Chapter 23: The Ass to Mouth Ritual
The hotel room door clicked shut, sealing them in a pocket of suspended time. Ryan dropped his bag, a small duffel, onto the tacky floral armchair. The space was a monument to transience: generic art, stiff curtains, the faint chemical odor of industrial cleaner over something less definable.
“This feels more illicit than my apartment,” Channah said, shrugging off her light jacket. The afternoon sun sliced through the gap in the drapes, cutting her body in half—light and shadow.
“It is illicit,” Ryan replied, not looking at her, surveying the room as if it were a text to be deciphered. “My conference doesn’t start until tomorrow. This is a day stolen from two separate lives. By definition, it’s a cheat.”
She walked to the window, looking down at the relentless flow of traffic. “Is that what we’re doing? Cheating?”
“On our solitude. On the versions of ourselves that learned to live without this.” He came up behind her, not touching her, but she felt the heat of him. “It’s a necessary crime.”
She turned, her back against the cool glass. Her eyes searched his. “Tell me what you want, Ryan. Right now. Not the dirty fantasy. The real want.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I want to forget I have a return ticket. I want to erase the twenty years of bedtime rituals with other people, the quiet compromises, the settled dust. I want to feel so connected to you that the idea of walking out of this room and onto a plane feels like self-amputation.” His voice was low, raw. “And because I can’t have that, I want to fuck you until we’re both too ruined to think.”
A shiver, profound and deep, rolled through her. She reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. Her breasts spilled free, pale and heavy in the dusty light. “Then ruin me.”
The air changed. It thickened. The quiet hotel room hummed with a new voltage.
He closed the distance, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones. The kiss was not tender. It was a claiming. A contradiction of teeth and tongue, a silent argument they’d been having for decades. She bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste a copper tang, and he growled, shoving her back against the window.
His hands were on her breasts, kneading, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they were hard peaks. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth, sucking deep and rhythmic while his other hand shoved her skirt up, his fingers sliding unerringly through the slick warmth of her cunt.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he muttered against her skin. “You’ve been wet since breakfast.”
“Since the rooftop,” she gasped, her head thudding back against the glass. “Since I saw you sitting there, looking like every regret I ever nursed.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and panties and dragged them down her thighs. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside. He went to his knees before her, his hands spreading her thighs wide, pressing them against the window. The city sprawled below, oblivious.
He didn’t use his tongue. Not yet. He exhaled, a hot, damp breath against her exposed folds, and she whimpered. Then he looked up, his eyes dark and fierce. “Tell me what you want. The filthy truth.”
“I want your mouth on my asshole,” she breathed, the words feeling shocking and perfect in the sterile room. “I want you to lick me there while you finger my pussy. I want to come on your face knowing you’re tasting both. Then I want to ride your cock in my ass until I see stars.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “My kind of agenda.”
He leaned in. His tongue was a broad, hot stroke from her clit down, bypassing her opening to press firmly against the tight, secret pucker of her ass. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, gripping the long brown strands. He laved at her there, circling, probing gently with the tip of his tongue, wetting her thoroughly. As he did, his hand came up, two fingers sliding into her cunt with ease, curling upward.
The dual sensation was devastating. The filthy, intimate caress of his tongue on her ass, the firm, knowing stroke of his fingers inside her. He fucked her with his hand, his palm grinding against her clit with each thrust, while his mouth worked her open, softer, wetter.
“Yes, fuck, just like that,” she chanted, her hips moving against his face. “Oh god, Ryan, your tongue…”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue plunging deeper, mimicking a fuck. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room. Her thighs trembled. The climax built, a coil of pure, undiluted pleasure tightening in her belly, fed from both ends. It broke over her suddenly, a white-hot detonation that made her scream, her body bowing, her cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he sucked and licked her through the shocks.
She sagged against the window, boneless. He rose, his mouth glistening, his fingers dripping. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips, the musky, complicated flavor of her own arousal and his possession.
“On the bed,” he ordered, his voice gravel. “On your hands and knees.”
