Chapter 47: Hayley's Midnight Feast
Her grip tightened, a possessive claim on his need. “I’ve got the whole night, and you’re not going anywhere,” she murmured, her breath hot against his temple. She released his cock and swung off the bed, her naked form a pale outline in the dark.
He heard the soft rasp of a drawer opening, then the clink of metal. She returned, something silky and dark dangling from her fingers. She leaned over him, her breasts heavy against his chest, and began looping the soft, woven restraint around one ankle. She tied it firmly to the bedpost with a practiced, efficient knot.
“Can’t have you squirming away when it gets intense.” The second restraint bit into his skin, soft yet unyielding. He was now fully spread, utterly open, every muscle tense with anticipation and dread.
She stood back at the foot of the bed, assessing her work. The faint light from the streetlamp outside caught the curve of her hips, the shadowed valley between her breasts. She ran her hands over her own stomach, watching him. “Hard the whole time, aren’t you? Even after making me come.” It wasn’t a question. “That desperate, obedient cock doesn’t know anything else.”
She climbed back onto the bed, but this time she straddled his thighs, her weight pinning his legs. Her cunt, glistening with his spit and her own arousal, hovered inches above his straining erection. He could feel her heat radiating down onto him. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, her nipples brushing his skin.
“Tell me what you are, Paul,” she said, her eyes locking onto his in the dimness.
“Yours,” he rasped, the word torn from a place deeper than shame.
“Wrong,” she whispered, lowering herself until her slick folds just kissed the head of his cock. He gasped. “Try again.”
His mind scrambled. “A… a mouth. A tool.” He swallowed. “A hungry animal.”
“Better.” She sank down an inch, taking him inside with a slow, devastating wetness that made his vision blur. A choked moan escaped him.
She leaned forward, her hands gripping his shoulders, her breasts swinging heavily above his face.
She leaned forward, her hands gripping his shoulders, her breasts swinging heavily above his face. Then she lowered them fully, smothering him in their soft, warm weight. The scent of her skin, clean and faintly of jasmine, filled his nostrils as the full, pillowy flesh pressed against his cheeks, his mouth.
He turned his head instinctively, his lips finding a hardened nipple. He took it into his mouth, suckling gently at first, then with more hunger. The areola was a soft, pebbled texture against his tongue. Being engulfed like this, his world reduced to the heat and weight of her breasts, was a profound, wonderful escape.
He could hear her quiet sigh above him. Her hips gave a small, rolling movement above his own, and he felt the hot, slick wetness of her vulva drip onto the base of his cock. The sensation was agonizing, a promise held just out of reach.
His shaft twitched, aching to be sheathed inside her. He knew, with a clarity that was both torment and relief, that he was not allowed to use it. Odette’s rule was absolute: her property required her consent. Hayley seemed to know that rule intimately, to relish it.
She ground herself against him, her wetness slicking his abdomen, but she never lowered herself onto his shaft. “You feel that, don’t you?” she breathed, her voice thick above him. “How fucking wet I am for you? And you can’t do a thing.”
She rocked again, her slick folds dragging along the length of his pulsating cock, teasing the swollen head. He groaned around her nipple, his hips straining uselessly against the silk restraints. He was a tool, a receptacle, and his own pleasure was entirely incidental.
“I spent years,” she said, her tone shifting to something conversational amidst the intimacy, “doing things for boyfriends. Painful things, degrading things, things I thought would make them love me.” She lifted her hips, denying him even the friction of her touch, and he whimpered. “I let one fuck my ass raw while I cried into a pillow. I choked on another’s dick until I vomited.”
Paul released her nipple, listening, his mouth resting against the soft curve of her breast. Her heart thudded steadily beneath his lips.
“Now it’s my turn,” she stated, her fingers threading into his hair, not gently. “I get to experience what it’s like. To have someone who exists just for my pleasure.” She shifted her weight, lifting off him entirely, and he felt cold air on his wet skin. “And you, Paul, are going to be on the receiving end for all of it.”
She moved back, settling her weight onto his chest, her thighs framing his face. Her cunt was now a dark, glistening flower directly above his mouth. He could smell her arousal, richer and deeper than before.
“First,” she murmured, lowering herself slowly, “you’re going to make me come again with that talented tongue.” She pressed herself fully against his mouth, stifling his ready assent. “Then, we’ll see what else I fancy.”
