Chapter 86: The New Record
The echo of the slamming front door seemed to vibrate in the bones of the house, a final, percussive punctuation to a twenty-year sentence. The silence it left was thicker than before, charged and sickening.
Channah didn’t move from the couch. She stared at the empty archway where Martin had stood, where his face had disintegrated. Her body was a live wire, trembling not with fear, but with a catastrophic surge of adrenaline and release. She could still feel the slick trickle of Ryan’s cum on her thigh.
Ryan was the first to stir. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Channah.”
She turned her head. Her eyes were not the eyes of the therapist, the placid mediator. They were dark, wild, and bottomless. “He didn’t say a word,” she whispered. “Not one fucking word.”
“He didn’t need to.”
She nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. Then she stood, her legs unsteady. She walked to the archway, peering down the hall toward the firmly shut front door. The world on the other side of it had fundamentally altered. She turned back to Ryan, her nakedness in the dusty light not an invitation, but a statement.
“I need more,” she said, her voice raw, stripped.
“More what?”
“More of you. More of this. I need to feel something that isn’t that.” She gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the ghost of her husband’s shattered comprehension. “I need it to burn him out of my head.”
Ryan understood. This wasn’t about pleasure anymore. It was about eradication. He stood, his body aching, and went to her. He didn’t embrace her. He simply took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and led her out of the living room, away from the scene of the crime, and up the stairs.
The bedroom was steeped in the golden haze of dusk. It was her sanctuary, the room she had shared with Martin. The antique brass bedframe, the lavender-scented sheets, the ghost of his cologne on the pillow he used. Ryan felt the history in the walls, but he also felt the fierce, defiant energy radiating from the woman beside him.
Channah released his hand and pushed him. It wasn’t a gentle shove. It was a claim. He let himself fall back onto the cool, neatly made bed, the mattress sighing under his weight. She followed him down, swinging a leg over his hips, her knees sinking into the duvet on either side of his head.
She didn’t ask. She positioned her body, still wet and used from their coupling on the couch, and lowered herself onto his face. The coarse hair of his beard scraped her inner thighs as her cunt settled over his mouth.
“Eat me,” she commanded, her voice hollow. “Clean me out. Make me forget his fucking name.”
He obeyed. His hands came up to grip her hips, holding her in place as his tongue found her clit, already swollen and sensitive. He licked her with broad, flat strokes, then delved deeper, tracing the furled entrance of her ass, tasting the salty, bitter proof of his own prior possession there. He slid two fingers into her pussy, curling them, finding the spongy wall within. She was sopping, a mess of their combined fluids.
Channah groaned, a deep, shuddering sound, and her head fell back. She rocked against his mouth, using him, seeking friction and obliteration. She reached behind herself, her hand finding his cock where it lay hard against his stomach. She took him in her fist, stroking him roughly, then leaned forward, arching her back, and took him into her mouth.
The position was awkward, desperate. Her hips ground down on his face, her ass in the air, as she deep-throated his cock, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base. She could smell herself on him, musky and primal. She sucked him with a frantic, rhythmic intensity, her throat working around his thickness, while his tongue and fingers worked her toward a precipice.
Ryan was lost in her. The taste of her, the feel of her thighs clamping his head, the wet, hot suction of her mouth on his cock—it was a sensory overload that bordered on violence. He fucked her with his tongue, lapping at her clit until it was a hard, throbbing pearl, then spearing her asshole with the tip, violating her in the most intimate way possible.
“Yes, god, just like that,” she mumbled around his cock, the words vibrated along his shaft. “Use your tongue, fuck my ass with it.”
He redoubled his efforts, his own hips pushing up into the warm cavern of her mouth. The room filled with the raw, wet sounds of their mutually oral consumption: sucking, licking, gagging, grunting.
Channah’s orgasm tore through her suddenly, a seismic convulsion that made her legs shake and her cunt clamp down on his probing fingers. She screamed, the sound muffled by his cock filling her throat, and she came in hot, pulsing waves against his mouth. She rode it out, grinding her swollen flesh against his face, soaking his beard.
When the last tremor subsided, she pulled off his cock with a wet pop, gasping for air. Strings of saliva connected her lips to his glistening head. She dismounted from his face, turning her body in a clumsy, urgent pivot. She was on her knees now, straddling his hips, her back to him. She reached behind, took his cock in her hand, and guided the broad head to her other entrance.
“This one,” she panted. “We’re going for twelve.”
She pushed back, impaling herself on him in one slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion. Her ass was tighter than before, still tender, and the stretch was a bright, white pain that made her vision swim. She took him all, until her cheeks rested against his thighs.
Ryan hissed, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Christ, Channah.”
“Count,” she demanded, and began to ride him.
Her rhythm was desperate, a piston-like drive of her hips. She fucked herself on his cock, each rise and fall a brutal, claiming stroke. The brass headboard began to tap a dull, irregular rhythm against the wall.
“One!” she cried out.
“Two!” he grunted, thrusting up to meet her.
“Three!”
“Four!”
The count became a chant, a metronome for their mutual destruction. On the tenth stroke, she lurched forward, pulling him from her ass with a slick, obscene sound. She twisted her body, falling onto her side, and brought her mouth to him again. She took his cock, slick with her own lubrication, deep into her throat, sucking hard, cleaning him with her tongue.
“Taste it,” Ryan groaned, his hand fisting in her red hair. “Taste your own ass on my dick.”
She moaned around him, the vibration coursing through his bones. After a minute of this fevered worship, she released him, turned, and guided him back into her aching ass. The re-entry was even more intense, the sensitivity heightened.
They fell into a brutal cycle: ten punishing strokes in her ass, followed by a frantic, sucking mouthful, then back again. Each switch was faster, more frantic, less about connection than about consumption and conquest. The bed was a wreck of tangled sheets, the room humid with the smell of sex and sweat.
On the twelfth penetration, as he plunged into the hot, clutching tightness of her ass, Channah didn’t tell him to pull out. “Now,” she gasped, her body coiled like a spring. “Cum on me. Mark me again.”
Ryan obeyed. He pulled out of her with a sharp gasp, his cock glistening and furious. He knelt over her as she lay on her back, her hair fanned out like blood on the pillow. She opened her mouth wide, sticking out her tongue, her eyes locked on his.
He fisted his cock, stroking it roughly. With a guttural shout, he came. Thick, pearlescent ropes shot across her face, streaking her pale cheeks, spattering her lips and tongue. She moaned, her eyes fluttering shut, and licked her lips deliberately, tasting his salty, bitter release.
She opened her eyes, reached up, and pulled him down by the back of his neck. She kissed him, deeply, filthily, sharing the taste of his cum, the residual taste of herself. It was a kiss of total possession, of shared ruin.
“That’s twelve,” she whispered against his mouth, her breath hot. Her face was a beautiful, debauched mess. “And I’m not stopping until we reach twenty.”
Outside, the Brooklyn dusk deepened into night. The room was dark now, save for the faint orange glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. They were two shadows in a ruined bed, mapped in sweat and semen, the count only half-done, the future a vast, terrifying blank they were determined to fuck into submission.