Chapter 11: The Encore
Otis rolled off her with a grunt, the mattress sighing as his weight left it. For a long moment he lay on his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling in deep, ragged waves. The air in the suite was thick and humid, scented with sex and sweat and the faint expensive note of his cologne. Janet could feel his come seeping from her, warm and viscous, sliding down the crease of her ass and soaking into the sheets beneath her.
She was boneless. Her thighs trembled with a residual shiver, and her cunt still pulsed in those small, aftershock spasms that made her want to curl up and purr. Every muscle in her body ached in a way that felt almost sacred, like a prayer answered by a fist. She had never been so thoroughly, so completely used in her life. Her mind was a blank, warm haze, the kind of silence she hadn't known in years.
Then she heard him move.
The springs creaked as Otis leaned over the side of the bed. She felt rather than saw him reach for the nightstand, heard the quiet rattle of the amber bottle he had drawn from it earlier. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, tracked the motion as he popped the cap, shook out a second little blue pill, and tossed it back with a swig from the glass of water that had appeared at some point in the last hour.
He set the glass down with a solid click and settled back against the pillows, not looking at her yet. A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his weathered face, and that expression alone was enough to send a fresh, treacherous warmth curling through her belly.
"Round two," he said, his voice still thick and gravelly with spent lust. He turned his head to look at her then, those deep-set eyes traveling over her body with the unhurried greed of a man who had every intention of taking his fill. "But this time I'm going to take my sweet time with that pretty mouth of yours. And then we're going to do it all over again."
A shiver ran down Janet's spine, and it wasn't from the cool air of the room.
She should have said something. She should have found the shred of sense that had gotten her through fifteen years of marriage, the part of her that knew this was madness, that Frank was waiting at home, that she was lying in another man's bed with his come dripping out of her ass. But that voice was a whisper, drowned by the thrumming, insistent hunger that Otis had awakened and fed and refused to let go of. She was a greedy little slut, he had called her. And she had liked it. She had loved it.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, feeling the ache in her arms, the soreness in her throat from earlier. Otis watched her with that lazy, patient gaze, his cock still slick and softening against his thigh. But even in that state it was enormous, a thick, heavy slab of meat that had wrecked her so completely she could barely walk.
He reached out and hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, smearing the wetness there.
"You want it again, don't you?"
She nodded, her throat too raw for words.
"Say it."
"I want it," she whispered, and the sound of it, rough and ruined, pleased him. She saw it in the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his smirk deepened.
He let go of her chin and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. The posture was pure contentment, a king on his throne, waiting to be served. His cock lay heavy against his thigh, beginning to stir again as the pill did its quiet, inevitable work.
"Then come here," he said. "And this time, don't rush. I want to feel every inch of that tongue of yours before you take me in."
Janet crawled toward him on her hands and knees, the sheets sliding beneath her palms. She could feel her own wetness, the slick mess of their combined exertions, and it only made her want him more. When she reached his hip, she lowered herself onto her stomach, settling between his legs, and took a moment to simply look at him.
Even half-hard, his cock was intimidating. The thick, veined shaft, the heavy balls cradled beneath, the flared head already glistening with a faint bead of moisture. She had never seen anything like it, not in real life, not even in the explicit videos Frank sometimes pulled up on his phone. It was a weapon, a tool, a thing built for ruining women, and she was spread-eagled at its altar.
She leaned in and pressed her lips to the tip, soft at first, barely a kiss. The taste of him, salt and musk and herself, flooded her tongue. Otis let out a low, approving hum, and she felt his hand settle on the back of her head, not guiding, not forcing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in charge.
She ran her tongue along the ridge of his crown, tracing the seam, dipping into the sensitive slit. He thickened beneath her ministrations, growing heavier, harder, the flesh warming against her mouth. She took her time, just as he had commanded. She mapped him with her lips, with the flat of her tongue, with her fingertips tracing the veins that stood out along his shaft.
"Good girl," Otis murmured, and the praise went straight to her cunt like a jolt of electricity.
She worked her way down, taking him inch by inch into her mouth, her jaw stretching wide to accommodate his girth. She had done this before, only an hour ago, but the memory of the ache was already blurring, replaced by the eager, greedy need to taste him again. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, slow and deep, pulling back until only the head rested between her lips, then sliding forward again, taking him deeper.
He tasted of sex and skin, of her own juices and his sweat. She loved it. She wanted to drown in it.
Otis shifted beneath her, spreading his legs a little wider, and his hand tightened in her hair, a gentle but firm grip that kept her anchored. His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy on her tongue, and she knew with a shiver of anticipation that he would use this hardness on her for a long, long while.