Chapter 26: The Ass Worship
The master bedroom smelled of lemongrass and sweat, a clean, acidic scent that did nothing to cleanse the air. Julian knelt on the Persian rug, its intricate patterns blurring beneath his knees. Diana knelt beside him, close enough that he could feel the faint tremor running through her. She stared straight ahead, her profile carved from marble, still wearing the silk robe from her shower. It gaped slightly at the chest, revealing a bruise, purple and tender, where the counter’s edge had bitten into her.
Emilia stood before them, utterly still. The moonlight from the high window cut across her body, painting one breast in silver, leaving the other in shadow. Her skin glowed. She was not posing; she was existing, a fact in the room as undeniable as the bed itself.
“You both owe me,” she said, her voice quiet. “A debt for the mess. For the disruption.” She let the words hang. Then, without another cue, she turned her back to them.
She bent forward, placing her palms flat on the rumpled duvet, her spine curving into a perfect, inviting arch. Her ass was presented as an offering and a command. The pale globes parted just slightly, revealing the dark pink furl of her asshole and, below, the glistening, swollen lips of her pussy. She was already wet, a slick sheen catching the low light.
“Together,” Emilia said, her voice muffled by the bedding. “You will taste your mistress. Julian, you take my ass. Diana, my cunt. You will lick until I am satisfied. You will not stop until I say.”
A whimper escaped Diana, a tiny sound of resistance that died in her throat. Julian’s mouth was desert-dry. The memory of tile and his own bitterness flooded back. This was worse. This was active. Complicit.
“Now.”
The single word held the weight of a falling beam. Julian saw Diana flinch, then lean forward, her eyes squeezing shut as her tongue emerged, a hesitant pink dart. It touched Emilia’s lower lips, a timid stroke.
Emilia sighed. “Pathetic. More.”
Julian bent. The musky, salt-rich scent of her filled his nostrils. His view was intimate, obscene. He could see Diana’s tongue making a reluctant, circling pass over Emilia’s clit. He focused on the tight pucker above. He extended his tongue, the tip making contact. The taste was earthy, cleanly sweaty, profoundly private. He flinched but didn’t pull away. He licked a slow, flat stripe.
“Yes,” Emilia breathed, pushing back against them. “Use your tongues. Like you mean it. Fuck me with them.”
Julian’s mind detached. He was a mechanism. He pressed the point of his tongue against her asshole, feeling the resistant, tightly furled muscle. He worked it, circling, then pressing harder. It yielded, a minuscule concession, allowing him to push the very tip inside. The taste intensified. Diana, beside him, was making wet, sucking sounds now, her movements becoming less tentative, more rhythmic. Driven by fear, by a need to please and be done.
“Deeper, Julian,” Emilia moaned, her hips canting back. “Get your fucking tongue in my ass.”
He obeyed, spearing his tongue as far as it would go, fucking the tight ring with short, relentless jabs. His jaw ached. Spittle ran down his chin. Next to him, Diana’s face was buried, her nose pressed into Emilia’s flesh as her tongue lapped and probed at her entrance, diving into the slick heat.
Their heads were close, their breaths mingling in the humid space between Emilia’s thighs. Their tongues, separated by a thin, trembling wall of flesh, worked in a grotesque parallel. Julian could hear the slick, obscene symphony of it—Diana’s eager slurping, his own ragged breaths, Emilia’s escalating moans.
“Oh, god, just like that,” Emilia gasped, one hand reaching back to spread herself wider for them. “Your wife eats pussy better than you, Julian. She’s a natural little cunt-licker. You both are. My perfect, filthy pets.”
The insult galvanized Diana. She began to feast, her tongue lashing Emilia’s clit with furious, focused speed. Julian matched the pace, his tongue fucking her asshole in a brutal, piston-like rhythm. They were competitors in this debasement, seeking some perverse approval.
Emilia’s body tightened. A high, keening sound built in her throat. Her back arched impossibly further, every muscle taut. “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t you fucking dare stop!” she shrieked, her command dissolving into pure sensation.
Julian tasted a new, faint bitterness. Diana’s tongue was a frantic blur. Then Emilia came, a violent, shuddering release. Her cunt clenched around nothing, pulsing, and a gout of her juices flooded over Diana’s chin. Her asshole spasmed around Julian’s invading tongue, gripping it rhythmically. She screamed, a raw, triumphant sound that echoed off the bedroom walls.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged panting and Emilia’s subsiding cries. She slowly straightened, turning to face them. Her face was flushed, her green eyes glassy with pleasure. She looked down at them, kneeling, their faces wet and shining with her.
