Chapter 12: Astrid 2
The sharp, yeasty scent of baking bread hit Paul as he turned onto Marylebone High Street. Late afternoon sun warmed the honey-colored stone facades, glinting off polished brass door knockers. He walked with an unfamiliar lightness, the memory of Odette’s taste – sharp, musky, addictive – still lingering phantom-like on his tongue from lunchtime. The constant ache in his jaw, the soreness in his knees from prolonged kneeling in her apartment, even the lingering ghost-smell of urine from that night… they were badges he wore privately, proof of his servitude, his purpose. He belonged beneath her. The certainty was a warm, humming thing in his chest.
"Paul! Hey, Paul!"
The voice cut through the street noise – bright, familiar. He turned. Across the bustling street, leaning against the glossy black doorframe of a boutique, stood Astrid. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands escaping around her face. She wore dark jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt that showed off her athletic frame. She waved, a wide, uncomplicated smile spreading across her features. No trace of the awkwardness from the bar weeks ago. Just cheerful recognition.
He hesitated for only a second before weaving through the traffic towards her. "Astrid. Hello." His barrister’s voice felt stiff, overly formal in the casual afternoon bustle.
"Fancy seeing you here!" she chirped, pushing off the doorframe. Her eyes, a clear blue, scanned him quickly. "Looking sharp. Barrister-ing done for the day?"
"Just clearing my head," Paul replied, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. The lightness he’d felt moments ago tightened into something else – anticipation? Apprehension?
Her gaze snapped back to him, sharpening. Then, the frown vanished, replaced by a look of sudden, practical inspiration. Her smile returned, wider now, tinged with something predatory. "Actually… Paul. You’re exactly who I need."
Paul blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah." She stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, though her tone remained utterly matter-of-fact. "Boyfriend’s been stuck in Frankfurt for three weeks. Dry spell central." She wrinkled her nose. "And right now? I’m fucking aching. A girl has needs." She looked him up and down again, her gaze lingering pointedly on his mouth. "Odette said you’re always available. Reliable." Astrid shrugged, as if discussing a handy local service. "Seems efficient. We’re both here. And honestly," she added, her voice dropping to a husky murmur, "wanking just isn’t cutting it."
Paul’s breath caught. The casualness of her proposition, the sheer practicality of it, was staggering. There was no seduction, no flirtation – just a blunt statement of need and his perceived utility. It mirrored Odette’s dominion, yet felt different. Cruder. More transactional. His pulse hammered against his ribs. The familiar submissive thrum vibrated deep within him, warring with a flare of shock.
"Astrid, we’re on a public street," he managed, his voice tight.
"So? We were basically in public at the bar when you did it before." She grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Seen that alley?" She jerked her head towards a narrow passageway squeezed between a bookshop and a cafe. It was shadowed, piled with discarded cardboard boxes smelling faintly of damp produce. "Perfectly discreet. Quick in-and-out. Well," she chuckled, "you in, me out. Hopefully." She took his arm, her grip firm. "Come on. Be a darling."
She didn’t wait for agreement, pulling him firmly towards the alley mouth. Paul stumbled slightly, his mind reeling. This wasn’t Odette’s calculated cruelty or her demanding ownership. This was Astrid’s straightforward, horny pragmatism. She needed to cum, saw him as the tool to achieve it, and saw absolutely no issue with using him in a grimy alley while her boyfriend was abroad. The simplicity was jarring, yet undeniably potent. He let himself be led, the warmth of her hand on his arm sending a conflicting jolt through him.
The alley was cooler, damp. The sounds of the high street muffled instantly, replaced by the dripping of a leaky drainpipe and the distant clatter of bins. Astrid pushed him back against the rough brick wall, the coldness seeping through his shirt. Cardboard boxes nudged his legs. The smell of old vegetables and wet stone was thick.