Her cunt squashed wetly onto his face, a warm, smothering seal that blotted out sight and focused his world on scent and taste. He began to lick her out, his tongue tracing the swollen contours of her labia before spearing into her opening. She tasted profoundly musky, a complex, salty tang, simultaneously as familiar and as unique to Paul as fine red wine is to a connoisseur.
She began to roll her hips, gentle undulations that quickly grew urgent. A low moan vibrated through her body, echoed by the bedframe. “Yeah, just like that,” she slurred, her hands clenching in the velvet duvet beside his head.
Soon she lost herself in it, abandoning rhythm for sheer sensation. She dragged her wet vulva all over his face, painting his skin with her slickness. His nose slid through her folds, his chin was slicked, his cheeks glazed. He gasped for air whenever she rocked back, only to be submerged again.
Her thick mucosal lust was painted all over his face in a slimy layer as she used his face just as a surface to grind on. She fucked his features with abandon, her clit catching on the bridge of his nose, her opening smearing across his lips. The wet, slapping sounds filled the dark room.
Eventually she found climax rubbing her clitoris on his eyebrow ridge while his nose was engulfed in the first centimetre of her vaginal opening. She bore down, grinding hard in tight, frantic circles as her whole body seized. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat.
Her release was a hot, sudden gush that flooded over his nose and sealed mouth. He swallowed what he could, the bitter-salty fluid coating his throat. Her inner muscles pulsed violently against the tip of his nose.
Once her climax had concluded, depositing more cream onto his face, she slumped off beside him. She lay panting, one arm thrown over her eyes. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
Trails of her copious discharge were still wet on his face. He lay immobilized, feeling the cool air sting the places she had painted. He blinked, his eyelids sticky.
She propped herself up on an elbow, studying his glistening, ruined face with clinical interest. She gathered sludgy gobbets of discharge from his cheek with her fingers. She pushed them towards and into his eyes, which stung as he blinked, unwittingly working the congealed pussy cream into them.
“I’m a vet, think of where my hands have been, the things I do every day,” she said quietly, wiping her fingers clean on his lower lip. “I guarantee my limits of squeamishness and revulsion are way higher than yours. I want you to feel polluted. Invaded in ways you’ve never experienced.”
He believed her. The stinging in his eyes the taste layered in his mouth—it was a contamination more complete than Holly’s blood. This was a calculated defilement, and it carved a new, deeper hollow inside him. He felt owned down to his pores.
He lay there, breathing through his mouth, the taste of her a permanent stain on his tongue. Hayley watched him, her head propped on her hand, a slow smile spreading across her face. She seemed to be contemplating a new experiment.
“You know,” she said, her voice light, conversational, “people think being a vet is all cute puppies and kittens.” She leaned closer, her breasts pressing against his arm. “It’s not. It’s rectal exams on constipated cows. It’s draining abscesses that could make a sewer rat gag.” Her fingers, which had been idly tracing patterns on his chest, stilled. “It gives you a real perspective on what’s actually dirty.”
With a sudden, fluid motion, she shifted her weight and sat up. She brought her hand between her own legs, not with passion, but with a clinical curiosity. He watched, mesmerized and aroused, as she pushed two fingers deep inside herself, questing through the wet mess she and he had made together.
She pulled them out, glistening and streaked. “See?” she said, holding them up to the faint light. “This isn’t dirty. This is just… biology. A beautiful, slippery biology.”
With obvious amusement, she brought those two fingers to his face. He flinched, but there was nowhere to go. She didn’t aim for his mouth. She pressed them firmly, first against one nostril, then the other, inserting the tips inside. She coated the insides of his nose with her cream, a thick, viscous layer that immediately clogged his airways with her intimate scent.
She recovered more nectar from herself, dipping her fingers back into her slick folds, and repeated the action, smearing it deeper. The smell was overpowering, a concentrated, musky fog directly inside his head. She smiled down at him, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight. “Has anyone ever had their fingers up your nose before, Paul?”
His voice was distorted, stuffy and low, as he tried to breathe around the intrusion. “They haven’t.”
When Hayley removed her fingers with a soft, wet sound, Paul instinctively snorted, a sharp, reflexive attempt to clear the blockage. The action pulled her essence deeper into his sinus cavity, a shocking trickle that seeped into the back of his throat and high into his nasal passages. The taste flooded his palate, coppery and profound, layered with something indefinably and uniquely her.
