Chapter 7: Watching the Match
The stale scent of takeaway curry clung to Paul’s spacious, minimally decorated apartment, mingling uneasily with the sharp tang of his anxiety. He paced before the wide-screen television, the pre-match rugby analysis a buzzing backdrop. England versus France. His usual ritual – beer, crisps, focused tension – felt hollow. His skin still prickled with the phantom sensation of dried musk, the ghost of Odette’s command. You wear my scent all day. He’d done it and the humiliation lingered like a stain beneath his skin. And the memory of her mouth, hot and demanding, swallowing him whole… it coiled low in his gut, a persistent thrum beneath the anticipation of the match.
A sharp rap on the door cut through the commentator’s drone. Paul froze. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Heart hammering against his ribs, he peered through the peephole. Dark pixie hair, piercing green eyes narrowed slightly in impatience. Odette. His breath hitched. He fumbled with the lock.
She swept in without greeting, a whirlwind of expensive perfume – jasmine and something darker, spicier – instantly overpowering the curry. She wore sleek black trousers and a cream silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the swell of her breasts. Her gaze raked over him, taking in his faded jeans and rugby shirt, the half-eaten container on the coffee table, the flickering screen. A faint, knowing smirk touched her lips.
"England versus France," she stated, her voice cool. "Charming patriotism." She shrugged out of her tailored coat, draping it carelessly over the back of his sofa. "Pour me a drink. Something decent. Not that canal water." She gestured dismissively towards his pint of IPA.
Paul moved automatically, fetching whisky, ice clinking nervously in the glass. He handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his, deliberate, sending a jolt through him. She took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving his face, assessing, calculating. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension. The roar of the crowd on the TV felt distant, irrelevant.
"Comfortable viewing?" she asked, her tone deceptively casual. She glanced towards his large, plush sofa facing the screen.
"It… it’s fine," Paul managed, his throat tight.
"Good." She set her glass down with a decisive click. Then, with unnerving calm, she walked to the centre of the living room rug, directly between him and the television. She turned her back to the screen. Her hands went to the clasp of her trousers. "Take these off," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low purr.
Paul stared, frozen. The match was about to kick off. The national anthems swelled. "Odette… the game…"
"Now, Paul," she snapped, the playful veneer vanishing, replaced by steel. "Or I walk out that door and you spend the next month wondering what my plans involved."
The threat, laced with the promise of withheld pleasure and amplified humiliation, propelled him forward. His fingers trembled as he undid the clasp, slid the zip down. The fine black fabric pooled around her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking them aside. She wore simple black lace panties. His gaze fixed on the curve of her arse, the delicate line of her spine revealed as she bent slightly to push the panties down her thighs. She straightened, completely naked from the waist down, her pale skin luminous in the room's low light. The roar of the crowd seemed to surge, a counterpoint to the frantic pounding of his own blood.
"Lie down," she ordered, pointing to the thick rug. "On your front. Head towards the television." She picked up her whisky glass and walked calmly to the sofa. She arranged cushions, then lay down on her stomach, propped on her elbows, her perfect arse presented towards the centre of the room, directly where she’d commanded him to lie. Her gaze was fixed on the screen where the teams were lining up. "The match is starting," she said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "Get comfortable."
Paul felt a wave of dizzying heat wash over him, followed by a cold prickle of shame. He understood. He knelt on the rug, the coarse fibres scratching his knees through his jeans. He lowered himself onto his stomach, his face inches from the smooth, pale globes of her arse. The intimate scent of her, clean skin layered over a deeper, muskier undertone, filled his nostrils. His cock hardened instantly, painfully confined within his jeans. The opening whistle blew on the TV.
"Closer," Odette commanded, not looking away from the screen. She shifted her hips slightly, widening her legs a fraction. "And lose the trousers. I want you properly positioned."
Hands shaking, Paul wrestled with his belt, his jeans, kicking them off. He was naked now except for his jersey. He shuffled forward on his elbows until his face was pressed against the warm, yielding flesh of her inner thigh. Her arsehole was a tight, dark pucker mere inches from his mouth. The intimacy was staggering, terrifying. He’d never… the thought alone sent a fresh surge of humiliation and arousal coiling through him.
