Chapter 2: The First Deposit
The heavy bedroom door didn’t so much open as surrender. Tom filled the frame, his broad shoulders blocking much of the hallway light. His short grey hair was neat, his tanned face set in a look of casual, predatory ease. He didn’t acknowledge Clara directly, his gaze immediately locking onto Mark, still trembling on his knees at the foot of the bed. Tom’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Mark’s nakedness with undisguised ownership.
He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The faint scent of expensive cologne, sandalwood and spice, warred with the musky intimacy already clinging to the room. Tom’s movements were economical, purposeful. He didn’t pause, didn’t speak greetings. His thick fingers went to his belt buckle, the rasp of leather through loops unnaturally loud. The heavy belt slithered free, tossed carelessly onto a nearby chair where it landed with a heavy thump.
Mark flinched at the sound, a small, choked noise escaping his lips. His eyes darted to Clara, wide and pleading. She remained reclined on her elbow, the picture of languid control. She raised her wine glass to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her green eyes watching the scene unfold over the rim. A small, knowing smile played on her lips, a silent signal to Mark that amplified his terror and his desperate need to obey.
Tom was already unbuttoning his fly. He took two more steps, closing the distance to the trembling figure at the bedside. His shadow fell over Mark, immense and consuming. Before Mark could even process the next movement, Tom’s large, calloused hand shot out, fingers gripping Mark’s jaw with a force that was more declaration than cruelty. He squeezed, tilting Mark’s head back, forcing his mouth open.
"First deposit," Tom stated, his deep voice rough, the words clipped and devoid of preamble. It wasn't a question, not a request. It was a simple, brutal fact. "Goes straight down his throat."
He was already pushing his briefs down with his free hand. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the flushed head glistening wetly in the amber light, already beading with pre-cum. The sheer size of him, coupled with the sudden, aggressive intimacy, triggered an instinctive reaction. Mark gagged, his throat convulsing, his body jerking backwards automatically. But Tom’s grip on his jaw was iron. He held him fast, pulling him forward instead, guiding the slick head inexorably towards the open mouth.
Mark’s eyes squeezed shut, tears welling, a muffled whimper vibrating against the hot flesh pressed to his lips. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. Clara’s silent command held him as firmly as Tom’s hand.
"Open up," Tom growled, a low rumble in his chest. There was no anger, just absolute certainty. He didn't push hard, not yet. He just pressed insistently, rubbing the wetness over Mark’s lips, smearing it, demanding entry. "Wider. You know how this works. Show your wife you can take it."
Mark sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose, forcing his jaw muscles to unlock. His lips parted further, yielding. Tom grunted, a sound of satisfaction mixed with exertion, and thrust his hips forward.
The thick head breached Mark’s lips, stretching them wide. He gagged again, violently this time, his eyes flying open, staring blindly past Tom’s hip. Saliva pooled instantly. Tom didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, relentless, filling Mark’s mouth, the pressure overwhelming. Mark’s throat worked convulsively, trying to accommodate the impossible girth, tears spilling freely now, tracking warm paths down his cheeks. He made a strangled, wet sound, his hands instinctively coming up to brace against Tom’s thighs, not to push away, but to steady himself against the onslaught.
"Look at her," Tom commanded, his voice thick. He gave a shallow, testing thrust, not withdrawing far, just grinding forward, making Mark choke. "Look at Clara. See if she likes the view."
Mark’s blurry, tear-filled gaze flickered sideways, seeking the bed. Clara was still propped on her elbow, but her posture had subtly shifted. A deeper flush coloured her chest, rising towards her throat. Her green eyes were fixed, unblinking, on where Tom’s thick shaft disappeared between her husband’s lips. Her lips were slightly parted, and the tip of her tongue darted out, moistening them. She wasn’t smiling with detached amusement anymore; her expression was intent, fascinated, hungry. She watched the struggle, the tears, the helpless submission, and a slow, deep thrum of arousal pulsed visibly in the set of her jaw, the slight heave of her breasts.
