Chapter 5: Margot's Training Session
The amber liquid in the crystal glass tasted like smoke and money. Ethan held it awkwardly, his back straight against the plush velvet of Margot’s chaise. She sat opposite him in a low wingback chair, watching him over the rim of her own glass. Her smile was a curved blade.
“You don’t seem like the frat house type,” she said, her voice a low, smooth contralto. “There’s a stillness to you. An availability.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. He’d met her at the gallery opening where his friend’s terrible sculptures were being shown. She’d asked him about the meaning of a twisted metal piece, listened to his rambling answer with intense focus, and then offered to buy him a proper drink. Her apartment, high above the city, felt like another planet.
“I’m not,” he finally muttered.
“I know.” She set her glass down on a black marble table. The silence that followed was heavy, deliberate. The scent of jasmine from a burning candle mixed with something else on her skin—something dark and warm. “Stand up, Ethan.”
His body complied before his mind could question it. He stood in the center of the rich Persian rug, feeling like a specimen.
“Take off your shirt.”
His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his flannel. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. The city lights glowed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a distant grid of lives utterly removed from this velvet-lined room.
“Your pants too. Everything.”
There was no flirtation in her tone, no seductive lilt. It was a series of clear, calm commands. He kicked off his shoes, pushed his jeans and boxers down his hips, stepping out of them. The air was cool on his skin. He stood naked before her, his cock already half-hard from the sheer tension of the situation, from her unwavering gaze.
Margot didn’t touch him. She simply looked, her eyes traveling from his face down his chest, over his stomach, lingering on his erection. “You have a beautiful mouth,” she said. “Full lips. Made for use.”
A shiver that wasn’t entirely unpleasant traced his spine. Everybody knows. The phrase from Donna’s mouth echoed, but here it was transformed. From gossip into doctrine.
“Come here. Kneel.”
He walked to the space before her chair and lowered himself to his knees on the rug. The pile was deep and soft. She remained seated, looking down at him. She slowly hooked her fingers into the sides of her silk trousers and peeled them down, along with her lace underwear. She didn’t shave. A neat, dark triangle of hair framed her sex. She parted her legs, resting each foot on the edge of the chair’s seat, opening herself completely to his view.
The scent of her, richer and more complex than the girls his age, filled the space between them. It was musk, spice, pure female heat.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
He lifted his eyes from the wet, dark folds of her to her face. Her expression was composed, regal.
“You are going to taste me. You are going to lick my cunt until I am satisfied. You will not stop until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?”
He nodded, a quick, jerky motion.
“Use your words, Ethan.”
“Yes.” The word was a breath.
“Yes, what?”
He swallowed. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good.”
She didn’t guide his head. She simply waited. He leaned forward, closing the distance, and pressed his mouth to her. She was swollen, silken. He licked a slow, tentative stripe from her opening to her clit. She let out a soft sigh. “Deeper.”
He pushed his tongue inside her. Her taste flooded his senses—salt, tang, profound sweetness. He set a rhythm, licking and sucking, his nose buried in her coarse hair. His own arousal was a distant throb, irrelevant.
Her hands came to rest on the back of his head, not forcing, just present. Her hips began a slow, rolling grind against his face. “Just like that. Use the flat of your tongue. Now the tip. Circle my clit. Yes.”
He was an instrument, finely tuned to her feedback. His jaw began to ache, but the ache was part of the service. Her breathing grew ragged. Her thighs tightened around his ears, muffling the world until all that existed was the slick, hot sounds of his mouth on her and her escalating moans.
“Don’t you dare slow down,” she gasped. “I’m close. Make me come. Make me squirt all over that pretty, devoted face.”
The words ignited something in him—a desperate, focused determination. He drove his tongue into her, fucking her with it, then sealed his lips over her clit and sucked, hard, while his thumb found the soaked entrance beneath and pressed rhythmically.