"Good," Odette murmured, taking a sip of whisky. "England have possession. Now, Paul." Her voice hardened. "Put your mouth on my arsehole. Lick it. Love it. Show me how devoted you are."
The command, delivered so casually while she watched rugby, shattered him. The shame was a physical weight, crushing. Yet, beneath it, a terrifying, undeniable current of arousal surged, centred in his throbbing cock. He hesitated, breathing heavily against her skin.
"Do it," she hissed, a sharp edge entering her tone. "Or I get dressed and leave you here with your pathetic hard-on and your losing team."
The threat snapped the last thread of resistance. With a choked sound, part gasp, part sob, Paul leaned forward. He pressed his lips tentatively against the tight little knot of her anus. The skin was surprisingly soft, yielding slightly under the pressure. The taste was clean skin, faintly salty. He flicked his tongue out, a timid, feather-light stroke.
Odette sighed, a sound of pure contentment. "Oh, yes. That’s better. Use your tongue properly. Get it wet." On screen, France conceded a penalty. "Merde," she muttered. "Harder, Paul. Don’t be shy."
He obeyed, pressing his face more firmly into her cleft. He opened his mouth wider, flattening his tongue against her arsehole, licking firmly upwards. The sensation was strange, intimate beyond anything he’d experienced. The tight ring of muscle resisted slightly, then yielded to the persistent wet pressure of his tongue. He lapped at it, circling it, probing gently with the tip. The taste intensified – clean, musky, uniquely her. His shame burned, but it was inextricably tangled now with a dark, burgeoning excitement. He was on his knees, face buried in her arse, licking her anus while she watched rugby. The degradation was absolute. And his cock strained against the rug, leaking pre-come onto the fibres.
"Allez , England knocked on!" Odette exclaimed, her hips shifting minutely against his face. "Keep going. Deeper. Use the point." She pushed back slightly, grinding her arsehole against his mouth. "Get your filthy tongue right in there."
Paul groaned, the sound muffled against her flesh. He obeyed, spearing his tongue tip firmly against the tight entrance, pressing inward. It resisted, then yielded with a slight pop, allowing the very tip of his tongue to penetrate the hot, clenching ring. The sensation was shocking – intimate, forbidden, deeply submissive. He swirled his tongue inside the tight rim, lapping at the sensitive inner flesh. Odette moaned softly, a low, satisfied rumble. "Mmm, yes. Good boy. Just like that." She took another sip of whisky, her eyes fixed on the screen. "France are dominating the scrum. Your boys can’t compete Paul."
Paul lost himself in the rhythm, the taste, the overwhelming sensation of utter debasement. He licked and probed, circling the tight ring, plunging his tongue shallowly inside, then lapping broad strokes over the entire area. His saliva slicked her skin, mingling with the faint musk. His jaw ached. His cock throbbed, neglected, grinding against the rough rug. The roar of the crowd, the commentator's frantic voice, Odette's occasional muttered curses or sighs of pleasure – it all blended into a surreal soundtrack to his abasement. He felt like a tool, an appliance servicing her while her attention was elsewhere. The humiliation was profound, yet it fed the fire in his belly, making his arousal painfully acute.
He worked tirelessly, driven by her commands and the dark thrill of his own submission. He tongued her arsehole with increasing fervour, exploring its texture, revelling in the degrading intimacy. He sucked gently on the tight ring, eliciting a sharper gasp from her. "Oh! Fuck, Paul… yes…" Her hips pushed back harder, demanding more. He plunged his tongue deeper, fucking her arsehole with it as best he could, the tight heat incredible. He felt her muscles flutter around his probing tongue.
But she didn’t climax. Her breathing hitched, her body tensed momentarily, but the peak didn’t come. Instead, after a particularly deep thrust of his tongue coincided with France scoring a try, she sighed, a sound of deep satisfaction that seemed only partly related to the rugby. She relaxed back onto the cushions. "Enough," she said, her voice languid, sated but not breathless.