Hayley clapped her hands together once, a sharp, delighted sound. “Oh, that’s deep in your sinuses, you can taste me, smell me, can’t you?” She laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “That’s going to live with you for hours!”
Hayley’s laughter softened into a sigh of deep satisfaction. She studied his face, a canvas of her own making, glistening and clogged with her.
She wiped her fingers clean on the sheet beside him, the gesture domestic and final. The fierce energy that had animated her seemed to drain away, replaced by a languid, predatory contentment. The darkness in the room felt softer now, less a veil and more a blanket.
She shifted her weight, lying down beside him on the wide bed. She nestled into the crook of his arm, her body warm and solid against his restrained side. The magnificent weight of her breasts settled against his ribcage, a soft, pillowy pressure that was both a comfort and a reminder of her overwhelming physicality.
Her hand, which had been so invasive moments before, now drifted down his stomach with a casual possessiveness. Her fingers circled the base of his aching, neglected cock. She gave him a few slow, languid strokes, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum that had welled at the tip.
“We should get some sleep,” she murmured, her voice now a drowsy whisper against his shoulder. Her breath was warm. “I’ve got a lot more in store for you.”
She gave his shaft one final, almost affectionate squeeze, then released him. Her hand came to rest on his chest, over his pounding heart. She nuzzled closer, her thighs shifting against his. Within minutes, her breathing evened out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep.
Paul lay rigid, shackled to his own bed. The scent of her was a living entity inside his skull, a perfumed fog he could not escape. Every shallow breath through his mouth tasted of her. The sensitive lining of his nose burned faintly, saturated.
His cock, painfully hard, throbbed in the cool air. The ghost of her grip still tingled on his skin. Hayley’s peaceful weight against him was the ultimate confinement. He was trapped not just by silk and steel, but by her sheer, sleeping presence.
The night stretched before him, an endless corridor of arousal and immobility. He stared at the dark ceiling, listening to her breathe, drowning in the intimate perfume he had been forced to consume. Her promise echoed, a taunt and a threat.
He must have slept, a shallow, broken thing punctured by dreams of smothering softness and the coppery aftertaste of Holly’s visit. His neck ached. A cramp bit into his left calf, a sharp protest against immobility.
He blinked, disoriented. The room was dark again, profound and complete. He was stiff, muscles protesting, the silk ropes at his ankles and the cold cuffs on his wrists, loose for comfort but becoming a burden despite that. There was enough slack to allow a shift, a slight roll of his shoulders to ease the burning in his trapped arms, a turn of his hip to change the way his skin sat on the sheets beneath.
Hayley’s hand still held his cock, limply now, her fingers curled in a loose, sleeping claim around its base. His erection had softened only slightly, a semi-hard, persistent ache that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The realization came to him slowly, seeping through the fog of discomfort.
Odette had promised him he would eat pussy every single day. This visit wasn’t a romantic interlude or a chance encounter. Hayley was the delivery mechanism for that promise, a scheduled feeding. His own uncontrollable craving, the desperate hunger that had driven him to Holly’s bloody orifice, had simply moved the timetable forward. He was an addict, and they were his keepers, ensuring he got his daily fix to keep him pliant, hungry, and theirs.
His slight stirring woke her. She made a soft, muffled sound against his shoulder, nuzzling deeper for a second before her body registered the change. Her breathing hitched, shifted. He felt her awareness return to the room, to him, to her hand on his flesh.
She lifted her head, a dark smudge in the blackness. He heard the faint, digital tap of her activating her watch, its pale green glow illuminating the clean, capable lines of her face for a split second. She glanced at it, then let her head fall back onto his shoulder with a sleepy, contented purr.
“Mmm. Perfect.” Her voice was thick with sleep, yet utterly clear in its intent. Her limp hand tightened its grip, giving his cock a possessive, waking squeeze. “I want your tongue in my arsehole, Paul.”
The sentence, delivered in that casual, sleep-roughened tone, left no room for discussion. It wasn’t a question or a lewd suggestion. It was a statement of immediate fact, as simple as her declaring she wanted a glass of water. He felt a new, different tension coil in his gut, a primal flinch that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with a deep-seated taboo.
“Okay,” he heard himself say, his own voice a dry rustle.
