Chapter 10: Arse Feast
For three days, the world moved in sepia tones, everything muted behind a veil of sticky, unspoken guilt. The cream-colored duvet cover had gone straight into the washing machine on a heavy-duty cycle, and Lisa had scrubbed herself raw in the shower until her skin burned. Mark noticed nothing, his life a placid stream of conference calls and checking Ethan’s homework.
Then, on Thursday morning, her phone vibrated against the cool granite of the kitchen counter. An unknown number. A text this time.
KIC/OFF at 2pm. Main & 5th.
She knew the code, the abyssal shorthand from the farmhouse. She didn’t respond, but at 1:45, she found herself parked at the abandoned KIC/OFF car wash at the edge of town, the vacant lot desolate in the punishing midday sun. The blinking lights of his truck signaled from one of the empty wash bays.
He was already outside, leaning against his grille. “Get in.”
He drove. She didn’t ask where. The city receded, replaced by industrial parks and then, a cheaply built complex of apartments overlooking the freeway. They rode a sticky elevator in silence. The smell in the hallway was mildew and fried food. He shouldered open a scarred, dark wood door.
His place was a punch to the senses. Cold.Spare. The furniture was heavy, masculine, and looked selected for durability, not comfort. An enormous leather sectional dominated the dim living room, facing a massive television. An empty whiskey bottle stood sentinel on a rough, unpainted wood slab that served as a coffee table. The view beyond the grimy windows was a monochrome stretch of concrete and racing cars. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, of him, of a life stripped of pretense. It was terrifying. She realized, standing there, that this was the first time she had ever truly seen his habitat. The back alley, the farmhouse, her bedroom—those were shared, stolen spaces. This was all his.
He didn’t touch her. He tossed his keys into a ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter with a loud clatter. “You look nervous.”
“I’m not,” she lied, her voice sounding small.
“Good.” He pointed to the massive leather couch. “Go over there. Take off the dress. Keep the shoes on.”
She obeyed, her fingers clumsy on the small buttons of her summer dress. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on her bare skin. Her heart was a trapped bird.
“Now get on your knees on the couch. Ass out.”
She climbed onto the buttery-soft leather, the texture strange against her knees. She leaned forward, hiked up a hip to present her rear, her face turned away, pressed into the back cushions. The position was one of total submission.
She heard the slow clink of his belt buckle. The whisper of denim. His footsteps. A floorboard creaked. He stood behind her for a long moment, just looking. The air he displaced was cold.
Then, the flat of his hand came down on the fullest part of her ass with a sharp, stinging crack.
She jerked, gasping.
“No one gave you permission to hide your face,” he said, his voice flat. He reached down, fisted a hand in her hair, and yanked her head back, forcing her to look forward at the silent, black television screen. Her reflection was a pale smudge of wide eyes above the obscene jut of her own pale curves. “Watch.”
One hand braced on the sofa beside her shoulder. The other gripped the globe of her ass, his thumb rubbing roughly against her puckered entrance. He pressed, insistent. The muscle resisted, burning.
“Lick it clean first, then you can wreck it with that monster cock of yours,” she whispered, the words escaping on a terrified, wanting breath.
His fingers stilled. A low chuckle, more vibration than sound, rumbled from his chest.
“Is that a request?” he said, his thumb pressing harder. “Or an order?”
“A… a request.”
“Beg.”
She watched their reflection. She saw herself, small and naked before him. She saw him, fully clothed, a shadow controlling the frame.
“Please,” she breathed. “Please, Jake. Please… clean me with your tongue. I need it. I’ve been… thinking about that more than anything else. Then, please…” The sentence trailed into a whimper.
He let go of her hair. She heard him spit again—a harsh, wet sound—and felt the wet warmth hit her tightly clenched hole. The saliva trailed down the sensitive seam of her ass. His knees bumped hers as he knelt behind her on the couch. He didn’t have her spread her cheeks. He used his fingers, firm and unyielding, pulling her open, exposing the twitching, pink furl he’d spit upon.
The first flat swipe of his tongue was fire. She cried out, her fingers digging into the leather. It wasn’t just a tongue. It was an invasion, hot and wet and wildly intimate. He worked deliberately, from her dripping, swollen cunt upwards, a slow, vertical strip. Then his focus narrowed solely to her asshole. He swirled his tongue around the tight circumference, the pressure constant, abrasive. He probed the tense opening with the very tip, flicking and pressing until, with a low grunt, he pushed it inside her.
She screamed. The feeling was brutal, perverse, absolute. The undeniable shove of a man’s muscle into a forbidden part of her body. He fucked her ass with his tongue, his breath hot on her skin, his nose buried in her.