She shifted her hips slightly, pressing her arse back towards his face. “Just bury your fucking face in my cheeks now. No tongue. Smother yourself in me.” The command was lazy, almost dismissive, as France secured another penalty on screen.
Paul obeyed instantly, pressing his nose and mouth deep into the warm, yielding cleft of her arse. Her skin was slick from his saliva, the musk of her intimate sweat and the faint, clean scent of soap filling his nostrils as he inhaled. He stayed utterly still, his face crushed between her firm globes, his own ragged breath heating the skin beneath his lips while the crowd roared for a try.
"Comfortable?" Odette murmured, her eyes still fixed on the screen where replays showed the French winger diving over the line. "Good. Now, let's make this interesting." Her hand drifted back, fingers tangling possessively in his hair, holding his face firmly against her. "If England somehow win this, I'll let you fuck this tight little arsehole. Properly. Make me your anal whore, imagine me sobbing as your big cock stretches me open, remakes my bowels." She ground her cheeks against his face for emphasis. "But if France win, mon cher, you have to agree to start drinking my piss?"
Paul’s heart hammered against his ribs. The offer was obscene, terrifying, electrifying. Fucking her arse was a dark fantasy he’d never dared voice; drinking her piss was degradation beyond anything he’d imagined. Yet the sheer power of her proposition, the casual ownership in her tone, sent a violent surge of lust straight to his already aching cock. "Yes," he gasped, the word muffled against her skin, hot with submission. "Deal."
He lifted his head slightly, needing to see the screen, needing to know his fate. The scoreboard glared back: FRANCE 23 - 12 ENGLAND. A cold wave of inevitability washed over him, followed by a sick, thrilling jolt of anticipation. The gap felt insurmountable. "Fuck," he breathed, the reality hitting him.
Odette chuckled, a low, rich sound of pure amusement. "Quelle surprise," she purred, wriggling her arse teasingly against his slackened face. "You look thirsty already, hmm? Be useful. Fetch me a pint of water. I need to hydrate." She gave his hair a sharp tug before releasing him.
Paul scrambled backwards, his knees protesting, his naked skin suddenly cool in the apartment air. He stumbled to his feet, his cock jutting out, still painfully hard and ignored. The taste of her lingered on his lips – salt, skin, submission. He hurried towards the kitchen, the roar of the crowd and Odette’s soft hum of satisfaction fading behind him. The chrome tap handle felt icy under his trembling fingers as he filled a large, chilled pint glass to the brim. Water sloshed over the sides, cold droplets hitting the tiles. He stared at the clear liquid, his mind conjuring the inevitable, humiliating transformation it would undergo. His stomach clenched, a mix of dread and dark, traitorous excitement twisting inside him. He carried the glass back, the water shimmering, a cold, heavy promise in his hands.
The heavy pint glass felt like ice in Paul’s hands, water trembling near the rim. He placed it carefully on the low table beside Odette, its cool presence radiating humiliation. She barely glanced down, her gaze locked on the screen where England, miraculously, surged forward. "Fuck me, they might actually do it," she breathed, momentarily forgetting her role, fingers tight around her whisky glass. A desperate English break, weaving through tiring French defenders, the crowd noise swelling to a deafening roar through the speakers as the winger dived over the line near the posts. Conversion good. The screen flashed: FRANCE 23 - 19 ENGLAND. Minutes left. Hope, sudden and terrifying, ignited in Paul’s chest. England were camped on the French line, a try would do it. His neglected cock throbbed back to full, painful rigidity against the rug.
Odette shifted, a low hum vibrating in her throat. Her hand snaked back, not to touch him, but to grip her own buttock, pulling it aside, exposing the tight, dark pucker he’d just been worshipping. The puckered skin glistened faintly with his spit. "Ten minutes, Paul," she stated, her voice taut with unexpected tension. She didn’t look away from the frantic restart. "If they do it... that tight little arsehole is yours. You'll open me up properly. Show me how badly you want it."