She moved like in a dream, crawling onto the crisp, unfamiliar duvet. The scent of lavender laundry soap was suddenly absurd. She presented herself to him, her ass in the air, her face buried in a pillow.
She heard the rip of a foil packet, the rustle of his jeans being shoved down. Then the cool, blunt head of his cock was pressing against her, not at her entrance, but lower, nudging against the place his tongue had just so thoroughly prepared.
“Guide me in,” he said, his voice strained.
She reached back, her hand wrapping around his shaft, slicking the condom with her own wetness from his fingers. She positioned him, the pressure intense, a delicious, impossible stretch. “Now,” she whispered. “Fuck my ass now.”
He pushed. The initial penetration was a slow, burning invasion, a fullness so complete it stole her breath. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. She pushed back against him, taking him deeper.
“Move,” she begged. “Please, move.”
He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home. The shock of it, the perfect, brutal friction, tore a ragged cry from her throat. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a jolt that rocked her whole body forward. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, surely leaving marks.
“This is what you wanted,” he grunted, driving into her. “This is what you thought about all those years. My cock in this tight, perfect ass.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the pleasure-pain a brilliant fire in her core. “I dreamed of it. I fucked myself thinking of it.”
His pace grew frantic, sloppy. The bed slammed against the wall in a steady, rhythmic thump. She knew they were too loud, that someone might hear, but the risk was just another kind of fuel. She reached between her own legs, rubbing her clit in hard, frantic circles, chasing a second climax.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice breaking.
“Don’t you dare come in that rubber,” she snarled, looking back over her shoulder, her eyes wild. “I want it on my face. I want to taste it. Get out. Now.”
With a roar that was part agony, part release, he pulled his cock from her ass. He ripped the condom off, tossing it aside. His cock was furious red, veined, gleaming with her juices and the slick from the latex. He was on the verge.
She scrambled off the bed and dropped to her knees before him. She didn’t wait. She took him into her mouth, deep, swallowing him to the root. She could taste the faint, earthy trace of her own ass, the sterile latex, and beneath it, him. The salt and musk of Ryan. She sucked fiercely, her tongue working the underside of his shaft, her hand pumping what she couldn’t take.
“Channah… I’m…”
She pulled off, letting his cock pop from her lips. She held his gaze, her mouth open, her tongue extended. “Do it. Mark me.”
His hand replaced her mouth, fisting his cock. Three rough, jerking strokes and he erupted. The first thick, hot rope of cum landed across her cheek. The second splashed her chin and lips. The third hit her tongue, a salty, bitter burst. He kept coming, spurts painting her face, her eyelashes, catching in her red bangs.
She moaned, a deep, satisfied sound, her eyes fluttering closed as she savored the taste, the feel of his release on her skin. She licked her lips deliberately, cleaning them, then opened her eyes, her gaze locked on his wrecked, awe-struck face.
Slowly, she crawled forward on her knees and kissed him. It was a messy, carnal kiss, transferring his cum to his mouth, sharing the proof of what they’d done. He kissed her back with a desperate hunger, his hands tangling in her sticky hair.
When they finally parted, both breathless, she rested her forehead against his chest. The frantic energy drained away, leaving a deep, resonant quiet.
He got a washcloth from the bathroom, warm and damp, and gently wiped her face clean. The tenderness of the act after the animal ferocity of minutes before was its own confession.
They lay down on the ravaged bed, curled into one another. The sun was lower now, painting the room in long, amber shadows.
“The conference is on narrative structures in trauma literature,” he said softly, his lips against her hair.
She let out a shaky, half-laugh. “Of course it is.”
“I have to present a paper tomorrow at nine.”
“I have a client at ten.” She traced the lines of a tattoo on his forearm. “We have to leave this room.”
“We do.”
They lay there, listening to the distant elevator chime, the murmur of a television next door. The return ticket and the ten o’clock client were anchors, dragging them back to the sea floor of their separate realities. But here, in the deepening dark of the stolen room, the water was still, and they were floating.