"Right," Astrid breathed, already unbuttoning her jeans with brisk efficiency. "No time for foreplay, lover. Just need you to eat me out. Properly. Make me scream into this cardboard, yeah?" She shoved the jeans and her plain cotton knickers down her thighs in one swift movement, kicking them off one ankle. She didn't step out of them completely, leaving them tangled around one calf. Her pussy was exposed, a neat triangle of blonde curls glistening faintly with natural moisture in the dim light. The scent of her arousal, muskier than Odette’s, sharper, hit Paul’s nostrils – urgent and undeniable.
She didn't guide him down. She simply spread her legs wider, planted her hands on his shoulders for balance, and pushed her hips forward, grinding her wet cunt directly against his mouth. "Get fucking licking, Paul," she commanded, her voice rough with need. "Deep. Now."
The command, the sudden, overwhelming press of her hot, wet flesh against his lips, short-circuited any remaining hesitation. His submissive wiring fired instantly. He opened his mouth, his tongue lashing out instinctively, flattening against her slick outer lips. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and ground harder. Her taste flooded his senses – salt, musk, a tangy urgency utterly different from Odette’s complex dominance. It was primal, demanding.
"Fuck yes," Astrid hissed, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Like that. Get in there." She rocked her hips, rubbing her clit hard against the ridge of his upper lip, his nose buried in her blonde curls. "Use your tongue. Fucking drill it."
Paul obeyed, his head pinned against the brick. He pushed his tongue past her labia, delving into the hot, yielding entrance of her cunt. She was incredibly wet, her inner walls slick and clenching. He thrust his tongue deep, mimicking penetration, then flattened it, dragging upwards firmly over her swollen clit.
"OH! FUCK!" Astrid cried out, her head snapping back. She braced harder against him, riding his face with abandon. "Yes! Right there! Harder! Faster!" Her commands were gasped, punctuated by sharp moans. "Eat it! Eat my fucking pussy! Make me cum!"
Paul lost himself in the rhythm, the raw physicality. The brick scraped the back of his head. The smell of damp cardboard and her arousal filled his lungs. His jaw worked furiously, tongue plunging deep into her cunt, swirling, then flicking rapidly over the hard nub of her clit. He could feel her thighs trembling against his cheeks, hear the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working her, smell the heady musk intensifying.
"Don't stop! Don't you fucking stop!" Astrid panted, her voice rising. Her fingers clawed at his shirt. She was grinding against him erratically now, chasing the peak. "I'm close! So fucking close! Lick my clit! Lick it like you fucking mean it!"
Paul focused entirely on the hard little bud, flicking his tongue over it with rapid, insistent strokes, then circling it firmly, applying pressure. He buried his nose deeper into her, inhaling her scent, feeling the coarse hair against his skin.
Astrid’s body went rigid. A guttural, choked cry tore from her throat, muffled as she bit her own lip. Her hips jerked violently against his face, grinding her clit hard onto his tongue. He felt the powerful clenching deep inside her cunt, the hot gush of her release flooding over his chin, dripping down his neck. She shuddered, gasping, her legs buckling slightly, held up only by her grip on his shoulders and the pressure against his mouth.
He kept licking, gentler now, lapping at her sensitive flesh as the aftershocks rippled through her. She moaned, a long, low sound of pure satisfaction, her body sagging against him.
After a moment, she pushed herself upright, breathing heavily. She looked down at him, her face flushed, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Paul remained pinned against the wall, her wetness smeared across his mouth and chin, dripping onto his collar. His own arousal was a hard, insistent ache in his trousers, utterly ignored.
"Christ, Paul," Astrid breathed, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. She reached down, not to touch him, but to pull her knickers and jeans back up, wincing slightly as the denim brushed her sensitive flesh. She fastened them briskly. "You really are good at that." She patted his cheek, her touch patronizing. "You could save me a fortune in vibrator batteries." She glanced around the alley, then back at him, her expression utterly pragmatic. "Right. Cheers for that. Lifesaver. See you around, yeah?"
She didn't wait for a response. Turning, she stepped over a soggy cardboard box and walked briskly out of the alley, merging seamlessly back into the flow of pedestrians on Marylebone High Street. The scent of fresh bread washed back in, momentarily overwhelming the lingering musk in the damp air.
