Chapter 80: The Ass-to-Mouth Game
The ‘Maybe’ box yielded photographs, the kind that felt like physical blows. Faded Polaroids of Ryan in his twenties, all lean muscle and untamed hair, standing on a pier with someone whose face was turned away. A ticket stub from a concert they’d seen together. A dried corsage, brittle as a moth’s wing.
Channah held the corsage on her palm, saying nothing. The silence in the room thickened.
Ryan took the relic from her hand, set it carefully on the shelf, and then took her hand instead. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t a question.
She followed him up the stairs, the ghosts of the box trailing them, dispelled by the urgent press of his palm in hers. He had lit candles earlier, she saw. The bedroom was a cave of warm, dancing light, the velvet duress of the bed a dark ocean. The scents of the day—lavender, whiskey, sex—had deepened here, mingled with the vanilla of burning wax.
She didn’t wait. She shucked her dress, let it pool at her feet, and climbed onto the bed on all fours. The candlelight gilded the curve of her spine, the pale swell of her ass, still faintly pink from their earlier frenzy. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable, a mix of challenge and need.
“I want to play a game,” she said, her voice steady.
He stripped, his tattoos flowing in the flickering light. “What game?”
“See how many times you can switch. From my ass to my mouth. Before you lose control and cover my face.” She arched her back, presenting herself completely. “I’m still slick. From last time. Use it.”
The raw directive, coupled with the vulnerable ache the photos had unearthed in him, was electric. He came up behind her, his cock already hard and heavy. He guided himself through the wetness glistening on her cunt, coated himself thoroughly, and then pressed against the tight, crinkled ring of her anus.
“Count,” he breathed.
He pushed in. The slow, burning stretch made her gasp, her fingers clutching the velvet bedspread. He seated himself fully, his balls tight against her, and began to move. Ten deep, punishing strokes. The slap of skin, her choked moans.
“Now,” she panted.
He pulled out. She scrambled to turn, her movements fluid, and took him into her mouth before he could even guide himself. Her tongue, hot and knowing, swirled around the head, tasting the distinct, musky blend of her own ass and cunt on his skin. She sucked, hard, her eyes locked on his, for ten frantic seconds.
“Now,” he growled, tugging her hair gently.
She released him, turned again, impaled herself on his cock with a ragged cry. Mouth. Mouth.
The cycle became a feverish ritual. The transitions grew messier, more desperate. Each time she took him in her mouth, the flavor was more potent, more profoundly of her own body. Each time he sank back into her ass, the channel was hotter, wetter, more willing. The counting stopped. Only the rhythm remained—the wet shunt of him entering her, the sucking pull of her mouth, the creak of the bed, their shared, gasping curses.
On what might have been the seventh switch, as she swallowed him deep, her throat fluttering around him, his control shattered.
He yanked his cock from her mouth, the sound obscenely wet. He fisted himself, stroking wildly. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.
She lifted her face, her lips swollen, her chin glistening with saliva and her own fluids. Her expression was one of pure, open want.
He came with a force that racked his whole body. The first hot jet striped her cheekbone. The second splashed across her parted lips and tongue. He kept pumping, painting her face with thick, white ropes—over her brows, the bridge of her nose, the other cheek. She didn’t flinch. She held his gaze, her tongue darting out to catch what pooled on her lip, swallowing deliberately as the last pulses landed on her skin.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of Brooklyn through the window.
“That was seven,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. A trickle of cum traced a path down her neck. “I want to try for ten next time.”
He collapsed beside her on the bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He watched as she slowly, methodically, cleaned her face with her fingers, sucking each one clean. The vulnerability of the afternoon, the protective fierceness of their sex, the utter lack of shame in her eyes—it coalesced into a feeling so vast it momentarily stole his breath.
He reached out, thumbed a stray droplet from her temple. “The person in the photo,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t serious. It was just after you left. I was trying to erase you.”
She turned onto her side to face him, the candlelight softening the edges of her. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I know.” He pulled her closer, her skin slick against his. “I’m putting the pictures in an album. Not in a box. On a shelf.”
She nestled her head into the crook of his shoulder, her damp, red hair fanning across his chest. Outside, a siren wailed, then faded into the night. The candles burned lower, their light now clinging only to the space immediately around the bed, a small, warm universe holding them both.
“Ten might require training,” she murmured, her breath cooling on his skin. “Stamina work.”
He laughed, a rumble she felt through his bones. “I’ll start a regimen tomorrow.”
“Good.” She traced the lines of a tattoo on his pectoral. “We’ll need our strength. For the other boxes.”
They lay there, in the quiet aftermath, the game’s filthy brilliance still humming between them, a new language they were only just beginning to speak. The past, for now, was just another box—unpacked, sorted, and finally put away.