough groan escaped him. “Fuck yeah. Just like that.”
Encouraged, she slid her lips down the shaft, taking more of him into her mouth. He was very thick, stretching her lips wide, filling her. She used her tongue, pressing it along the sensitive vein on the underside as she began a slow, tentative rhythm. Up and down. Her hand came up to wrap around the base of him, her fingers unable to meet.
She couldn’t answer, her mouth too full. She just worked him, her head bobbing, the grip in her hair, the ragged sound of his breathing above her. Saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down his shaft onto her hand.
Saliva gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down his shaft onto her hand. The rhythmic, wet sounds of her mouth working on him filled the room, punctuated by his low, approving grunts. He watched her, his gaze like a physical weight.
He pulled her hair, just enough to drag her mouth off him with a lewd, popping sound. Her lips were swollen, glistening. “Look at you,” he said, his voice rough with arousal. He tapped his cock, slick from her mouth, against her cheek. “A dirty little cocksucker.”
She panted, trying to catch her breath, her eyes unfocused.
“How much do you want it?” he asked, his tone dropping into a taunting curiosity. “How much does this bored married pussy want to be fucked by me?” He traced the head of his cock along her lower lip. “Tell me.”
“I want it,” she gasped, chasing the sensation with her mouth. “I need you to fuck me.”
“I saw you,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. He pushed the tip back between her lips, letting her suckle it gently before pulling away again. “Last Tuesday. you were completely zoned out!” He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Staring at my hard on through my shorts. Rubbing yourself on the bench," he laughed.
The memory, now narrated by him, was a branding iron. Her face burned.
“You were in a different world, didn't see me watching you,” he continued, his hand fisting in her hair to keep her still. “A milfy married woman, lusting after someone half her age. What were you thinking? That I had a fucking big cock? Is that what you wanted? thrusting into your married cunt?”
He didn’t let her answer. He pushed himself back into her mouth, fucking her face in short, shallow thrusts that made her gag. She took it, her throat convulsing, tears springing to her eyes.
He pulled out again, his breathing heavier. “Is that what you dream about? Bigger than your husband? Thicker? Filling you up?” He spat the words, each one a calculated violation. “I bet you’ve been aching for a big fat one. For years.”
A sob caught in her throat, mingled with desperate want. She nodded, the movement slight against his grip.
“Say it,” he commanded, his voice a guttural snap.
“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’ve fantasized about it. About… bigger.”
“About this,” he corrected, slapping his length against her tongue. “You’re a cheating slut. You know that, right? Your husband is probably thinking you’re at book club.” He laughed, the sound utterly devoid of warmth. “And you’re here, on your knees, drooling on a college kid’s dick.”
He allowed her to take him deep again, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. She struggled, her body tensing, but he held her there, submerged in him. Just as black spots danced at the edges of her vision, he released her.
She collapsed forward, coughing, strings of saliva and pre-come webbing her chin to his thigh. She sucked in ragged, whooping breaths.
“The question is,” he mused, running his thumb through the mess on her face, “how dirty are you prepared to get?” He studied her, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t just a fuck, Sarah. This is you getting filthy. How far does the slut go?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. In one brutal, fluid motion, he flipped her onto her back. Her head spun. The white duvet was cold against her shoulders. He shoved her thighs apart, kneeling between them, his silhouette blocking the light from the window.
He positioned himself, the blunt, soaked head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He paused, applying just enough pressure to make her cry out. “This is what wanted,” he whispered. “Now you get to feel it tear you open.”
He slammed into her.
The penetration was a ruthless, burning stretch that stole the air from her lungs. A sharp, broken scream tore from her throat. He was immense, a brutal, unforgiving thickness that filled her completely, a sensation so profound it bordered on pain. She could feel every inch as he buried himself to the hilt, her body straining to accommodate him.
“Fuck!” he roared, his head thrown back. “Oh, that tight married cunt isn't used to this.” He began to move, drawing back and plunging in again with a force that shoved her up the bed. There was no tenderness, no careful rhythm. This was raw, punitive fucking, the bedframe slamming against the wall with each driving thrust.
She was sobbing, her hands scrambling at his arms, his back, anywhere for anchor. Each stroke lit a fire in her core, a devastating friction that obliterated thought. Her heels dug into the small of his back, pulling him deeper, urging him on despite the ache.
“You take it,” he grunted, his muscles corded with the effort. “You take this big cock you’ve been dreaming about.” He leaned down, his mouth at her ear. “It’s better than him, isn’t it?
“It’s better than him, isn’t it?”
The question wasn’t whispered. It was grunted into the sweat-damp skin of her neck, each word punching out in time with his hips. She couldn’t form a lie. Her body answered for her, a tight, clutching spasm deep inside her that made his eyes roll back.
“Christ, you’re squeezing me,” he groaned. “Your fucking cunt is answering.” He hooked his hands under her knees, forcing her legs wider, higher, bending her nearly in half. The new angle was deeper, impossibly intimate, each thrust a blunt invasion that scraped a raw, bright spot within her. The slick, slapping sounds of their bodies were obscenely loud.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” she choked out. The admission was a fracture. “It’s better.”