"Good cuck," Tom muttered, his gaze fixed on Clara’s face, reading her reaction. He began to move in earnest now, pulling back slowly, letting Mark gasp for a split second of air thick with Tom’s musk, before thrusting forward again, deeper this time. "Taking it for your wife. Taking what she wants you to take." Each forceful push drew another choked gag, another spill of tears. Mark’s knuckles were white where he gripped Tom’s legs, his body rigid with the effort not to pull away, the sounds from his throat a continuous, muffled symphony of distress and submission.
Clara finally moved. She lifted her wine glass again, taking another sip, her eyes never leaving the spectacle. "Swallow," she said, her voice low but clear, cutting through the wet sounds of Mark’s struggle. It wasn’t concern. It was an order. A demand for completion. She wanted to see him accept it all.
Tom grunted in agreement, shifting his stance for better leverage. He drove in hard, holding Mark’s head firmly against his groin. Mark’s body spasmed, his throat working desperately as he fought the reflex to vomit, trying to obey Clara’s command against the impossible pressure filling his mouth and blocking his airway. The tears streamed freely, mixing with the spit slicking Tom’s cock and dripping onto the carpet.
Finally, with a thick groan, Tom’s rhythm stuttered, became erratic. He shoved deep one last time, shuddering, fingers tightening painfully on Mark’s jaw. Mark felt the hot, bitter pulse flood his mouth, thick and sudden. He gagged violently, eyes bulging, but Clara’s command echoed in his head. Swallow. He forced it down, convulsively, once, twice, his throat burning. It coated his tongue, thick and alien.
Tom held him there for a long moment, buried deep, letting him feel the last tremors. Then, with a wet sucking sound, he pulled out. Mark collapsed forward, gasping raggedly, coughing, strings of saliva and spend connecting his lips to Tom’s glistening cock before snapping. He braced himself on his hands, shoulders heaving, choking and spitting weakly.
Tom ignored him. He tucked himself back into his briefs, zipping up with a final tug. He looked down at the trembling, retching figure at his feet for a second, a flicker of cold appraisal in his eyes. Then he turned, his full attention settling on Clara.
He stepped over Mark as if he were a discarded towel, moving towards the bed with a confident stride. His smile was direct, predatory, aimed solely at the woman reclining on the rumpled sheets. He ran a hand over his short grey hair.
"Well," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble laced with anticipation. "Now that the warm-up’s over…" He reached the edge of the bed, his gaze raking over Clara’s naked form, lingering on the flush of her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "Ready for the main event, beautiful?"
Tom’s question hung in the perfumed air, heavy with implication. Clara didn’t flinch under his appraising stare. She stretched slowly, deliberately, the muscles in her back rippling, her breasts lifting. A low hum vibrated in her throat, pure satisfaction. "Always ready," she murmured, her green eyes locked on his, a challenge and an invitation fused into one. She shifted her hips, settling deeper into the mattress, presenting herself. "Especially when the warm-up was so... thorough."
He chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to shake the room’s shadows. "Thorough is my specialty." He placed one knee on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His large, tanned hand slid possessively up Clara’s inner thigh, fingers tracing the sensitive skin. She arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. His other hand gripped her hip, pulling her towards him with undeniable strength. "Let’s see how thoroughly I can fill the main attraction."
Mark remained crumpled on the floor near the foot of the bed, still coughing weakly, the acrid taste lingering on his tongue. Tears streaked his cheeks, mixing with spit. He tried to shrink into the plush carpet, wishing it would swallow him whole. The sight of Tom’s hands on Clara, so familiar yet now belonging to someone else, sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. He couldn’t look away. His trembling intensified, a silent counterpoint to Clara’s low moan as Tom’s fingers found her wetness.
"Look at him," Clara breathed, her voice thick with arousal but utterly controlled. She tilted her head slightly towards Mark, her gaze never leaving Tom’s face. "See how pathetic he is? Kneeling in his own mess." Tom glanced down, a flicker of cold amusement in his eyes as he took in Mark’s tear-streaked face, the slight tremble still wracking his frame. "He belongs there," Clara stated flatly. "Watching what a real man does to his wife."
Tom grunted, shifting his positio