Chapter 35: Ass to Mouth in the Fitting Room
The restaurant’s door closed behind them with a soft sigh, sealing the heat and the scent of their transgression inside. The night air was a crisp slap. Channah walked beside him, her arm looped through his, her face a pale moon in the city’s glow. The evidence was dried now, a faint map on her skin only he could read. She made no move to wipe it away.
“That vintage store,” she said, her voice casual, pointing with her free hand to a dimly lit shopfront a block down. Its window displayed a mannequin in a frayed fur coat. “I saw it earlier. Let’s go in.”
“It’s nearly eleven. It’ll be closed.”
“The sign says open.” She tugged him, her smile a secret. “I want to see the velvet chair in the corner. The one from the window.”
The bell above the door jangled, a lonely sound. The air inside was thick with the smell of old paper, mothballs, and dust. An elderly clerk glanced up from a ledger near the back, gave a vague nod, and returned to his work. The store was a labyrinth of crammed racks and looming furniture.
She led him past shelves of tarnished silver and towers of vinyl records, straight to the fitting room in the rear. It was barely a closet, curtained off by a heavy tapestry depicting a faded hunting scene. She drew the curtain, and the world narrowed to a rectangle of worn floral wallpaper and a full-length mirror whose silvering had bled away at the edges. A single bulb, naked and low-wattage, buzzed overhead. In the corner sat the chair from the window, its velvet the color of dried blood.
The moment the fabric fell shut, the silence expanded, dense and expectant. The clerk might as well have been miles away.
Channah turned to face Ryan. In the golden, unforgiving light, the streaks on her face were more visible—silvery trails on her cheekbone, a fleck on her eyelash. She looked utterly depraved. Utterly beautiful.
“You missed a spot,” she whispered.
Then she sank to her knees on the thin carpet. The sound of her knees hitting the floor was a soft, final thud. Her hands went to his belt, her movements urgent now, not teasing. She freed him, his cock still semi-hard, gleaming with a mix of their fluids from the restaurant. She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her mouth, deep, her lips stretching around his girth.
She sucked with a raw, hungry intensity, one hand cupping his balls, the other gripping the base of his shaft. Her tongue worked the vein underneath, then swirled around the head, tasting the salt and the faint, musky remnant of her own ass. The memory of it—her bent over in the booth, him driving into her—made her groan, the vibration traveling through his entire body. She pulled off with a wet pop, breathing hard.
“I can still taste me on you,” she panted, looking up at him, her pupils black. “I love it. I love how filthy we are.”
She stood, turning her back to him. She pressed herself against him, her ass cradling his now fully rigid cock. She reached back, guided him, and with a single, fluid push, sheathed him inside her ass again.
The entry was smoother this time, her body still open from before, but just as shockingly tight. A choked gasp escaped her, fogging the mirror in front of them. She braced her hands on the glass, her fingers splayed. Their reflection was a blur of motion and shadow—his tattooed arms around her waist, her skirt shoved up, her head thrown back.
He fucked her with quick, silent, desperate strokes. Each thrust rocked her forward, her breasts pressing against the cold glass. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the soft slap of skin, the occasional creak of the floorboard beneath them. The risk was a live wire. The clerk could cough, a customer could enter, the curtain could twitch.
“Fuck, Ryan,” she hissed, her forehead against the mirror. “Your cock is splitting my ass open. It’s so deep. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
He drove into her, the animal hunger from the restaurant returning tenfold. This was claiming and being claimed. This was twenty-five years of absence made flesh. He could feel her muscles clenching around him, could see her face in the mirror, her mouth a slack oval of pleasure, her eyes squeezed shut.
The coil in his gut tightened, a fuse burning down. He was seconds away from coming inside her, filling that tight, forbidden channel.
She felt it. With a wrenching moan, she pushed back against him, forcing him to still, then pulled off. She turned, her movements dizzyingly fast. She dropped to her knees again, her mouth open in a wordless ‘O’. Her face was a demand.
“Do it. Like before. All over me.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He fisted himself, his grip tight and rough. The first jet hit her cheekbone, a thick, white rope. The second splashed across her open lips and tongue. He kept stroking, painting her. Pulse after pulse striped her nose, her chin, spattered in her red hair. She moaned, a continuous, low sound of absolute satisfaction, her tongue darting out to catch what pooled on her lip.
He was spent, but she wasn’t done. She leaned forward and took his softening, dripping cock back into her mouth. She sucked him clean with tender, thorough strokes, swallowing every drop. Then she rose, her knees cracking, and pulled his face to hers. The kiss was deep, messy, a sharing of salt and bitterness and completion. She tasted of him, of herself, of everything they had done.
She broke the kiss, her breath hot on his lips. A strand of cum, delicate as a spider’s thread, stretched from her chin to her collarbone. She looked at their reflection in the ruined mirror—a middle-aged man and woman, disheveled, marked, glowing with a predatory glee.
She smoothed her skirt. She didn’t wipe her face. She reached for the curtain.
“I want more,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with use. “Let’s walk through the store like this. Let’s let the old man see. Then take me home and fuck me in my bed until the sun comes up. I’m not done with you.”
Her hand brushed the tapestry. She was about to step out into the quiet, dusty store, her face a canvas of their act. The night was no longer about remembering what they had lost. It was about discovering, with brutal, exquisite clarity, what they had become.