Chapter 12: Day 4. Lunchtime with Mark
The door to Mark’s room stood ajar, a gaping maw exhaling the stale breath of old pizza, cheap cologne, and male sweat. My hand hovered near the frame. Lunchtime. The ticking clock in my head was a drumbeat of dread. Inside, the rhythmic grunting and high-pitched moans of porn spilled out. Of course he was already primed.
Taking a breath that did nothing to steady me, I pushed the door open.
Mark lounged shirtless on the unmade king-sized bed, propped against a mountain of pillows. His laptop balanced on his knees, the screen displaying a graphic close-up of a woman enthusiastically sucking cock, the wet, slurping sounds filling the small room. Sports posters watched impassively from the walls. Empty chip bags and soda cans littered the floor around a gaming controller.
He didn’t pause the video. Didn’t even look away. Just grinned, slow and wide, his eyes raking over me from my tangled hair down to my scuffed sneakers. "Right on time, Ella. Knew you’d be punctual. Got something for you."
He shifted slightly, the comforter slipping lower, revealing the thick, already rigid length of his cock resting against his thigh. Pre-cum glistened at the tip. My stomach clenched.
"The bet," I stated, my voice flat, trying to ignore the lewd soundtrack. "I’m here."
"Bet’s right," he chuckled, pausing the video with a click. The sudden silence felt heavier. "And your choice? Mouth, pussy, ass? Don't keep me waiting, Tay. Got plans." He lazily stroked himself, his gaze fixed on my breasts straining against the thin cotton of my t-shirt.
The phantom ache from David’s brutal fucking last night throbbed deep inside my cunt. My ass still felt tender, violated. The thought of either hole taking Mark’s cock right now made bile rise in my throat. My mouth. It was the only option that didn’t promise immediate, excruciating pain. Disgusting, humiliating, but survivable.
"Mouth," I forced out. The word tasted foul.
Mark’s grin turned predatory. "Attagirl. Knew you’d see reason. Get over here. On your knees."
The command hit me like a physical blow. My legs felt numb as I crossed the littered floor. The scent of him – sweat, arousal, stale snacks – intensified. Kneeling on the scratchy carpet felt like an act of utter submission. I kept my eyes down, focusing on a discarded Dorito bag near his discarded basketball shorts.
"Look at it," Mark ordered, his voice hardening. He gripped his cock at the base, giving it a slow, deliberate pump. The head was flushed, slick. "Look at what you're gonna suck."
I raised my eyes. The sight, the sheer vulgarity of his thick, veined cock inches from my face, sent a wave of revulsion through me. My own traitorous body, however, betrayed me with a hot, unwelcome pulse between my legs. Fucking hormones. Fucking female wiring. I hated it.
"Gonna be a good little cocksucker?" Mark taunted, running his thumb over the slit, spreading the clear fluid. "Open wide."
I couldn’t. The thought of that invading my mouth, the taste, the violation… Panic flared. A stupid, desperate idea surfaced. My hands were free. The rules said I had to let him finish in my mouth. It didn’t specify how he got there.
Before he could react, my hand shot out. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, just below the head. It was hot, impossibly hard, the skin like taut velvet over steel. He grunted in surprise, then amusement.
"Getting handsy? Didn't think you had it in you, Ella." He didn't stop me. Just watched, a cruel smirk playing on his lips, as I started jerking him off. Fast, rough strokes, the way I used to do it to myself. My knuckles brushed the coarse hair at his base. The slick sounds of my hand working his cock replaced the porn’s audio.
I focused solely on the mechanics. Pump. Twist slightly on the upstroke. Avoid looking at his face. Avoid thinking about what I was touching. Just make him come. Get it over with. My hand moved faster, my own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The heat radiating from him seared my skin. His guttural groans filled the room. He shifted his hips, thrusting shallowly into my fist. Almost there. Come on, you bastard. Just fucking spurt.
Mark’s breathing hitched. His balls tightened. "Fuck yeah, that's it... gonna blow..." A thick rope of white jizz spurted violently from the tip, hitting the worn carpet with a wet splat just inches from my knees. Then another. And another. Hot streaks landing on the dusty fibers, pooling slightly.
Relief washed over me. He’d come. It was done. I started to pull my sticky hand away.
Mark’s hand clamped down on my wrist like a vice, stopping me. His eyes, dark with something beyond amusement now, locked onto mine. "Where do you think you're going, Ella?" His voice was dangerously low.
"I... you came. It's done," I stammered, confusion warring with fresh dread.
His grip tightened, pulling me closer to the glistening mess on the carpet. "Is it? Our deal. Remember? My time, my scenario. You choose the hole. You chose mouth." He emphasized the last word, his gaze dropping pointedly to the puddle of his semen on the floor. "That needs to be in your mouth. That was the agreement. Get it in there. Now."
Horror washed over me, cold and suffocating. "You can't be serious. That's... that's on the floor!"
"I'm dead fucking serious," Mark snarled, his amusement vanished, replaced by cold authority. "You tried to cheat. Thought you could just jack me off and skip the main event? Not how this works, sweetheart. You chose mouth. That," he jabbed his finger at the mess on the carpet, "belongs in your mouth. Every drop. Or the bet’s void. You pack your shit and get out. Now fucking lick it."
The ultimatum hung in the stale air. The threat of homelessness, of being cast out in this vulnerable, despised body, was greater than the immediate, visceral disgust. My stomach heaved. Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and humiliating. Survival. It always came down to survival.
With a sob I choked back, I lowered myself further. The rough carpet fibers scraped my palms. The sharp, salty, utterly repulsive smell of his semen filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. I could feel Mark’s intense gaze burning into me.
Taking a shuddering breath, I extended my tongue. The first touch was warm and slimy against the carpet grit. My gag reflex kicked in violently. I clenched my teeth, swallowing bile. Survive. I pressed my tongue flat against the damp patch, licking upwards. The taste exploded in my mouth – salty, bitter, musky, utterly alien and nauseating. I gathered the viscous fluid, trying not to breathe through my nose, scraping it off the rough surface. Grit ground between my teeth. Another wave of nausea hit me.
Mark watched, silent now. The satisfaction radiating from him was a physical weight.
I kept licking. Scraping. Gathering the degrading mess into my mouth. My jaw ached. Tears streamed down my cheeks unchecked now, dripping onto the carpet near the violated spot. The taste coated my tongue, my throat. I felt filthy down to my soul. Finally, the damp patch was gone, replaced by a faintly sticky stain on the carpet. I sat back on my heels, my mouth filled with his cum and carpet fibers, my body trembling violently.
"Swallow," Mark commanded, his voice flat.
I had no choice. I forced my throat to work, swallowing the vile concoction. It slid down, thick and burning. I retched, but nothing came up.
"Good girl," Mark said, the sadistic satisfaction back in his tone. He patted my head like a dog. "See? Rules are rules. You fulfilled your obligation. For now." He leaned back, picking up his laptop again. "Get out. Chris is expecting you in the garage this afternoon. Don't be late."
Stumbling to my feet, I fled the room. The taste of Mark’s cum and dust filled my mouth, a permanent brand of my degradation. The garage. Chris. Another countdown began, the aftertaste a cruel reminder of the price of staying under this roof. I ran to the bathroom, the sound of retching echoing off the tiles as I desperately tried to purge the violation. It clung to me. Inside and out.