“Good,” she murmured, shifting beside him. She didn’t move to release his wrists. Instead, she simply rolled onto her side, facing away from him, and drew her knees up toward her chest. She presented herself to him, an offering and a command in one. The shadowed globe of her ass was pale in the darkness, the cleft a dark line he could now just make out.
He had to strain against the cuffs, twisting his torso, to bring his face closer. The position was awkward, putting a painful torque on his shoulders. The scent here was different, earthier, musky in a sharper, more fundamental way than the complex perfume of her cunt. It was the scent of skin, of body, of something entirely private.
“Don’t just stare at it,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Get your face in there. Lick it. Really lick it.”
He obeyed, extending his tongue. The first touch was a flat, broad stroke against the tight, wrinkled skin of her rosebud. It was clean, but carried the intimate, humid warmth of her body. She sighed, a sound of profound satisfaction, and pushed back gently against his mouth.
“Yeah. Like that. Now get it wet. Get it really wet and open it up with your tongue.”
He worked diligently, lapping at the tight pucker, coating it with saliva. He circled it, then pressed the pointed tip of his tongue against it, feeling the incredible tightness give way by infinitesimal degrees. The taste was salty, cleanly animal, profoundly intimate. He felt her muscle relax under the persistent, wet pressure.
“Deeper,” she commanded, her hand reaching back to spread herself for him. “Fuck my ass with your tongue. Pretend it’s a tiny little cunt and make it wet for me.”
He pushed harder, his jaw aching, and finally his tongue-tip breached her, slipping into the incredible, clenching heat of her rectum. She groaned, low and satisfied, pressing back to take him deeper. He fucked her ass with his tongue, shallow but insistent strokes, feeling the ripple of her internal muscles around the intrusion.
“That’s it,” she panted. “Your tongue is so far up my ass. You’re eating my shit-hole, Paul. You’re a fucking filthy man.” Her words were deliberate, clinical in their crudity, designed to amplify the degradation of the act. He worked harder, sloppier, wanting only to please, to satisfy this new, depraved hunger she was eliciting.
After a minute of this, she shuddered. “Okay. Stop.” He went still, his tongue resting at her entrance, panting. “Now,” she said, shifting her body again. She rolled back towards him, her movements fluid in the dark. She swung a leg over his chest and once again settled her weight over his face, but this time she was reversing herself.
Her thighs framed his head, but now the dark thatch of her pubic hair was near his forehead, and the full, heavy swell of her ass settled over his mouth. The cleaned, wet ring of her anus was positioned directly above his lips.
“You got it nice and ready,” she said, looking down the length of her own body, past her breasts, to meet his eyes. Her expression was one of focused intent. “Now kiss it. Properly. Suck on my asshole.”
He lifted his head as much as the position allowed and pressed his mouth fully against her. He kissed the tight pucker, then, as instructed, sucked it gently into his mouth, sucking and tonguing at the sensitive skin. The taboo was absolute, the act itself somehow more vulnerable and commanding than anything else they had done.
“Yeah,” she breathed, her head falling back. One of her hands wandered down her own body, her fingers finding her clit. He could feel the subtle movement of her arm against his chest. She began to masturbate slowly, grinding her ass down against his sucking mouth.
“I’m gonna come with your face buried in my ass,” she moaned, her fingers working faster. Her breathing grew ragged. “After I’m finished you’re going to tell me how much you love the taste of my arsehole.”
Paul began to speak, to tell her that her rectum tasted like heavenly ambrosia, bug she growled “after!” And so he shut up and persisted.
Her orgasm built quickly, a tension that tightened her whole body. She bore down hard, shoving her asshole more firmly into his sucking mouth as she cried out, a sharp, gasping shout. Her cunt, just inches from his forehead, pulsed and he felt the wet heat of her release drip down onto the pillow near his hair.
She collapsed forward, her torso draping over his legs, spent and trembling. For a long moment, the only sound was her slowing pants. Then, she pushed herself up and off him, sliding down to lie beside him once more. She was slick with sweat.
She reached out in the dark, her fingers finding his cheek, tracing the contours of his mouth she had just been riding. “You did well,” she said, her voice now carrying a note of genuine, sleepy approval that felt more unsettling than her cruelty. “We’ll do that again before I go.” She nestled close, her hand returning to its possessive hold on his softened cock. “Go back to sleep. I’m not done with you.”