He scrambled forward on his knees, the rough rug burning his skin. The scent of her, musk and anticipation, filled his nostrils. His hand shook as he reached between his own legs, grasping the thick base of his cock. It was slick with pre-come, aching, impossibly hard. He guided the swollen, purple head forward, the sensitive tip finding the warm centre of her exposed anus. He rested it there, just pressing lightly against the tightly furled ring. Heat radiated from it. He leaned close, his voice a raw, possessive whisper against the curve of her arse cheek. "Feel that, Odette? Feel how big I am? Gonna feel me splitting you wide open. Stretching this perfect hole. Fucking making it mine. Gonna feel every inch buried deep in your guts." His hips gave a minute, involuntary thrust, the blunt crown pressing insistently against her resistance.
She froze. A sharp intake of breath. Her knuckles whitened on the whisky glass. He saw the minute tremor run through her thigh muscles, the tension locking her spine. It wasn't arousal; it was primal fear. The kind reserved for violation. "Paul..." Her voice was tight, unfamiliar, stripped of its usual control. A flicker of something almost like panic in her eyes reflected in the screen's glow. Then, visibly, she forced her body to relax, a conscious unclenching. She took another gulp of whisky. "Do it," she breathed, the command forced, trembling slightly. "If they win. Fuck my arse. Make it hurt. Make me go through with it." She pushed back, a desperate, tiny movement, grinding the resisting knot of muscle against the slick head of his cock. The pressure was electric, unbearable. He groaned, pushing forward, feeling the impossible tightness yield a fraction. So close. His balls tightened. The roar of the crowd was a physical pressure in the room. England was hammering the French line, relentless.
Then silence. Sudden, shocking. A French hand plucked an English pass out of the air. Interception! A blur of blue shirts erupted through unset English attackers scrambling to defend. The commentator’s voice cracked into a scream. Odette sat bolt upright, whisky forgotten, eyes wide. "ALLEZ LES BLEUS!" The cry ripped from her throat, pure, savage triumph. The French winger slid over the line near the posts, the conversion a formality as the final whistle sounded. FRANCE 30 - 19 ENGLAND. The screen erupted in blue. Odette threw her head back and laughed, a full-throated, victorious sound. She twisted around on the sofa, eyes blazing down at Paul, who still knelt frozen, his cock-tip pressed uselessly against her clenched, triumphant arsehole. The hope in his chest turned to ash.
"Merde, that was beautiful!" she crowed, slamming her empty whisky glass down. She swung her legs off the sofa, standing tall before him, radiating power. Her gaze dropped pointedly to the forgotten pint glass of water on the table, then swept down his naked, kneeling form, lingering on his wilting cock. Her smile was a predator's. "Poor Paul. So hard. So hopeful. So... thirsty." She picked up the water, the ice cubes clinking. "All this water," she mused, swirling it, watching the light catch the liquid. "Been sipping it all match. Filling my bladder nicely. For you." She took a deliberately long, slow drink, her throat working, letting him watch. Setting the glass down, now half-full, she placed her hands on her hips. "Strip. Completely. Then kneel right there." She pointed between her feet on the rug.
Shame washed over him in a hot-cold wave, merging with the dregs of his arousal into a sickening, heavy lust. He fumbled with the rugby shirt, pulling it over his head, tossing it aside. Completely exposed now. He shuffled forward on his knees, the rug scratching, stopping between her bare feet. The scent of her sweat, her musk, her victory, filled his senses. She looked down at him, green eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Open wide, little puppy," she commanded, her voice dripping with condescension. "Time for your reward. Time to drink some French piss."
Naked on his knees, the rough rug biting into his skin, Paul stared up at Odette. Her green eyes, sharp with triumph and something darker, held him pinned. The half-drunk pint glass of water sat on the table beside her, a mocking symbol of the humiliation pooling in his gut. He felt his wilting cock give a final, useless twitch against his thigh. "Odette..." he rasped, the word catching. "Please..."
Her smile was a slash of cold amusement. "Please what, Paul? Please let you drink me? Please fill your English belly with my French piss?" She took a deliberate step closer, the scent of her arousal, faint beneath the whisky and victory sweat, washing over him. "Open your mouth."
