Chapter 8: The Taste of Submission
The wet, salty weight of him rested on her lower lip, a dense, warm pressure. Christelle’s breaths came in shallow, audible puffs through her nose, her chin glossy with the evidence of her failure to contain him. Noah looked down, his eyes dark pools of amusement and command.
“Open up, madame,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stillness of the lamp-lit room. “Let’s see you suck this big cock. Let’s see if you can do it better than Nathalie.”
The name hit her like a splash of cold water. Nathalie from two doors down, with her tennis bracelets and perfectly highlighted hair. The shame was instant, a hot blush crawling up her neck. But beneath it, coiling tight in her gut, was something else—a sharp, competitive spark she didn’t recognize in herself. Better than Nathalie. The thought was absurd, terrifying, electric.
She parted her lips, just a sliver.
It was enough. Noah pushed forward, and the broad, plum-shaped head of his penis invaded her mouth. It was truly enormous. Christelle’s eyes widened as she had to strain her jaws apart to accommodate it. The smooth, hot crown filled the roof of her mouth completely, pressing her tongue flat and immobile against the underside. She could taste the distinct, musky-salt of his skin and the faint, clean residue of her own saliva. It was a sensation of total, overwhelming occupation she had never experienced.
“See that?” Noah muttered, his hands settling on either side of her head. His thumbs stroked her temples, a bizarre parody of tenderness. “Nathalie gags. Every time. She thinks it’s cute. It’s fucking annoying.” He withdrew slowly, almost all the way out, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. Then he pushed back in, a little deeper this time. “You take it like you mean it. Good girl. Relax your throat. Just let it happen.”
He gave her the advice casually, as if instructing her on how to knead dough. Then he began to push his penis into her mouth in a steady, insistent rhythm. Christelle’s nostrils flared as she fought for air. Each inward stroke stole it from her. She didn’t want to gag. She didn’t want to be any less skilled than Nathalie. She tried to pull her head back, to find a better angle, but Noah’s hand slid to the back of her skull, his fingers tangling in her ponytail, holding her firmly in place.
This wasn’t fellatio. This was the intrusion of a foreign object, a deliberate, patient claiming of a space. Yet, a treacherous heat flooded her core, throbbing in time with his movements. The realization sickened and excited her in equal measure.
Soon, she felt the enormous cock nudge the entrance to her throat. A part of it still remained outside, a thickness she could not fathom ever fitting inside her. Her pussy could never accommodate such a thing, she thought wildly. It would split her in two.
Noah began to move in earnest now, sliding in and out of her mouth with a slick, piston-like precision. He was literally fucking her mouth. “That’s it,” he grunted, his composure beginning to fracture. “Use that tongue. Yes. Christ, you look pretty like this. A proper married lady, choking on a real cock. Bet your husband never uses you like this.” His words grew cruder, dirtier, painting vivid pictures of what he intended to do to her next, each filthy promise stoking the fire in her belly.
This went on for several minutes, a stretch of time where Christelle’s world narrowed to the stretch of her lips, the struggle for breath, the pounding of her own heart, and the hard, answering ache between her legs. She thought, with a detachment that felt like madness, that it would never have lasted this long with her husband. He would have been finished, apologetic, already rolling away.
Noah’s groans grew deeper, more urgent. His hips stuttered. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth. Swallow it.”
She had never swallowed her husband’s semen; she found the very idea disgusting. But Noah’s hand clenched in her hair, an unbreakable anchor. She felt the first hot, thick spurt hit the back of her throat—a volume she wasn’t used to. It was warm, slightly bitter, overwhelmingly male. She swallowed convulsively, only to be met by another, even more copious spurt. A third came almost immediately, a pulsing cascade.
The flow was too much. She couldn’t coordinate the swallowing fast enough. Semen spilled out from the corners of her sealed lips, a viscous overflow that ran in rivulets down her chin, dripped onto the front of her floral dress, and seeped in sticky trails through the neckline onto her breasts. The fabric clung, damp and revealing.
Noah withdrew slowly, his penis glistening. He looked down at her, at the mess he had made of her. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. He wiped his thumb across her slick chin and brought it to her lips. She took it into her mouth automatically, cleaning it.
“Good girl,” he said, his breath still coming hard. He hooked a finger under the damp neckline of her dress and gave it a slight tug. “You did better than Nathalie. She always cries a little.” He unbuckled his belt with his free hand, the leather sliding through the loops with a deadly whisper. “Now let’s see if that tight pussy can handle what your throat barely survived.” He nodded toward the hallway, toward the dark mouth of the couple’s bedroom. “After you.”