Chapter 2: Niels barely has time to react before Laury's hands are tearing at his jeans, her fingers frantic as she yanks them down his hips. 'Still hard for me?' she breathes, her hot mouth closing around him before he can answer, sucking greedily as her hands dig bruises into his thighs.
The house held its breath for the rest of the day. Niels stayed barricaded in his room, the hum of his computer a feeble shield against the memory of Laury’s mouth. He tried to lose himself in the pixelated glow of a game, but his mind kept stuttering back to the feel of her hands, the look in her eyes—clinical, then consuming. “Even,” she’d said. It was the most uneven thing that had ever happened to him.
He heard her move through the house. The creak of the floorboards past his door, the murmur of her voice on the phone in the kitchen, the distant rush of the tap. Each sound was a hook in his skin. He was paralyzed by a new and terrifying awareness. The world had been repainted in shades of Laury.
Dinner was a silent, excruciating pantomime. Her parents, his aunt and uncle, chatted about work, about the weather. Laury sat across from him, pushing peas around her plate. She wore an oversized hoodie, her hair in a messy bun. She looked ordinary. She looked like a stranger who knew exactly how he tasted.
Their eyes met once over the meatloaf. Hers gave nothing away—a flat, grey lake. His, he feared, screamed everything. He looked down quickly, his appetite gone.
He went to bed early, claiming a headache. It wasn’t a lie. A low, throbbing pressure sat behind his eyes, fed by relentless, replaying images. He fell into a fitful sleep where steam and green apples and the wet, sucking sounds of her mouth twisted into strange dreams.
He awoke to a different sensation.
It was deep, slow, and warm. A pressure. A familiar rhythm. The fog of sleep clung to him, thick and sweet, and for a disorienting moment he thought he was still dreaming. But the feeling was too precise, too physical. A wet heat enveloped him, a gentle suction that pulled a soft groan from his throat before he was fully conscious.
He blinked, the dark room resolving into shapes. The faint, pre-dawn light outlined his window. He was on his back. And the blanket covering him was moving. A deliberate, up-and-down motion, a rhythmic rise and fall.
He froze.
He knew. Even before his sleep-numbed brain could form the thought, his body knew. The scent of green apples, faint but unmistakable, reached him. He looked down, his heart a frantic bird in his chest.
The outline of her head was beneath the blanket, a dark shape against the lighter fabric. He could see the curve of her shoulders, the long fall of her hair spreading over his thighs. The blanket moved in time with the exquisite, terrifying pressure on his cock.
“What are you doing?” The words scraped out of him, dry and cracked.
The motion stopped. For a long, suspended moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the blanket was pushed down. Laury’s face emerged from the gloom. Her eyes were dark pools, her lips swollen and glistening. She didn’t look guilty. She didn’t look coy. She looked utterly focused, her gaze locked on his as she took him back into her mouth, deeper this time, her tongue flattening against his shaft.
A jolt of pure, electric lust obliterated his confusion. His hips jerked off the mattress involuntarily. One of his hands found her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to guide, but to hold on, to anchor himself to this reality.
She worked him with a relentless, practiced intensity that was nothing like the hesitant exploration of the previous day. This was claiming. She deep-throated him, her nose pressing into the coarse hair at his base, holding him there until he gasped, then pulling back with a slick, obscene pop. She used her hand in a tight twist at the base, her mouth concentrating on the head, her tongue flicking over the slit.
“Fuck, Laury…” he panted. “Jesus Christ.”
She released him with a wet sound and looked up, her breath coming in short pants. “You were hard,” she said, as if explaining the weather. Her voice was husky, ruined. “I could see it through your boxers. You were dreaming.”
He had been. He couldn’t remember about what, but his body had evidently been telling its own story.
“So you just… started?” he managed.
“Yes.” No apology. No justification. She lowered her head again, taking him all the way, her throat convulsing around him. The sensation was too much. The coil in his gut, tight from the moment he awoke, began to unravel at a terrifying speed.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight and desperate. “Laury, I’m close.”
He expected her to pull away, to finish him with her hand like some considerate lover in a film. Or to swallow like she had before, completing their transaction. But she didn’t. She kept her mouth on him, her rhythm increasing, her fingers digging into his hips, urging him on. Her eyes were open, watching his face contort.
His orgasm tore through him with a violence that arched his back off the bed. A raw, broken shout was ripped from his throat. He pulsed into the wet, welcoming heat of her mouth, wave after wave of dizzying release.
And she took it. All of it. He felt the jerk of his cock against her tongue, the hot spill of his cum. But she didn’t swallow.
She held him there, gently, until the last shudder passed. Then she slowly pulled back, her lips sealing shut. She sat up on her knees beside him, her face illuminated in the grey light. Her cheeks were hollowed, her mouth closed. She looked at him, her expression unreadable.
Then she moved.
In one fluid motion, she leaned over him, bracing a hand on the pillow beside his head. Her face hovered inches above his. He could see his own release gleaming at the corners of her sealed lips. Her pale eyes burned into his.
Before he could speak, before he could even process what was happening, she lowered her mouth to his.
The kiss was soft. Her lips parted against his, and she pushed her tongue into his mouth. It was warm, wet, and tasted intensely, overwhelmingly of him—salty, bitter, intimate. His own cum flooded his mouth, a shocking, visceral transfer.
Niels stiffened, a shockwave of pure, unadulterated taboo crashing through him. He made a muffled sound against her lips, part protest, part awe. His hands, which had been clutching the sheets, came up to grip her shoulders, but he didn’t push her away. He was paralyzed by the profound wrongness and the dizzying intimacy of it.
She kissed him deeply, thoroughly, sharing the taste of his climax until it was gone from her mouth and spread between them. Finally, she broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at him. A single, pearl-white drop escaped the seam of her lips and trailed down her chin.
He stared up at her, breathless, horrified, utterly possessed. The last vestiges of sleep, of normalcy, were annihilated.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving his. There was a question in them now, a crack in the cool facade. She looked suddenly young, and uncertain of what she had just unleashed.
Without a word, she slid off the bed. She stood there for a moment, a silhouette in the dawn, then turned and walked silently out of his room, leaving the door ajar.