His jaw ached with the effort to keep it closed. Shame, thick and suffocating, warred with the terrifying, traitorous flicker of arousal that her command ignited deep inside. "W-wait," he stammered, the plea desperate. "Can't we... can't we do this in the bathroom? Please? It's... cleaner?"
Odette threw her head back and laughed, a harsh, beautiful sound. "Cleaner?" She looked down at him, her expression pure condescension. "Where's the incentive in that, mon chien? If my piss splatters all over your nice rug, your expensive sofa... well," she leaned down, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "that's incentive for you to swallow every. Last. Drop. Isn't it? Open wide, puppy. Don't make me ask again."
The finality in her tone snapped something within him. Resistance crumbled, replaced by a dizzying wave of submission. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth like a fledgling bird, exposing his throat. A silent plea flickered in his eyes, instantly extinguished by the hard certainty in hers. She placed her hands on her hips, positioning herself directly above his upturned face. He could see the dark thatch of her pubic hair, the glistening folds beneath. The intimacy was staggering, terrifying.
"Good boy," she murmured, her voice thick with anticipation. She adjusted her stance slightly, spreading her feet for balance, her cunt hovering directly over his open mouth. He braced himself, every muscle rigid.
The first hot splash hit his tongue. Not a trickle. A stream. Warm, pungent, startlingly salty. He gagged, reflex clamping his throat shut. More hit the back of his mouth, thick and hot. Swallow! The command screamed in his head, overriding instinct. He forced his throat open, gulping frantically. The liquid burned, tasting of stale asparagus and salt and something deeply, uniquely her – a musky tang that coated his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
"Swallow it, Paul," Odette commanded, her voice tight with concentration. The stream continued, relentless, splashing into his mouth, hitting his teeth. He gulped again, the hot fluid flooding down his throat, heavy and alien. He choked, a wet, spluttering sound. Piss sprayed from his lips, splattering across his cheeks, his chin, dripping onto his bare chest. The acrid scent filled his nostrils, sharp and invasive. Panic flared. He could feel the hot liquid in his sinuses, a bizarre, stinging pressure.
But he kept swallowing. Desperately. Gulping down the steady, hot flow. It felt endless. His belly began to swell, a sloshing, uncomfortable weight growing inside him. The warmth spread through his core, a sickening internal heat. He closed his eyes tightly, focusing only on the mechanics – open throat, swallow, open throat, swallow. The taste was overwhelming, corrupting, imprinting itself on his very being. He was a vessel. A urinal. Filled with her waste.
Finally, the stream lessened. Became a trickle. Then just a few hot drops, pattering onto his tongue. He swallowed convulsively one last time, the sour aftertaste clinging. He gasped for air, chest heaving, tears stinging his eyes, mingling with the piss cooling on his face.
Odette shifted back slightly. "Now," she said, her voice breathless but firm. "Lick the last drops off my cunt. Clean me up. Don't miss any."
Trembling violently, Paul leaned forward, pressing his face into her damp, musky folds. His tongue, coated in the taste of her piss, licked tentatively at her labia, gathering the stray beads of urine clinging to her skin and the sparse dark curls. He licked upwards, finding the source, tasting the mingled salt of her piss and her own slick arousal on her slit. He licked thoroughly, obediently, cleaning her, the humiliation so profound it felt like a physical blow. He pulled back, breathing her scent deeply, his stomach churning, sloshing heavily with the pint of warm liquid he’d consumed.
Odette looked down at him, her chest rising and falling, a flush high on her cheeks. Her eyes were dark, intense, filled with a fierce, almost incredulous satisfaction. "Fuck, Paul," she breathed, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. She reached down, running her fingers through his damp hair, not gently. "That was... incroyable." She gave a short, breathless laugh. "The sexiest fucking thing I've ever done." Her thumb traced his piss-smeared lower lip. "A fantasy I've always had. A dirty, perfect fantasy. And you..." She gazed at him, her expression one of absolute, terrifying ownership. "You swallowed it all. My perfect, puppy dog.”