Chapter 24: Ass Worship
The coffee had gone cold. Millie stared into the chipped mug, watching the oily rainbow swirl on its surface. The silence in the kitchen was a living thing, fed by the specter of Liz’s return. Zoe’s words—shiny toys—echoed, a sharp stone in her gut.
Josh moved behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His thumbs kneaded the tense muscles there. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“Aren’t you?” she asked, not turning.
His exhale was warm against her temple. “Yeah.”
He turned her stool around gently, forcing her to look at him. The morning light caught the stubble along his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes. The confidence she was used to was sanded down, replaced by a stark, unvarnished focus.
“We can’t stay here,” he said. His voice was low. “In this room. With the mess.”
She knew he wasn’t talking about the spilled cereal.
He took her hand, his grip firm, and led her out of the kitchen, past the sticky tile, down the dim hallway. The house felt different now, every creak of the floorboard a potential accusation. He didn’t take her to the living room, or the porch. He took her to his room.
It was exactly as they’d left it hours ago, the sheets a twisted knot at the foot of the bed, the air still thick and intimate with their scent. He closed the door softly. The click of the latch was final.
He leaned against it, watching her. “Tell me what you want, Millie.”
“You know what I want.”
“Say it.”
She held his gaze, the green in her eyes like deep forest shadow. The quiet girl from work was gone, incinerated. What remained was pure, unfiltered need. “I want you to make me forget her name. I want you to fuck me until I can’t think about tomorrow.”
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Then strip.”
She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers went to the buttons of the borrowed shirt—his shirt—sliding them free one by one. She let it fall from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties, pushing them down her legs, stepping out of them. She stood naked before him, her skin pebbled in the cool, dim air.
Without breaking eye contact, she turned and walked to the bed. She placed her hands on the rumpled mattress, leaned forward, and arched her back, presenting herself to him. The pose was an offering, a challenge. She looked over her shoulder, her blonde hair tumbling across her cheek.
“Not my pussy,” she said, her voice steady and low. “I need your cock in my ass. Right now. Fuck me like the worthless slut I am for wanting this.”
His breath hitched. He pushed off the door, shucking his sweatpants and boxers in one violent motion. His cock sprang free, already thick and flushed, a dark vein tracing its length. He was fully hard in seconds.
He came up behind her, his body a wall of heat. He didn’t touch her at first, just let her feel his presence, his size. Then he spat, a coarse, wet sound. The warm glob landed directly on the tight pucker of her asshole. He smeared it with the broad head of his cock, circling her, teasing the nerve-rich ring without yielding.
“You’re sure?” His question was a gravelly whisper.
“Do it.”
He positioned himself, the tip notched against her. He applied pressure, a steady, inexorable force. Her body resisted, the muscle clenching instinctively against the invasion.
“Breathe out,” he commanded.
She exhaled, a shaky stream of air, and as she did, he pushed forward. The breach was a brilliant, white-hot sting of fullness. She gasped, her nails digging into the sheet, her forehead dropping to the mattress. He didn’t stop. He fed his length into her, inch by torturous inch, until his hips were flush against her ass, his balls resting against her swollen pussy lips.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, the stretch a glorious, punishing ache.
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. His hands smoothed over the curve of her hips, possessive. Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, and slammed home.
A cry was torn from her throat.
He set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each thrust a raw claiming of the most forbidden part of her. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to their ragged breaths. The bedframe groaned in protest, knocking against the wall with every drive.
One of his hands fisted in her hair, yanking her head back, arching her spine painfully. The other snaked around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, his fingers a firm cage against her pulse.
“This is what you are,” he growled into her ear, his voice shattered with exertion. “My filthy fucking whore. Taking my cock in your ass because you know it’s where you belong. Because you want me to ruin you for anyone else.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the pain morphing into a searing, deep pleasure. “God, yes. Use it. Use my ass.”
He fucked her harder, his control fraying. He released her throat and shoved two fingers past her parted lips. She sucked on them instinctively, coating them with saliva, her tongue swirling around the knuckles.
“That’s it,” he panted. “Get them wet. For your cunt. I want you coming while I’m in your ass.”
He pulled his slick fingers from her mouth, a string of drool connecting them to her lip, and reached down between her legs. He found her clit, swollen and throbbing, and rubbed hard, fast circles over it as he continued to pound into her.
The dual sensation was catastrophic. The deep, full pressure in her ass and the sharp, electric friction on her clit collided. Her vision whited out at the edges. Pleasure detonated through her nervous system, a shockwave with no end. She screamed, the sound muffled by the mattress, her body convulsing around him. Her asshole clamped down on his shaft in rhythmic, milking spasms.
That was all it took. With a raw, guttural shout, he slammed in one final, deep time and came. She felt the hot, liquid pulse of his release flooding her insides, jet after jet, marking her in the most intimate way possible.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the sweat-damp sheets, his release still dripping from her used hole. They lay there, spent, a tangled mess of limbs and exertion.
Minutes bled by, marked only by the slowing of their hearts. He softened, slipped out of her. A trail of his cum followed, a warm trickle down her inner thigh.
He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. The silence returned, but it was a different quality now—spent, hollowed out.
Millie curled onto her side, facing him. The animal need was sated, burned away, leaving the cold reality exposed.
“She gets back at four,” Josh said to the ceiling, his voice hoarse.
“I know.”
“We should shower. Be dressed. Look… normal.”
The word was a mockery. Nothing about this was normal.
She reached out, tracing the line of his hip bone. “What if she hates me?”
He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. They were dark, unreadable. “Then she hates us both.”
Downstairs, the faint, metallic drip of the kitchen tap echoed. A car door slammed somewhere on the street. The world was moving toward four o’clock, and they were lying in the wreckage of his sheets, waiting for the next quake to hit.