He rewarded her with a harder, faster pace, the bedframe groaning a steady protest against the wall. She was unraveling, her consciousness narrowing to the brutal physics of their joining: the burn of stretch, the searing friction, the hot jet of his sweat dripping onto her breasts. Her own sounds were foreign to her—grunts, sharp cries, a continuous, pleading moan.
“You love it, you dirty bitch,” he snarled, his composure fraying. “You love being split open on a stranger’s cock.” His thumb found her clit, rough and demanding, circling the swollen nub with a pressure that was almost pain. The dual assault was too much. Her back arched off the bed, a taut bowstring.
A climax detonated in her core without warning, a vicious, convulsing wave that tore a guttural scream from her throat. It pulsed through her, milking him violently, her internal muscles gripping and fluttering around his driving length. She shook beneath him, vision whiting out.
The feel of her coming untouched, just from his fucking, shattered his control. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, piston-sharp. “Open your mouth you slut, stick your tongue out.” He thrust into her harder. a final deep grind that drew a whimper from her clenched teeth. Then, with a wet, sucking sound, he withdrew completely.
Before she could open her eyes, his knees framed her shoulders, his weight settling heavily on her chest.
He was squatting over her face, his still-hard cock jutting out, glistening with her fluids. The dark, heavy sight of him filled her vision entirely. Sarah stared up, immobilized. His balls hung taut above her chin. The smell of sex was overpowering. His fist moved in a furious, slick rhythm, the sound raw and frantic.
"You want all of it, don't you?" he grunted, his abdomen tightening. "Every fucking drop." His strokes became shorter, more urgent. "Open your mouth, you slut. Stick out your tongue."
Her mind, fogged with exhaustion and shame, compelled her body to obey. Her lips parted, her tongue extended slightly, a pale offering.
"That's it," he hissed. His breathing hitched. "Take it. Take my fucking cum all over your married face."
With a choked roar, the first hot stripe lashed across her cheekbone. The second splattered over her parted lips and tongue, the taste salty, bitter, profoundly alien. The rest pulsed in thick spurts across her forehead, her closed eyelids, her chin. He worked himself through it, milking the last drops onto her skin until he shuddered and went still.
He stayed there, squatting above her, studying his work. Her breath hitched, a sob trapped in her throat. The warm fluid began to cool on her skin.
"Look at that," he breathed, admiration in his voice. He traced a finger through a streak on her temple, smearing it. "You're covered." He climbed off her, leaving her lying there, defiled and sticky. The reality of the room seeped back in—the semi light, the sound of the TV from downstairs, the chilling wetness on her face.
"I need to call a cab," she said, her voice hollow and small. She didn't move.
"Sure you do," Ethan said, pulling on his jeans, zipping them casually over his softening cock. He tossed a towel onto the bed near her hip, but as she reached for it, he clicked his tongue. "Ah-ah. Leave it. I like it like that."
She blinked, the drying tension on her skin tightening. Swallowing hard, she pushed herself up, ignoring the towel. She moved robotically, gathering her clothes from the floor. Her hands shook as she stepped into her thong,. She found her bra, her blouse, buttoning it with clumsy fingers. Finally, she pulled on her black leggings, yanking them up over her hips, the simple act of dressing in his room a reminder.
She pulled out her phone. The screen was blindingly bright. Her fingers left faint smudges. She ordered the car, her voice monotone. "Twenty minutes," she said, stating it to the room.
Ethan, who had been leaning against the dressier wiping his neck with the towel, stopped. A slow smile spread across his face. "Twenty minutes is a long time."
A cold knot formed in her stomach. "It'll be here soon enough."
He pushed off from the door. "Too long." In two strides he was behind her. His hands closed on her hips. Before she could protest, he had hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the leggings she had just fastened and yanked them down to her knees, the fabric snapping against her skin.
"Ethan, no, the cab—"
"Plenty of time," he muttered, spinning her around to face the rumpled bed. He bent her over the edge, her torso pressing into the cool, stained duvet. She was exposed again, the air hitting her bare skin. She heard the rip of his zipper.
There was no preparation, no tenderness. He positioned himself and drove into her from behind in one brutal thrust. She cried out, a sound muffled by the bedding. She was still sore, swollen from the last time, and the new invasion was a sharp, stretching burn.
"You're even tighter now," he groaned, setting a relentless, pounding rhythm. Each slam of his hips jolted her forward. His hands gripped her waist, fingers digging in, holding her in place for his use. "Twenty-minute fuck. A quick one for the road."
Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation leaked from her eyes. She could feel the crust of his drying cum on her face crack as she pressed it into the fabric. Her own scent, and his, rose thickly around them. With her arse in the air he fucked her with a purely selfish intensity, his grunts sharp and regular, the sound of skin impacting skin loud and obscene in the quieting room.
She didn't come this time. It was just a taking, a roughly using her. His pace increased, becoming frantic. "Yeah, take it," he rasped. "One last reminder for you." His rhythm fractured, and with a final, deep plunge, he emptied into her with a low groan, his body shuddering against her back.
He pulled out, leaving her feeling bruised and impossibly full. She heard him zip up. "Cab'll be here in ten," he said, his voice already distant, as if speaking to a room service attendant. "Bathroom's there if you want it now."
She didn't move, listening to his footsteps leave the room and descend the stairs.
She followed him down 5 minutes later as the cab pulled up. "Er thanks, bye," she said, as the two boys whisper and cheers her.