Chapter 1: The Scene: First Glimpse of What’s to Come
The elevator doors slid open onto a private foyer, and the first thing that hit me was the smell. Leather and something else, something sharp and expensive like sandalwood cologne cutting through the haze of my own jasmine perfume. My heels sank into the thick pile of the carpet as I stepped out. The penthouse was exactly what I’d expected from the photos, but photos never capture the sheer scale of things. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the entire city glittering below like a spilled jewel box. The lights were low, the hum of a sound system almost subliminal.
He was waiting, just as promised. Shane Jackson. He lounged shirtless on the vast king-size bed, propped against a mountain of pillows. His physique was ridiculous, the kind of muscular definition you only see on statues or in genetic lottery winners. My eyes, against my will, dropped downward. He wore loose grey sweatpants, and the heavy shape of him was already clearly outlined, half-hard and imposing.
“Gloria Vance,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, deeper than I’d anticipated. “You’re even better in person. The camera doesn’t do your skin justice.”
I managed a shaky smile, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Thanks. Your place is… incredible.”
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a calm, assured command. I walked over, the space between us feeling both infinite and suddenly too small. He looked me over with those dark, captivating eyes, and I felt my skin prickle everywhere his gaze landed.
“The scene’s straightforward,” he began, his tone all business despite his state of undress. “We start with you on your knees. I want to see that famous mouth of yours work. Then I’m going to bend you over the side of the bed, take you from behind. I need to see you take all of it. It’s going to be a challenge for you. It always is.”
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, looming over me. His fingers went to the buttons of my silk blouse. They were deft, practiced. He didn’t fumble. One by one, he popped them open, his knuckles brushing against the hot skin of my stomach. I stood there, frozen, a mannequin being undressed. He pushed the blouse off my shoulders and it whispered to the floor. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of my tailored trousers, taking my panties with them in one smooth motion. I stepped out of the puddle of fabric.
Now I was standing in just my lingerie—a lacy black bra and matching thong I’d bought for this, for armor. His eyes darkened as he surveyed me. He reached out and traced the lace curving over my breast, his calloused fingertip a rough contrast to the delicate material.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and I watched, mesmerized, as the bulk in his sweatpants began to swell and change. It thickened, lengthened, pushing aggressively against the grey cotton until it was a fully rigid tent. He shoved the sweatpants down his hips.
My breath caught in my throat. Oh, my god. The descriptions, the rumors—they hadn’t been exaggerating. It was obscene. Thick, veiny, and so fucking long. The head was a flushed, ruddy plum, already glistening. I understood the two-soda-cans comparison instantly. It was a tool, a weapon. The sheer physical reality of it was dizzying.
“You see what you’re working with?” he said, a note of challenge in his voice.
I just nodded, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Good. Then get on your knees and get it wet. You’re gonna need the practice.”
I sank to the carpet, the plush fibers scratching my knees. The scent of him, clean skin and that faint cologne, was stronger here. I wrapped a hand around the base. My fingers didn’t even touch. I had to use both, and even then, I couldn't circle it completely. The skin was hot and smooth like silk over steel.
I leaned forward and tentatively licked the tip, tasting the clean, salty precome. He let out a low grunt. Emboldened, I opened my mouth and tried to take him in. It was immediately, shockingly difficult. My jaw protested with a sharp ache as I stretched it wide, managing to get just the head and a pitiful inch of the shaft past my lips. It was too much. It filled my mouth completely, pressing down on my tongue, threatening my gag reflex.
I pulled off, gasping. “It’s too big. I can’t.”
“You can. You will. Relax your jaw. Don’t think about deep-throating it. Just worship the head. Lick it. Suck on it. Get it nice and slick.”
I tried again, focusing on his instructions. I swirled my tongue around the broad corona, licking along the thick vein on the underside. I sucked just the head into my mouth, applying pressure, working my tongue against the slit. Saliva gathered and dripped down my chin. The ache in my jaw was a constant, dull throb, a tangible reminder of his size. I felt delirious, submissive, and incredibly turned on all at once. The weight of him on my tongue, the musky, male smell, the soft sounds of my efforts and his low, approving groans—it was overwhelming my senses. I was prepping his cock like I was priming a machine, and the raw, filthy reality of it sent a shocking bolt of arousal straight to my core.