“Jesus, you taste like sin,” he growled against her, the words vibrating through her entire lower body. He sucked at the rim, his hands pinning her hips to keep her from rocking away. Or towards him—she wasn’t sure anymore. “And you’re letting me get my face this deep inside your filthy little hole.”
He lapped at her with raw, undisguised hunger, like an animal. The sounds—wet, squelching, muffled—filled the quiet apartment. He could own her more completely with his tongue than he ever had with his cock. This was about invasion of spirit.
Her head fell forward. Tears she hadn’t felt forming splashed onto the dark leather. The orgasm approached not like a crashing wave, but like a slow, inexorable tide. It built from the center of her, a deep, twisting ache that flared outward until she was shaking, her cunt dripping onto the couch, her ass clenching wildly against the relentless onslaught of his tongue.
“Yes…” she sobbed. “Yesyesyes…”
He withdrew his tongue with a final, harsh lick. The sudden absence felt cavernous. She heard his belt, the definitive snick of a condom wrapper. He pressed something cool and slick against her ravaged hole. Lube. A rough finger, thick and insistent, breached her.
She tensed, a strangled sound caught in her throat.
“Relax, you greedy bitch,” he rasped. “You asked for this wrecking. Now fucking take it.” He worked the finger, then two, with a brutal, conquering rhythm, stretching her far beyond anything before.
He positioned himself. The blunt, rubber-sheathed head of his cock probed at the seized entrance, applying relentless pressure. The burn was catastrophic. A white-hot tearing. She bit down on a leather cushion to keep from screaming.
“It won’t fit,” she choked out.
“It will,” he said, voice strained with his own effort. He pulled back slightly, pushed again, a deeper, more vicious stab.
The pain shattered, replaced by a stunning, stretching fullness that stole the air from her lungs. He buried himself to the root inside her clenching channel, his pelvis flush against her ass. The noise he made was primal, a guttural exhalation of pure conquest.
He didn’t move at first, letting the reality of the penetration sink in for both of them. He gripped her hips, his fingers biting into the flesh he’d just reddened. “Say it.”
She could barely form words. “You… you’re in my ass.”
“You’re goddamn right I am.” He withdrew, a slow, slick slide that felt like the entire world was moving inside her. Then he plunged back in. Every thrust was a controlled, annihilating piston stroke, each one harder and deeper than the last. The TV screen showed them a grotesque mirror: him standing, fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and her, a naked, keening creature taking it with a helpless, brutalized rhythm. The sound was obscene: wet flesh, the rhythmic slap of his hips against her flesh, the creak of the leather sofa.
“You wanna know the real mindfuck, Lisa?” he gritted out, hammering into her in short, savage bursts. “This tight little butthole feels a million times better than your married cunt. I’m stretching this place open and leaving a mark your husband will never even know is there.”
His words were their own kind of penetration. The disgusting truth of them, coupled with the immense, impossible pleasure-pain of the physical act, ripped a second orgasm from her. She came so hard her vision starburst, a silent scream contorting her face, her entire digestive tract spasming wildly around his pistoning length. It milked him, triggered the final, brutal shuddering of his hips. He slammed deep, held there, his own climax hitting him with a series of sharp, explosive grunts that she felt echo through her entire violated core.
He slumped forward, pinning her into the couch with his weight, his sweaty forehead on her bare back, his cock still throbbing inside her. His breath roared in her ear.
They stayed like that for minutes. He slowly, carefully, pulled out. She sagged onto the leather, boneless, wrecked. A dull, raw ache bloomed in the heart of her.
She heard him move away, heard water running in the kitchen. He didn't bring her anything. He returned, zipping his fly. He stood over her, looking down at the mess they'd made on his couch, at the mess of her.
"My place. 9 PM Saturday," he said, no inflection. He lit a cigarette. "Don't eat. We're trying something else. And Lisa?"
She managed to look up.
"Wash your ass before you come. But know it's just going to get dirty again."
He handed her the dress, folded. A dismissal.
She dressed, every movement echoing with pain. The walk to the elevator, the drive home in the bright, jarring afternoon sun—all of it felt like moving through a dreamscape of wrongness. When she pulled into her own driveway, the familiar red geraniums in the window boxes looked like cheap, plastic imitations of a life she no longer belonged to. The sheer soreness inside her felt like the only real thing in the world. It was a new scar, and she carried it home to her husband, sitting beside her unsuspecting boy, the ghost of Jake's conquest a dark and permanent fist inside her body, tightening with every false, normal step she took.