A slow smile spread across her lips. “Now,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “Kiss each other. Share my taste. I want to see it.”
Julian looked at Diana. Her eyes were wide, horrified, her chin slick with Emilia’s orgasm. A strand of honey-blonde hair, not her own, was stuck to her cheek. He felt his own mouth, wet with the intimate flavor of the woman who had destroyed them.
Diana shook her head infinitesimally. A final, silent plea.
“Now,” Emilia repeated, her voice dropping to a dangerous chill.
Julian leaned in. He closed his eyes. He found Diana’s mouth with his. It was not a kiss. It was a transfer. A communion of shame. Her lips were cold at first, then yielding. He tasted Emilia on her—the bright, musky tang mixed with the salt of Diana’s tears. She tasted himself on him—the earthier, darker note. Their tongues met, a hesitant, awful exploration. They shared the proof of their servitude, their mouths becoming a single, confessional space.
When they finally pulled apart, a thread of saliva connected them for a second before breaking.
Emilia watched, satisfied. She ran a hand through her hair. “Good. You may sleep. Not in here. On the floor in the hall, outside the children’s doors. I want you to listen to them breathe. I want you to remember what you’re guarding.” She picked up a silk wrap, draping it around her shoulders as if concluding a business meeting. “I’ll be in the guest room. I expect a full breakfast at seven. Diana, you’ll make the coffee. Julian, you’ll fry the eggs. We’ll have a normal, happy morning.”
She walked past them, her bare feet silent on the rug. The door clicked shut behind her.
Julian and Diana remained on their knees, the shared taste lingering, a covenant of ruin between their lips. Down the hall, Ben coughed once in his sleep. The sound was unbearably pure. They both flinched. Then, in silence, they rose on stiff legs, left the master bedroom, and assumed their new posts on the hard wooden floor, their backs against separate walls, staring at each other through the dim hallway, listening to the innocent rhythm of the dreams they were now paid to protect.
The woodgrain of the hallway floor imprinted itself on Julian’s skin through his thin pajama pants. Each breath Diana took from her spot opposite him was a measured, hollow sound in the dark. The furnace kicked on with a groan, the ducts whispering lies of comfort. He watched her shadowed form sink lower against the wall, her forehead eventually coming to rest on her updrawn knees. He did the same. The night dissolved into a cold, waking coma, punctuated by the distant chime of the half-hour from the downstairs clock.
Gray dawn leaked through the hall window, painting the world in tones of ash. Julian’s body was a single ache. He heard the gentle click of the guest room door first. Soft, barefoot steps approached. He kept his head down, watching Emilia’s ankles stop before him. She wore one of Diana’s old robes.
“Seven o’clock,” she said, her voice thick with sleep yet perfectly clear. “Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. The children have swimming at nine. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
He dragged his gaze up her body to her face. She looked refreshed, dewy. She smiled.
“Up you get. Both of you. Let’s have a nice, normal morning.”
The kitchen was a museum of their former life. Julian moved to the fridge for eggs, his movements stiff. Diana filled the coffee carafe at the sink, her hands trembling so badly water splashed the granite. The silence was a crushing weight, broken only by the clatter of a bowl, the hiss of the gas igniting.
“Smells good,” Emilia chirped, settling at the head of the table with a newspaper. She wasn’t reading it. She was watching them orbit each other, two shattered satellites.
Ben and Chloe stumbled in, rubbing their eyes. “Why were you sleeping in the hall?” Ben asked, yawning.
“We heard a noise,” Julian said, the lie coming out rusty. “Wanted to be sure you were both okay.”
“Cool,” Ben said, already reaching for the juice.
The meal was a pantomime. Julian served plates. Diana poured coffee, her hand steadying only when she filled Emilia’s mug to the brim. They chewed. They swallowed. Conversation was a series of statements directed at the children. Pass the syrup. Did you pack your towel?
Emilia watched it all with the air of a satisfied director. She buttered her toast meticulously. When the children scampered off to get dressed, the air in the kitchen changed. It tightened, grew thin.
“Julian, clear the plates. Diana, come here.”
