Chapter 7: The Ruining
The candlelight danced across Tariq’s shoulders as he looked down at her, his expression one of dark appraisal. Marie lay there, wrecked and gleaming, the taste of him still in her mouth, the smell of sex and sweat thick in the air. Her dress was ruined, crusted and damp.
He wasted no time.
His large hands went to the straps of her sundress. He didn’t bother with finesse. He pulled the fabric down her arms in one rough motion, trapping them at her elbows before yanking the dress down over her hips and off her legs. It landed in a heap on the worn wooden floor. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. Her bra was next, a simple lace thing her husband had bought her last Christmas. Tariq’s fingers found the front clasp, flicked it open with practiced ease, and tossed it aside.
Her panties were last. He hooked his thumbs into the sides, and with a look that was more necessity than seduction, he more or less pulled them off. The elastic snapped against her thighs before the flimsy cotton joined the pile on the floor.
She was completely bare now, exposed under his gaze and the flickering light. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He ran a single, thick finger along her labia, a slow, assessing stroke that made her shiver.
“Soaked,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble. “Dripping. Your pussy is ready for what’s next. Has been since you walked in here.”
He guided her back onto the rumpled sheets, his hands firm on her hips. “Spread,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Marie let her knees fall apart, presenting herself. The enormity of the moment crashed into her—the illicit setting, the sheer physical disparity between them, the absolute vulnerability of her position. He stood at the edge of the bed, just looking, drinking in the clear view of her wetness, her flushed and swollen flesh.
“Your husband,” Tariq said, shaking his head with a smirk. “He never sees this, does he? He doesn’t make this happen. He gets the polite version.”
Before she could muster a thought, he moved. He didn’t lower himself gently; he buried his face between her thighs with a focused intensity that stole her breath.
Marie gasped, her hands flying to the sheets. The sensation was immediate and utterly foreign. Her husband licked her, yes, every time, a tender, sometimes awkward prelude. This was different.
Tariq devoured her. He didn't just taste; he consumed. His tongue, impossibly thick and strong, speared into her without preamble. It felt like a violation and a revelation all at once. It reached deeper, pressed harder, explored with a confident aggression that mapped her interior in ways she didn’t know existed.
He swallowed her labia, his mouth suctioning the tender flesh, his tongue swirling around her clitoris with a precision that was almost surgical. Pleasure, white-hot and terrifying, detonated in her core.
“Oh, god!” she cried out, her back arching off the mattress.
His tongue moved back and forth inside her, a relentless, piston-like rhythm that mimicked the act she knew was coming, each stroke igniting a chain reaction of nerve endings. She was babbling, incoherent sounds falling from her lips.
He raised his head, his chin glistening. Her scent was on him. “Does he make you scream like this?” Tariq asked, his voice husky. “Your husband. Does he make you come this hard?”
“No,” Marie gasped, the word torn from her. “No, never.” She tangled her hands in his dark hair, not to push him away, but to hold him there, to plead without words. Don’t stop.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He dove back in, redoubling his efforts. The first orgasm took her by surprise, a sudden, crashing wave that rolled through her, leaving her trembling and weak. She moaned, long and low, her heels digging into the sheets.
But Tariq didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He kept working his tongue, flicking, licking, probing, even as she twitched and whimpered from the oversensitivity. The pleasure, which had ebbed, began to build again, a second tide rising faster than the first. It was relentless. Her friends had sometimes whispered, over too much wine, about men who ate pussy like they were starving. Marie had nodded politely, never truly understanding.
Now she did.
Just as the new peak crested, he changed tactics. He closed his lips around her clitoris and sucked, hard.
The world went white. Sound faded. It wasn’t a climax; it was an eruption. Her body seized, bowing off the bed, and a hot, sudden gush released from her—a sensation so shocking and intense she screamed, a raw, ragged sound she didn’t recognize as her own. It splashed against Tariq’s chin, onto the sheets beneath her.
He raised his head, finally, while Marie’s whole body trembled in the aftermath, convulsing with tiny aftershocks. She was drenched, utterly spent, floating in a hazy void of sensation.
Tariq wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a dark, triumphant smile on his face. He looked at her wrecked form, her glazed eyes.
“Good,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Now you’re ready. Really ready.”
He stood up, his massive shadow falling over her. He began to unbuckle his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft, ominous hiss.
“Now,” he growled, “I’m finally going to take care of my married cat.”