Chapter 70: The Test of Endurance
The frame shuddered as a new weight settled onto the seat above him, heavier than the others, more deliberate. The woman did not position herself with any hesitation. She simply dropped her full weight down, her thighs clamping either side of his head, and ground her cunt across his face like she was stubbing out a cigarette.
Paul's mouth was already open, ready, and she found him without a moment's fumbling. Her flesh was slick, swollen, ripe with the smell of a woman who had been hot and bothered for hours. He tasted her before his tongue even touched her, that rich salty musk flooding across his lips, and he moaned into her as she settled her full weight onto his mouth.
No preamble. No gentle testing. She rode his face like a horse, her hips grinding in tight circles, pressing her clit hard against his upper lip as his tongue slid into her. She was generous, his tongue buried deep in the yielding heat of her, her inner walls gripping and releasing around him in slow, practised pulses. She was not a young woman. He could taste it in the way her flesh surrendered, the way her arousal flowed thick and knowing. She was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and had been denied it all day.
Her thighs were heavy against his cheeks, and each grind of her hips forced his nose into the wiry thatch of her pubic hair. She smelled of sweat and perfume and hours of anticipation, that sharp, vinegary tang of a woman who had been working herself up all afternoon. She moaned above him, a low, throaty sound he could not hear, but he felt the vibration of it through her cunt, through her bones, and he redoubled his efforts.
He lost himself in the work of it. His tongue found her clit, swollen and protruding, and he laved it with a flat, wet stroke that made her whole body clench. She rewarded him by bearing down harder, her weight crushing his face into the leather seat, and he could feel the pulse of her arousal, hot and urgent, against his lips. She fucked his mouth with a slow, grinding rhythm, her hips circling, drawing his tongue deeper, pulling back just enough to let him breathe before plunging him back into her.
His jaw ached. His groin throbbed where the hair had been ripped from his skin. But his cock had betrayed him again, stiff and leaking against his belly, and he hated himself for it even as his tongue worked her into a frenzy.
She came with a shudder that ran through her whole body, her thighs clamping around his skull so hard he thought his ears might pop, though he could hear nothing anyway. Her cunt spasmed around his tongue, flooding his mouth with bitter, salty fluid, and she rode out the waves of it with a series of slow, grinding thrusts that pressed her clit against his nose until she was spent.
She lifted off him then, and Paul gasped for air, his face slick and dripping. But there was no time. Before he could even catch his breath, another weight settled onto the seat, a lighter, bouncier presence, and a pair of smooth thighs straddled his head. This one was younger, her flesh taut and firm, and she positioned herself with a quick, practised efficiency. She did not grind. She grasped his hair, and pulled his face against her cunt, holding him there while she rocked her hips in quick, sharp little thrusts.
Her taste was different. Cleaner, sweeter, barely a trace of that musky salt. She must have washed herself recently, and he felt a perverse pang of disappointment at the loss of her natural scent. But her clit was hard and eager, and she pressed it against his tongue with a desperate insistence that made her intention clear enough.
Paul kneaded her with his lips, drawing her flesh into his mouth, suckling gently on her clit until her rhythm faltered and her thighs began to tremble. She came quickly, with a suddenness that surprised him, her hips bucking hard against his face as she gasped. Her orgasm was a hot gush against his chin, and then she was gone, replaced by another.
The parade continued. He could no longer tell one from the next. They were a blur of flesh and musk and salt, a continuous procession of cunts that pressed against his mouth, demanded his tongue, and left him gasping. Some were slow and grinding, savouring every stroke. Others were quick and brutal, using him like a tool before dismounting with a satisfied sigh. One woman tasted faintly of soap and another of something metallic, like she had been exercising, and a third flooded his mouth with a thick, viscous discharge that made him gag even as he swallowed it.
Time lost all meaning. His jaw locked and unlocked, a muscle burning with relentless use. His tongue was raw and swollen, a useless scrap of meat that he could no longer feel. He swallowed and swallowed, an endless stream of arousal and cum and sweat.
And still they came. His nose pressed into curls and smooth flesh, coarse hair and bare skin. His chin grew slick, dripping down his chest. Somewhere in the darkness, his cock twitched, erect and aching, ignored by every woman who passed through.
He surrendered to it. There was nothing else to do. He was a tongue, a mouth, a pair of lips in the dark, and he did not know where one woman ended and the next began.
The parade went on. He stopped counting, stopped trying to distinguish one set of thighs from another, one cunt from the next. They came and they came, and he served them all, his tongue a tireless machine, his lips raw and chapped from the endless friction. And then, abruptly, the seat was empty.
He hung there, panting through his mouth, his tongue lolling uselessly past his lips. The silence of his own body was the only thing he could hear, that and the thudding of his heart in his ears. He waited. He did not know how long. Minutes, perhaps. An hour. Time had no purchase here.
