Chapter 11: The Humiliation
He finally released her, a sheen of sweat cooling on their skin as he pulled out with a soft, wet sound. Marie lay on her side, trembling, the echo of his words about her husband still buzzing in her ears like a trapped wasp. She felt scooped out, used, yet her body hummed with a treacherous, lingering electricity.
Tariq didn’t speak. He simply pushed himself up and shuffled back, his bulk making the bed frame groan. He reclined against the intricately carved headboard, settling into the cushions like a king onto a throne. In this position, silhouetted against the deep crimson linen, the giant appeared even larger, a mountain of muscle and smug satisfaction. His impressively sized cock, still glistening with Marie’s vaginal fluid, lay stretched along his thigh, a testament to the last hour.
“Again,” he said, his voice a low rumble that wasn’t a request. He didn’t even gesture. His dark eyes simply fixed on her, expecting obedience.
A protest died in Marie’s throat, suffocated by a fog of shame and a sharper, more urgent curiosity. She moved slowly, every muscle aching, and positioned herself facing him on the rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and sandalwood was overwhelming. She took hold of him, the skin silken and hot, and gave a few tentative strokes. He watched her, his expression unreadable.
Then she bent her head, her brown hair falling forward, and took him into her mouth. She began to suck, a rhythm she thought she’d forgotten, her mind disconnecting from the wife who packed school lunches and the librarian who alphabetized the fiction section. Tariq let out a slow, appreciative sigh, his fingers threading into her hair, not guiding, just possessing.
He watched the scene in the mirror opposite the bed. None of his colleagues, none of the professors or students who passed him with a nod in the library corridors, would ever imagine this. The quiet, elegant Madame Dubois, with her kind smile and practical cardigans, on her knees between his, sucking the library caretaker’s cock like her life depended on it. The thought made him swell further in her mouth.
Her phone rang, the generic digital trill slicing through the low music and the wet, rhythmic sounds. It vibrated on the nightstand next to his hip.
Tariq’s face darkened. “Persistent,” he muttered.
Marie tried to pull back, a muffled “no—” forming around him, but his left hand clamped firmly on the back of her head, holding her in place. “Keep going,” he ordered softly, dangerously. With his other hand, he snatched the phone. He saw the name on the screen: Luc. He answered.
“Allô?” he said, his voice shifting into a perfectly friendly, professional register.
There was a pause on the other end. “Marie? I mean… who is this?”
“Ah, Monsieur Dubois! It’s Tariq. Tariq El-Amin, from the library.” He spoke jovially, even as his hips gave a minute upward push into Marie’s mouth. She stiffened but didn’t stop.
“Tariq? Where’s Marie? Is she alright?”
“She’s perfectly fine, just exceptionally busy at the moment.” Tariq looked down at Marie’s working head, her eyes wide and fixed on his face. “She’s… deeply involved in a very demanding task. Requires her full concentration. She really can’t be interrupted.”
“Oh. I just wanted to check if she’d be home for dinner. The kids are asking.”
Tariq smiled, a broad, wicked smile that Marie could see. “I think dinner might be hopeful. She’s going to be here quite late. We’ve uncovered a… a real backlog of work that needs her particular expertise.” He paused, letting the word ‘expertise’ hang in the air. “Her dedication is impressive. Really going above and beyond today. Such a hard worker. You’re a lucky man.”
He felt Marie try to shake her head, a slight movement he easily suppressed with his grip.
“Right,” Luc said, sounding confused but polite. “Well, tell her to call me when she has a second.”
“Of course. But I must say, the way she’s applying herself? I don’t see her coming up for air anytime soon. She’ll probably finish very late tonight. She’s going to have a lot of work ahead of her.” He inflected the last sentence with a dark, intimate promise only Marie could decipher. “I’ll make sure she’s properly… spent by the end of it. Goodbye, Monsieur Dubois.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone onto the sheets as if it were a piece of trash. The fury that had tightened his features melted into pure, predatory glee. He released Marie’s head.
She pulled away, gasping, a string of saliva connecting her lip to him. “How could you?” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“How could I not?” he chuckled, looking down at himself. She had brought him back to an impressive, rigid erection. “We have all the time in the world now. No more interruptions.” He patted the bed beside him. “On your side. Now.”
The command brooked no argument. A heavy numbness, mixed with a dizzying plunge of anticipation, settled over her. She obeyed, turning onto her side facing away from him, her body curling slightly. She felt the heat of him before she felt the touch. The mattress dipped as he moved behind her, his chest pressing against her back, his knees slotting behind hers.
His hand smoothed over her hip, possessive and rough. He leaned close, his breath hot in her ear. “Your husband thinks you’re sorting periodicals,” he whispered, the words a venomous caress. “But I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck every hole you have, one after the other, until this room smells like nothing but us and you can’t even remember his name.”
She whimpered, a sound of terror and helpless want.
He positioned himself, the broad head of his penis finding the entrance to her vagina, still slick and swollen from before. He paused there, a latent, painful promise. “Every single one,” he repeated, and began to push.