Chapter 10: The Final Corruption
Marie lay gasping, her vision dotted with stars, the sharp sting from the slap echoing on her flesh long after the heat of it faded. He’d invaded that final, unclaimed part of her with a force that felt like a geological event, reconfiguring her from the inside out. Her cheek was pressed into the crimson silk, the damp cloth against her lips tasting of salt and sex.
Tariq didn’t give Marie a moment to catch her breath.
One massive arm hooked under her waist. She was airborne, weightless, hauled up and positioned behind him as if she were a pillow being rearranged. He forced her onto her hands and knees, the new angle making her gasp, her forearms sinking into the mattress.
“Been waiting a long time to fuck you like this,” he said, his voice a low hum against her ear from behind. His hands spread her buttocks wide, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh. He watched himself, his cock glistening with the evidence of their first two rounds, position against her entrance. The mirror across the room reflected a vulgar tableau: her prone, exposed, and him, a dark mountain of intention looming over her. “Seeing this while I’m sliding in and out of you… Christ. Gets me even harder.”
“No, Tariq, please. I can’t.” Her voice was a frayed thread, shaky with exhaustion and leftover shock. “It’s impossible. I’m not…”
“It’s only the beginning of the evening, Marie,” he replied, a cruel amusement in the words.
He pushed.
Her cry was sharp, punched out of her as he entered her pussy again in one long, continuous slide. In this position, bowed and open, it felt like his cock was even longer, a relentless invasion that brushed nerves she didn’t know she had. The semen still inside her acted as a lubricant, and Tariq had no trouble sliding his entire length in and beginning to thrust, a slow, deep piston that drew another broken moan from her throat.
She braced herself for pain, for the raw discomfort of overstimulation. It didn’t come. Instead, a familiar, traitorous heat began to coil in her belly again, a low pulse that grew with each of his withdrawals and subsequent, filling plunges. She moaned again, a sound of pure disbelief, amazed that the pleasure could return so quickly and so intensely despite her previous convulsions.
“You see?” Tariq grunted, reading her body’s response as if it were his own. He picked up the pace, the slap of skin on skin becoming a rapid, wet rhythm in the scented air. “Your body knows what it wants. Better than you do.”
His thrusts grew harder, faster, each one driving her a few inches forward on the bed. The pleasure built into a dizzying wave, coiling tighter, making her vision tunnel. She screamed, the sound raw and unbidden, tearing from her throat as the sensation crested.
Tariq chuckled, the motion jostling her. “You are rather expressive, aren’t you? My neighbour upstairs, the old man… I’ll have to explain your nighttime screams to him again. He’ll think I’m murdering someone in here.” He drove into her with a particularly brutal stroke, making her yelp. “Last week, it was another one.Married. Brunette, like you. A bit younger.”
He was narrating now, his voice conversational amidst the carnality, each word timed with a thrust. Marie tried to block it out, to focus only on the physical, but his voice was a needle weaving through the fabric of her ecstasy.
“That one was a screamer, too.Proper little slut. Had her ass wrecked by the end of it.” His hands gripped her hips tighter, his pace never faltering. “Had the same look you have right now. Like she’d found religion and lost her mind all at once.” He leaned over her back, his breath hot on her spine. “I figure you’ve got an ass made for the same treatment. Don’t you?”
Before she could form a coherent denial, a shrill electronic chirp cut through the room.
Her phone. On the nightstand, buzzing and spinning on the wood.
Tariq’s rhythm didn’t break. In one fluid motion, he reached out, his arm stretching impossibly long, and scooped the device up. It has to be said that in the hands of the giant, Marie was nothing but a featherweight, a doll to be maneuvered around his unwavering purpose. He held the screen up, angling it so the glow illuminated her profile, her mouth open in a silent cry as he continued to piston into her.
The screen flashed: Paul.
Marie’s stomach plunged through the bed, through the floor. A cold wash of shame, sharper than any physical sensation, doused the fire in her blood for a split second.Her husband. Calling to check in, to tell her he loved the kids goodnight, to ask when she’d be home from her supposed “late inventory” at the library.
“He’s a persistent one,” Tariq mused, letting it ring. He thrust hard, making her moan loudly, a sound that echoed in the room directly into the phone’s microphone. “Can he hear you, you think? All the way over there in your little suburban house? Can he imagine it?” His voice dropped to a vicious whisper beside her ear. “That his sweet, quiet wife is on her hands and knees, getting her married pussy pounded raw by a cock so much bigger than his?”
He held the phone closer to her face. “Answer me. Can he imagine it?”
“No,” Marie gasped, the word a sob. It was the truth. Paul could not imagine this. The Paul she knew, the Paul she had built a life with, could not conceptualize this specific, degrading, ecstatic horror. It was a realm outside his universe.
“Good,” Tariq said. He let the phone fall. It thudded onto the thick rug, the screen flashing once more before going dark, unanswered.
He shifted then, his weight pulling back. He stood up straight, kneeling behind her, changing the angle again. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back until her spine arched painfully, beautifully. He leaned down, his other hand coming around to grip her jaw, and kissed her from this new, dominating angle. It was a deep, possessive kiss that stole her breath, a kiss that was a claim staked in the ruins of her composure.
She cried out against his mouth, the sound muffled, expressing something incoherent, a slurry of pleas and curses and surrenders she didn’t recognize as her own. The change in angle, the relentless friction, the psychological violation of the phone call—it all fused into a white-hot detonation in her core.
Her body seized, bowing tighter against him. A third orgasm ripped through her, an earthquake that felt less like pleasure and more like annihilation. It was involuntary, violent, wringing a choked, sobbing scream from her lungs. She shook with it, muscles fluttering wildly around him, her mind going blank and grey.
Tariq held her through it, a statue of controlled power, his own release still deliberately, tantalizingly withheld. He watched her fall apart in the mirror, a slow, arrogant smile spreading across his face. The chapter of her screaming into the silent room ended there, with her collapsed forward into the silk, trembling and utterly spent, and him still buried deep within her, rock-hard and nowhere near finished.