Diana froze, a dishcloth in her hand. She walked to the table. Emilia remained seated, looking up at her. She hooked a finger into the belt loop of Diana’s jeans and tugged her closer, between her knees.
“You did a good job last night,” Emilia said conversationally, her other hand tracing the seam of Diana’s inner thigh. “Your tongue is very clever. I think you deserved a reward.”
“No,” Diana whispered, a useless protest.
“Yes,” Emilia corrected softly. She unfastened Diana’s jeans button, then the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. Julian stood frozen at the sink, a plate dripping in his hands.
Emilia pushed Diana’s jeans and underwear down to her knees in one efficient motion. The morning light fell on the pale skin of her thighs, the dark thatch of hair. Diana shuddered, her eyes screwed shut.
“Julian, watch. Watch your wife’s reward.”
Emilia leaned forward and pressed her mouth against Diana. Her tongue, that pale, predatory muscle, slid out and gave one long, flat lick. Diana gasped, her hands flying to grip the table’s edge. Emilia’s head began to move in a slow, rhythmic bob, her lips closing around Diana’s clit.
“Oh god,” Diana moaned, the sound ripped from her.
Julian watched, the plate forgotten. He saw the practiced efficiency of Emilia’s movements, the way her shoulders worked. He saw Diana’s hips give a minute, treacherous jerk forward, seeking more pressure. A low, choked sob escaped Diana’s throat, part agony, part something else.
Emilia pulled back, her chin glistening. “You’re so wet for me already, Diana. You’re a greedy little thing. Kneel.”
Diana, her pupils blown wide, fumbled her jeans further down and sank to the tiles. Emilia stood, pushed her own robe open, and guided Diana’s face between her thighs. “Return the favor. Right here. While your husband does the dishes.”
Julian turned back to the sink. He heard the wet, rhythmic sounds behind him, the soft, pleading whimpers that were not entirely protests. He stared at the porcelain, scrubbing a clean plate over and over. His own arousal was a sharp, shameful pain in his groin. He was hard, watching the steam rise from the faucet, listening to his wife service the nanny.
The noises intensified. Emilia’s breaths became sharp, commanding gusts. “Right there, yes, suck it, you perfect fucking whore.” A series of harsh gasps, then a low, guttural groan. Silence, except for the sound of languid, finishing kisses.
“Good,” Emilia sighed. “Now stand up.”
Julian turned. Diana rose, her face flushed and slick, her jeans still around her knees. She looked utterly broken, used. Emilia, with a serene smile, refastened her robe.
“Julian, come here.”
He walked forward, every step a capitulation. Emilia nodded toward Diana. “Fuck your wife. Right now. I want to watch you try.”
Diana’s eyes met his, swimming with a chaos of humiliation and a desperate, residual hunger. Julian fumbled with his fly, freeing his aching cock. He pushed Diana back against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator. She hooked her bare legs around his hips as he guided himself into her.
She was drenched, impossibly wet, and the ease of his entry was its own condemnation. He thrust, a short, sharp motion. A small, choked cry fell from Diana’s lips. He fucked her in brisk, mechanical strokes, the refrigerator door rattling slightly with their impact. There was no love here, no connection. It was a demonstration, a forced parody of their marriage.
Emilia leaned against the kitchen island, sipping her coffee. “Look at you two,” she mused. “Finally connecting. Is it better, Diana? Now that you’re properly warmed up?”
Tears streamed down Diana’s face. Her orgasm, when it hit her, was a violent, shuddering seizure against him, a betrayal by her own body. Her inner muscles clamped around him in rhythmic pulses, pulling his own release from him with ruthless efficiency. He came inside her with a grunt, his forehead against the cool metal.
They slumped together, breathing hard. Emilia set her mug down with a definitive click.
“See?” she said. “I can make this household function. I can even make your marriage work.” She walked over, patted Julian’s slumped shoulder. He was still buried inside his wife. “Now clean up. The children will be down any minute. Remember the swimming lesson.”
She drifted from the kitchen, the scent of her, and of them, hanging heavily in the air. Julian withdrew. A trickle of his own spend mixed with Emilia’s leaked down Diana’s thigh. They dressed in silence, not meeting each other’s eyes. From upstairs came the joyful thunder of children’s footsteps. The day, perfectly normal, demanded their participation.