Chapter 9: The Four-Way Feast
The taste of Keli was still on his tongue, sharp and musky, mixed with the salt of his own spent cum. The room swam in a haze of cigarette smoke and body heat. Johnny lay on his back on the sticky velvet, the breaths of the three women surrounding him like the tides of a warm, corrupt sea.
Gabby was curled against his side, tracing the welts her nails had left on his chest. Sammie had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water faint behind the door. Keli, though, was everywhere. She knelt over him, her thighs framing his hips, her fingers lightly dragging through the cooling mess on her stomach and breasts. She watched him with dark, triumphant eyes.
“See?” she whispered, her voice hoarse from moaning. “Nothing in the world feels that good, does it? That free.”
He didn’t answer. His mind was a jumble of fractured images: Carly’s smile, the head of his cock disappearing between Gabby’s red-painted lips, the clinic paperwork on their kitchen table, the obscene sound of Keli coming on his face. A deep, sour shame was pooling in his gut, but it was a distant thing, numbed by exhaustion and the chemical buzz of release.
His phone, discarded in the heap of his jeans on the floor, buzzed again. A persistent, dull hum. It had been doing that.
“Someone’s popular,” Gabby giggled, nuzzling his neck.
Keli’s smile was a razor cut. “That’ll be wifey.” She didn’t move to get it. Instead, she lowered herself, bringing her slick, cum-smeared skin against his chest, rubbing herself against him like a cat. “She’s probably just leaving the clinic. All full of hope and baby dreams.” She kissed him, a hard, possessive kiss. “While you’re here. All full of us.”
The words were a physical blow. Johnny flinched. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Keli pulled back, her expression feigning innocence. “Don’t talk about the little life she’s trying to make while you’re spilling yours all over my friends’ faces? That’s the game, Johnny. That’s the point.”
The bathroom door opened. Sammie emerged, a towel around her hips, her face washed clean of makeup. She looked younger, quieter. She surveyed the scene on the couch—the tangled limbs, the gleaming evidence of debauchery—with a detached curiosity. “Her phone’s blowing up, too,” she said, nodding toward the cluttered coffee table where a phone lit up with the name KALUP.
Keli didn’t even glance at it. “He’s on a haul to Edmonton. He just wants to fight.” She turned her focus back to Johnny, her hand sliding down between their bodies. She found his cock, soft and spent. She began to stroke it with a firm, practiced grip. “But we’re not done playing yet, are we?”
“Keli, I can’t,” Johnny muttered, but his body betrayed the weak protest. A twitch of interest stirred under her fingers.
“You can. You will.” Her breath was hot in his ear. “I want you hard again. I want you to fuck me properly. Just you and me. They can watch.” She glanced at Gabby. “Get the oil from the table. The good one.”
Gabby uncurled herself and fetched a small, amber bottle. Keli took it, pouring a slick, warm pool into her palm. The scent of sandalwood and something spicier cut through the room’s staleness. She worked the oil over him, her fist gliding up and down his shaft with a slow, relentless pressure. Her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently. He felt the heat returning, the blood rushing back, a dark resurgence of want that pushed the guilt deeper down.
“That’s it,” she coaxed, watching him thicken and rise in her hand. “There’s my good boy. You’re not some timid husband over here. You’re an animal. My animal.”
He was fully hard again, achingly so, the sensation edged with a pleasant, raw burn. Keli positioned herself above him, holding his cock steady. She didn’t lower herself onto him. She rubbed the head through her soaked folds, teasing them both, letting him feel the heat but denying the entry.
“Tell me you want it,” she demanded, her eyes locked on his.
“I want it.”
“Tell me you want my cunt. Not your sweet little wife’s. Mine.”
He swallowed. The phone buzzed again on the floor. A part of him screamed. The larger, baser part, the part that belonged to this velvet ruin, won. “I want your cunt, Keli.”
With a sigh of pure satisfaction, she sank down onto him, taking him inside her in one slow, devastating glide. She was impossibly tight, hot, and wetter than he remembered. Her inner muscles fluttered around him, a practiced, greedy clutch.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily.
She began to move, a lazy, rolling grind of her hips that carved a pathway to his core. This was different from the frantic energy of before. This was possessive, intimate. Her face was close to his, her black hair a curtain around them. “This is where you live now,” she hissed, each word punctuated by a downward slam of her body. “In me. This heat. This sin. You think about her? You think about her while your cock is buried in my married pussy?”
He couldn’t speak. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, trying to guide the rhythm, but she was in control. She set a brutal, deep pace, the sound of their bodies connecting a wet, meaty slap that echoed in the quiet room. Gabby and Sammie watched, their hands drifting over their own bodies, but this was a separate performance. This was conquest.
Keli’s composure began to fracture. Her breaths came in sharp gasps. “You’re gonna cum,” she snarled. “You’re gonna fill me up. Give me everything you were supposed to save for her.”
The climax tore through him without warning, a raw, violent eruption that felt less like pleasure and more like a punishment he gladly accepted. He cried out, a strangled sound, as he pulsed deep inside her, his vision whiting out at the edges. She rode him through it, milking him with fierce contractions until he was empty, shuddering.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, sweaty and panting. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Then, she pushed herself up, still impaled on him, and looked over at the coffee table.
“Hand me my phone, Sammie.”
Sammie obeyed. Keli took it, still connected to Johnny, and unlocked it. She opened the camera, switched it to selfie mode, and held it out. She captured the image: her flushed face, her sweaty hair stuck to her temples, Johnny’s dazed, ruined expression beneath her, the intimate juncture of their bodies.
She typed a message with her free hand, her thumb tapping quickly. Johnny saw the name KALUP at the top of the screen.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice slurred with exhaustion.
“Sending a progress report,” she said calmly. She hit send. The whoosh sound was final. She dropped the phone onto the couch beside them and finally lifted herself off him. He felt utterly hollowed out.
She stood, naked and magnificent, and looked down at him. “You should go. She’s called you twelve times.” A cruel smile touched her lips. “The fun part will be deciding what to tell her.”
As he dragged his clothes on, his limbs heavy as lead, the buzz of his phone started again. This time, it didn’t stop. He pulled it from his pocket. The screen glowed in the dim room.
CARLY (14 Missed Calls)
The chapter of his damnation was written. All that remained was to read it aloud to the one person who still trusted him.