Chapter 2: Cum-Kissed and Claimed
Matt grabbed India’s cum-streaked face, his fingers digging into her jaw as he crushed his mouth against hers. He shoved his tongue deep into her spit-slick mouth, groaning low in his throat as he tasted Hank’s salty load still coating her. “God, you taste like him,” he panted against her lips, his own arousal a palpable heat in the cramped space.
Hank watched with a dark smirk, his hand stroking his already re-hardened cock. “This nigger pussy’s mine now, boy,” he grunted, his voice rough with promise. “Watch how a real man ruins it.” He grabbed India’s hips, his grip bruising, and yanked her onto the stained mattress. He positioned himself behind her, the broad, wet head of his cock nudging against her dripping entrance. With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt. India cried out, a sharp, choked sound as he filled her utterly. Hank set a brutal, immediate pace, each slam of his hips jolting her forward. The old springs of the mattress screamed in protest, a metallic rhythm under his animal grunts. Matt watched, mesmerized, his hand working frantically over his own jeans. “Look at him take you,” he breathed, his eyes glued to where Hank’s thick, white cock pistoned into her dark, hairy cunt. “Look at him own it.” Hank’s balls slapped against her with wet, smacking sounds, his breathing a harsh rasp. “Tight little nigger whore,” he snarled, driving deeper, harder. He leaned over her, his sweat dripping onto her back, and wrapped a thick arm around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision swim. “You’re just a hole for my cock.”
Hank’s arm tightened around her throat, cutting off her air as he pounded into her. “This is what you are,” he grunted, each word a hot, spit-flecked blow against her ear. Her vision blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in as he used her body.
He released the pressure just enough for a ragged gasp, then slammed home again, his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming animalistic and final. “Gonna fill this black cunt up.” His free hand groped roughly over her stomach, pressing down as if he could feel himself deep inside her. Matt watched, his own pants unzipped, his fist flying over his cock.
“Yeah, Hank, mark her,” Matt urged, his voice tight with frantic excitement. “Make her yours.” India’s body was a taught wire, strung between Hank’s crushing weight and the filthy mattress. She could feel every ridge and vein of him, a brutal, stretching presence. Hank’s breathing hitched, a wet, guttural sound rising from his chest.
“Here it comes, you fucking whore.” His entire body stiffened, and a hot, flooding sensation erupted deep within her. He held himself there, pulsing, growling wordlessly into her shoulder. Finally, he collapsed onto her, his sweat-slicked skin smothering her.
The smell of him—cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and sex—was overwhelming. He rolled off with a grunt, leaving her feeling empty and exposed. Hank wiped his cock on the rumpled sheet, not even looking at her. “Get her out of my cab,” he said to Matt, his voice already distant.
Matt quickly zipped his jeans, a look of awed gratitude on his face. He pulled a trembling India up from the mattress, her legs buckling. He half-dragged her towards the cab door, the cold night air hitting her sweat-soaked skin. Behind them, Hank lit a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating his satisfied, indifferent face.