The ache in my jaw was a dull, throbbing counterpoint to the pounding in my chest. I could feel my own wetness, a hot, slick pulse between my legs that was utterly beyond my control. This was nothing like the curated, performative sex I was used to. This was raw, mechanical, and it was rewiring me from the inside out.
“That’s it,” Shane grunted, his voice rough above me. “Now get your hands on my balls. Play with them. Squeeze.”
I obeyed, moving my hands from where they were braced on my thighs. I cupped the heavy, tight sac in one hand, feeling the weight of it, the strange, textured skin. I rolled them gently in my palm, and he let out a sharp, hissing breath.
“Good girl.”
Then his hands came down, not on my shoulders, but on the sides of my head. His fingers tangled in my hair, not pulling, but establishing a firm, unyielding grip. He was in control.
“Relax your throat,” he commanded, his dark eyes locked on mine.
He didn't slam into me. It was worse, and better, than that. He used the grip on my head to guide me, pulling me forward onto his cock with a slow, inexorable pressure. My lips stretched to a burning circumference around him. The broad head pressed past the back of my tongue, and I fought the gag, my eyes watering instantly. He held me there, my nose buried in the crisp hair at his base, my airway compromised. I could smell the clean, musky scent of his skin, feel the throb of him against my palate.
He pulled me back, just an inch, letting me gasp a wet, strangled breath. Then he pushed me down again, a fraction deeper. It was a slow, rhythmic torture. Each time he fed more of his length into my mouth, my body convulsed with a silent, protesting gag. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mingling with the saliva that slicked his shaft. The sounds were obscene—wet, choking, guttural gulps as I struggled to breathe around the violation.
And through the panic, a dark, shameful thread of arousal wound itself tighter. My own hips shifted restlessly on the carpet. The complete surrender, the sheer physical domination, was unlocking something primitive in me. He was using my face, and my body was betraying me by loving it.
He set a pace, a slow, deep fucking of my mouth that was all his doing. My hands stayed on his balls, my fingers trembling as I kneaded them, a pathetic anchor in the storm of sensation. He watched me the entire time, his expression a mask of intense concentration, watching his own monstrous cock disappear into my face, watching me break and reassemble around him with every thrust.
He watched me the entire time, his expression a mask of intense concentration, watching his own monstrous cock disappear into my face, watching me break and reassemble around him with every thrust.
“Look at me,” he growled, his voice thick and strained.
My tear-filled eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open. I forced myself to meet his dark, predatory gaze. Seeing my own disheveled, used reflection in his eyes was a fresh jolt of humiliation. He was enjoying this. A faint, cruel smile played on his lips as he watched the struggle on my face, the tears tracing lines through my makeup.
He kept his rhythm, a steady, deep piston that was stretching my throat raw. And the sickest part was the hot, syrupy rush of pleasure coiling in my own gut, completely separate from the discomfort. My nipples were hard, tight points straining against the lace of my bra, rubbing with every slight movement and sending sharp little signals of need straight down my spine. Between my legs, it was worse. A deep, aching emptiness was opening up, my vagina clenching around nothing, getting impossibly wetter with each thrust into my mouth. My clit was a throbbing, frantic heartbeat, tingling with a demand that overshadowed the ache in my jaw.
I was getting off on my own degradation.
He saw it. Of course he saw it. His eyes dipped to my chest, to the hard nubs clearly outlined against the black lace, then back to my face, his smile widening just a fraction.
“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, not stopping his movement. “Your pretty little body’s betraying you. Such a filthy girl.”
His hand fisted in my hair so suddenly I gasped around the length in my mouth. The sharp tug at my roots sent a bright, clean pain shooting across my scalp, a counterpoint to the dull, stretched ache in my jaw. He held me there, my lips stretched to their absolute limit around the base of his cock, my throat fluttering in a frantic, involuntary rhythm against the intrusion.
Tears welled in my eyes again, blurring the sharp angles of his hip bones, the dark trail of hair leading down to where our bodies met. I couldn't move. I could only breathe in shallow, ragged bursts through my nose, the air flavored with his skin, my perfume, and the stark, metallic taste of him.
"Fuck, look at you," he grunted, his voice tight. "Taking it like a champ. Now you're ready."
In one brutal, fluid motion, he pulled me off by my hair. I collapsed forward, coughing, strings of saliva and tears dripping from my chin onto the pristine carpet. I sucked in deep, burning lungfuls of air, my body trembling.