Paul slumped against the cold brick, breathing hard. The rough texture scraped his scalp. Astrid’s taste, sharp and urgent, coated his tongue. Her wetness cooled on his skin. The casualness of it, the sheer use of him… it echoed Odette, yet lacked her terrifying ownership. This was simpler. Dirtier. A transaction completed. He touched his wet chin, staring at the greasy fingerprints Astrid had left on his shirt shoulder. The lightness he’d felt walking down the street was gone, replaced by a hollow ache and the familiar, shameful throb of his neglected cock. He pushed himself off the wall, his knees trembling slightly. He needed to walk. He needed to breathe air that didn’t smell of damp cardboard and Astrid’s climax. He needed… he didn’t know what he needed. Only that he was walking away from the alley, tasting another woman on his lips, feeling utterly, profoundly used. And knowing, with a sickening certainty, that he’d be ready to do it again. For her. For Odette. For whoever demanded it.
Paul stumbled out of the alley’s damp gloom, the sharp tang of Astrid’s cunt still thick on his tongue, her wetness cooling on his chin. The late afternoon sun on Marylebone High Street felt jarringly bright, the cheerful bustle of shoppers a dissonant counterpoint to the raw, transactional violation humming in his veins. He swiped the back of his hand across his wet mouth, the coarse denim of Astrid’s jeans tangled around her ankle flashing in his mind, the guttural sound of her climax echoing off the brick walls. His own cock throbbed painfully against the seam of his trousers, a neglected ache ignored in the service of her urgent need.
He walked blindly, the scent of baking bread suddenly cloying. The casual efficiency of it – ‘Need to come? Paul’ll handle it.’ – echoed Odette’s dominion but stripped bare of her terrifying, almost artistic cruelty. This was pure utility. He felt hollowed out, a vessel used and discarded, yet the familiar, shameful heat of submissive satisfaction coiled low in his gut, warring with disgust. His polished brogues scuffed the pavement as he rounded a corner onto a quieter side street lined with elegant townhouses, seeking anonymity in the relative quiet.
A sharp vibration buzzed against his thigh. He flinched, pulling his phone from his pocket. Odette’s name flashed on the screen. A notification: Image Received.
He thumbed it open. His blood turned to ice water.
The image filled the screen, stark and unforgiving. It was taken from above, looking down. His own face, eyes closed in concentration, was buried deep between Astrid’s spread thighs. Her blonde pubic hair was a messy frame around his nose and mouth, pressed hard against her glistening pink folds. The denim of her jeans was clearly bunched around one ankle. One of her hands was out of frame, likely gripping his hair. The other hand, holding the phone, showed in the corner, pale fingers gripping the device. The angle captured the sheer, obscene intimacy: the wet shine on his lips where they met her cunt, the pressure of her body grinding down onto him against the grimy alley wall.
Below the photo, the caption glared up at him:
> Good boy. 😊
The proud smiley emoji felt like a brand.
Paul stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. A cyclist swerved around him with a curse he didn’t hear. London’s sounds – traffic, distant sirens, chatter – receded into a dull roar. The lingering taste of Astrid turned acrid in his mouth. Cold horror washed over him, followed instantly by a sickening surge of arousal so intense it made him lightheaded. Astrid hadn't just used him; she’d documented it. For Odette.
She’d sent it. To her. While he was still licking her. While his face was buried in her pussy. Odette had known. Known he was servicing her friend in a filthy alley while tasting her on his tongue, known he belonged utterly to her command, even when servicing another. The ‘Good boy’ wasn’t praise; it was a declaration of ownership, a chilling acknowledgment of his complete submission. She saw him. She saw everything. And she approved. The casual cruelty of that little yellow smiley face was worse than any command she’d ever issued in her lamplit apartment. He stared at the image, at his own subservient face engulfed in Astrid’s sex, the proof of his absolute compliance frozen on the screen. His hand trembled violently. The neglected ache in his groin sharpened into a painful, humiliating throb. She owned him.