Margot’s body went rigid. A guttural cry tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained. Her hips slammed up against his mouth, and then it happened—a hot, sudden gush of fluid erupted from her, soaking his chin, his neck, his chest. It wasn’t a trickle. It was a release, a torrent. It dripped from his nose, his lips. The scent, intensified and sharper, filled his lungs.
She trembled through the pulses, her cries softening into whimpers. Finally, she went limp, her legs sliding off the chair to rest on his shoulders. He kept his mouth pressed gently against her, feeling the last few spasms.
After a long moment, she pushed his head back. He looked up, dripping. Her face was flushed, beatific. She looked at the mess she’d made of him and smiled. “Beautiful.”
She reached beside her chair and produced a small black box. She opened it. Inside, nestled in black foam, was a device. A realistic, purple silicone dildo, gleaming under the candlelight. It was attached to a molded mouthguard.
“Open,” she said.
Ethan stared at it, comprehension dawning. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“Now, Ethan.”
He opened his mouth. She fitted the guard between his teeth. It tasted like sterile rubber. The dildo protruded from his lips, a rigid, alien extension.
“You will hold it steady. You will not let it slip. You will keep your mouth open.” She stood, her movements fluid. She stepped over him, then straddled his face, her knees on the rug on either side of his head. She reached behind her, guiding the silicone tip to her opening. She was still dripping, impossibly wet.
She looked down at him, her eyes dark pools of intent. “Your only job is to be still. Can you do that?”
He grunted around the mouthguard, a strained affirmative.
She lowered herself. Slowly, she took the length of the dildo into her body, impaling herself on the toy held in his mouth. A deep, shuddering moan escaped her. Ethan’s world narrowed to the strain in his neck, the pressure on his jaw, the overwhelming, suffocating closeness of her. Her weight was on him. Her scent, her heat, her wetness enveloped him. He could see nothing but the pale skin of her stomach, the dark thatch of hair where she was joined to the toy, to him.
She began to move. Riding him. Riding the dildo in his mouth. Each downward stroke forced his head back. Each lift gave a fraction of relief. She set a brutal, steady pace, fucking herself on him, her hands braced on his shoulders for leverage.
“Fuck… yes… your mouth… your perfect, useful mouth…” she chanted, her voice breathy and broken.
Spit pooled in his mouth, trapped behind the guard. He couldn’t swallow. He focused on breathing through his nose, on staying rigid, on being the anchor for her pleasure. His own body was forgotten, a numb afterthought.
Her movements became frantic, slamming down onto him with force. The sounds were obscene—wet, smacking flesh, her ragged pants, the creak of the floor under his knees.
“I’m gonna… again… oh god, hold it, hold it steady!” she screamed.
He locked his muscles, his vision swimming. She threw her head back and convulsed, another hot rush of her release spraying down, mixing with the spit and her earlier fluids on his face and neck. She ground herself against the base of the toy, milking the sensation with sharp, circular motions until she finally stilled, spent, her body draped over his.
For a minute, there was only the sound of her breathing and the distant hum of the city. Then, with a soft sigh, she lifted herself off. She pulled the toy from her body, then gently extracted the mouthguard from his teeth. He gasped, his jaw screaming in protest as he finally closed his mouth.
She tossed the device back into the box. She looked down at him, a ruin on her rug—covered in her fluids, his eyes wide and shell-shocked.
She cupped his cheek, her thumb wiping through the mess. “You did so well,” she said, her voice tender now, almost maternal. “Such a good boy.”
The words, so at odds with the raw violence of the act, shattered something inside him. A tear, hot and sudden, tracked through the dampness on his cheek.
She saw it. Her smile softened. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, a benediction. “Clean yourself up in the guest bathroom. Towels are in the cabinet. Then you may leave.”
She stood, pulling her silk trousers back on with effortless grace, and walked towards her bedroom, leaving him kneeling in the amber light, the taste of rubber and her still on his tongue, the phantom pressure of her weight still pinning him to the earth.