Then the frame shuddered, but not with the familiar weight of a woman settling onto the seat. This was different. A presence beside him, not above. Hands on his elbow, gentle where the others had been demanding. Fingers traced his jaw, his swollen lips, and then something pressed against his mouth. Not a cunt. A cup. The cool rim of metal or ceramic, and then water, blessedly cool and clean, trickling into his mouth.
He drank greedily, desperately, water spilling down his chin and chest as he gulped. The hands steadied him, tilting the cup with patience. And then, as he drank, he felt the woman shift. Her hip pressed against his shoulder, and he felt the brush of her thigh against his cheek, the soft folds of her cunt grazing his skin as she repositioned herself. She was not careful. She did not apologise for the intimacy of the contact. She simply pressed herself against his face, letting her wet flesh smear across his lips as she held the cup for him.
Paul drank, and as he drank he tasted her. Not with his tongue, not directly, but the scent of her flooded his nostrils. This was not Tim, whose clitoris he had come to know with such terrible intimacy. It was not Suzette, whose perfect vulva he had worshipped with desperate precision. This woman was older, her musk deeper and darker, and when she shifted again, her labia parted against the corner of his mouth, slack and uneven, and he felt the confidence of a woman who had borne children, who had lived a life, who did not care about such things.
Clarissa. Or perhaps Puddles. He could not know. He could only taste the difference, that slight asymmetry, the way her flesh yielded without the tautness of youth. She held the cup while his tongue, unbidden, crept out to taste her, a single exploratory stroke along the length of her slit.
She did not pull away. She did not press closer. She simply let him taste her, held the cup steady, and when he had drunk his fill, she withdrew.
The water had revived him, but his throat was still raw, and his jaw still ached. He was left alone again, hanging in the darkness, suspended between use and oblivion. And time passed. He did not know how long. His bladder had been filling for hours, an insistent pressure building behind his groin, and he began to shift against his bonds, desperate for relief that would not come. He was a slave. He could not ask. He could only endure.
And then, much later, hands again. Firm hands, not gentle. They found his left arm, and fingers dug into the skin of his elbow, squeezing hard before twisting, a sharp, almost cruel pinch that made him flinch. The grip was distinctive, the angle of the twist, the way the fingers found the exact spot where the skin was most tender.
Puddles this time. He was fairly sure of it. He had felt her hands on him before, in the boot of her car, and there was something proprietary in the way she touched him now.
Those hands worked at his bonds. The straps around his wrists loosened, then his ankles, and he slumped forward, his legs barely able to hold him. Her hands caught him, steadied him, and then he was being led, stumbling and blind, his shoulder guided by that grip on his arm.
He was walked a short distance, and then the hands turned him, and he felt the cold porcelain of a toilet bowl against his knees. He dropped to them automatically, and a hand pressed down on the back of his head, guiding him forward. He understood. He leaned in, and with a groan of relief, he voided, the hot stream splashing into the bowl.
Puddles did not leave. She stood beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder, her fingers drumming absently as he emptied himself. And when he was done, she did not lead him back to the frame. Instead, she turned him, and he felt the brush of her thighs against his shoulders as she straddled him.
She knelt over his face, and he felt her cunt pressing against his lips, wet and eager, already slick with excitement. She had been waiting for this. He could taste it in the urgency of her movements, the way she ground her hips against his mouth before he had even opened it properly. She was not gentle. She was desperate, hungry, a woman who had been denied her pleasure for too long.
Paul opened his mouth and served her.
His tongue slid into her, and she gasped against him, her thighs clamping around his head with fierce possessiveness. She rode his face with a frantic, almost desperate rhythm, her hips bucking and grinding, drawing his tongue deeper, pressing her clit against his lips with a demanding insistence. She was not trying to savour it. She was trying to drown in it.
Her arousal was thick and copious, trailing slick spiderwebs of moisture across his face as she moved. She was so wet that he could barely keep his mouth on her, her cunt flooding over his chin and cheeks. She moaned, a high, keening sound that he felt through her bones, through her cunt, through every shuddering breath she took.
And when she came, she came hard, her whole body convulsing against him. Her cunt clamped tight around his tongue, her thighs squeezing his skull so fiercely that he thought his eyes might pop, and she flooded his mouth. She rode out every wave of it, grinding his face into her until the last spasm had passed, and then she slumped against him, her breath coming in harsh, ragged pants.
Paul swallowed. He did not begrudge her the orgasm. He had learned by now that Puddles was rarely allowed to come, that she was a slave like him, and that in this house, pleasure was rationed. If she had stolen this moment for herself, this moment of release, then he was glad to have given it to her.
She stayed there for a long moment, her cunt pressed against his lips, her breathing slowly steadying. And then she pulled away, gentle now, and her hands found his arm again, guiding him back to the frame. He was bound again, the straps tightened, his body suspended in the familiar, agonising position.
And the darkness swallowed him once more, and he waited for the next woman to come.