Chapter 33: Day 10: David morning wakeup
The taste wouldn't leave me. It coated my tongue, thick and rancid, a phantom sludge in the back of my throat. Even after brushing my teeth raw, gargling until my throat burned, the memory of Mark’s congealed cum lingered. Sleep had been impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the cup, felt the cold plastic, the gelatinous slide down my gullet. And the clock, always the clock, ticking down to midnight.
I woke before dawn, the apartment silent except for the hum of the ancient refrigerator. My new body felt alien, heavy-breasted and achingly sensitive. The ghost sensation of David’s hesitant fingers and Chris’s detached efficiency from yesterday mingled with the fresh horror of Mark’s cup. Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at me. Today. It started again today. The debt reset at midnight.
Mark’s door was firmly shut, a silent fortress. Chris’s too. But David’s… David’s stood slightly ajar. A sliver of weak morning light spilled onto the hallway carpet. My pulse hammered against my ribs. David. The conflicted one. The one who looked at me with something closer to pity than predatory hunger. The one who might… might… listen.
I pushed the door open without knocking. He was sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, wearing only flannel pajama pants, his hair messy, glasses perched on his nose. He was staring blankly at a textbook open on his lap, but his eyes were distant. He jumped when I entered, snapping the book shut.
"Taylor?" His voice was rough with sleep, laced with surprise and… something else. Wariness? Guilt? He adjusted his glasses, his gaze flickering over my thin sleep shirt and shorts. I saw the involuntary tightening of his jaw, the slight dilation of his pupils he couldn’t control. He was attracted. Despite everything. "What are you…?"
"I need to pay," I said. My voice sounded flat, devoid of the fake slutty enthusiasm I’d dredged up for Mark. "Early. Before… before anyone else wakes up. Before it gets fucked up again." I stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind me. The space smelled of him – old books, laundry detergent, that specific male musk that was David. Less aggressive than Mark’s, but undeniably present. His vanity table in the corner, littered with what were now my makeup brushes, seemed like a cruel joke.
He swallowed. "Pay? Taylor, last night… with Mark…" He trailed off, unable or unwilling to articulate the horror he must have overheard, or at least sensed.
"I did what I had to," I cut him off, the bitterness sharp. "To stay. That’s the deal you all made me agree to. The price of the roof." I took another step closer. His eyes dropped to the swell of my breasts under the thin cotton, then snapped back up to my face, color rising on his cheeks. "I’m paying you now, David. But it’s on my terms this time. Or I walk out that door right now and sleep on the fucking street."
He looked genuinely distressed. "Terms? Taylor, you don't have to—"
"I fucking do," I hissed, the fear and anger bubbling over. "You think I want this? Any of this? But here I am. So listen. You promise me two things: you won’t be rough, and I run it. I say when, how, where. You do exactly what I say. And…" I took a shaky breath, forcing the next part out. "And I’ll satisfy you. All your holes. And I’ll say… I’ll say the filthy shit. Like last night. I’ll pretend. But you promise. Or I’m gone."
He stared at me, the internal struggle playing out across his face. His intellect warring with the undeniable pull of my new body, the novelty of it, the sheer wrongness of the power he held. His gaze dipped again, lingering on the curve of my hip, the shadow between my legs hinted at by the thin shorts. His hands clenched on the textbook. I saw the bulge in his pajama pants stir, thicken.
"Okay," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Okay. No rough. You… you run it." He sounded ashamed, but he didn’t look away from my body.
"Promise," I demanded, stepping right up to him, the heat from his bare torso radiating out.
"I promise, Taylor," he whispered, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"Good." The numbness descended, a shield. I reached down and yanked his pajama pants and boxers down in one swift motion. His cock sprang up, already hard, thick and uncut, the head flushed dark. It looked… manageable. Less intimidating than Mark’s. The revulsion was there, a constant hum, but duller than yesterday. Maybe shock. Maybe resignation. Maybe the simple, horrifying mechanics of survival overriding everything else. "Lie back."
He obeyed, scooting back on the bed until his head hit the pillow. He kept his glasses on, watching me with wide, conflicted eyes. I climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs, feeling the heat of his skin through my shorts. My own body responded traitorously – a faint slickness between my legs, my nipples hardening against the thin shirt. No, I screamed inside my own head. Don’t you dare feel anything.
I leaned down, letting my heavy breasts press against his chest. I saw his breath catch. I put my mouth close to his ear. "Gonna suck your cock first, Davey," I murmured, forcing the slutty tone, making it low and breathy. "Make it nice and hard. Make you throb." My hand wrapped around his shaft. It was hot, smooth skin over firm muscle. I gave it a slow stroke, feeling him twitch. "You like that? Like my hand on your big dick?"
"Yeah," he gasped, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. "Fuck, Taylor… yeah."
I lowered my head. The smell of him, clean sweat and maleness, filled my nostrils. Less pungent than Mark, but still him. Still David. My former friend. I opened my mouth and took the head in. Salty. Skin. I swirled my tongue around the ridge, tasting pre-cum, a cleaner bitterness than the horror in the cup. "Mmm, tastes good," I lied, sucking lightly. "Love sucking cock. Love making guys feel good." I took him deeper, relaxing my throat a fraction. He wasn’t huge, but it still triggered a gag reflex I swallowed down. I bobbed my head, creating suction, my hair falling forward to curtain us.
"Oh god… Taylor…" His hand came up, trembling, and rested hesitantly on my head. He didn’t push. Just rested it there. "Your mouth… it's so…"
"Warm?" I pulled off, a string of spit connecting my lips to his glistening tip. "Wet? Yeah. It's a good cocksucking mouth. Made for this." I looked up at him, holding his gaze as I licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, from balls to tip. His eyes were dark, hungry, the guilt momentarily drowned out. "Want me to ride you, Davey? Want my tight little pussy?" The words felt like shards of glass.
"Christ, yes," he groaned, his hand tightening slightly in my hair.
I lifted myself off his legs. His gaze was fixed between my thighs. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my shorts and panties, shoving them down my legs and kicking them off. I was bare, exposed. His sharp intake of breath was loud in the quiet room. I saw his cock jump. My own cunt felt swollen, embarrassingly wet. Betrayal.
I positioned myself over him, kneeling, guiding his cock with my hand. The blunt head nudged against my entrance, slick with my own unwanted arousal. I hesitated for a split second, the reality of penetration looming. Then I sank down slowly.
"Fuuuck," he hissed, his head pressing back into the pillow. His hands flew to my hips, his grip tight but not painful. Just holding on.
He filled me. Stretched me. The sensation was… deep. Not painful. Not like the first few times. Just a thick, insistent presence pushing into a space that was reluctantly accommodating. I gasped, the feeling intense, overwhelming the numbness for a second. I started to move, rising up until just the head remained inside, then sinking back down onto his full length. A low groan tore from my throat. It wasn’t pleasure. It was… sensation. Overpowering sensation.
"God, you feel… incredible," David panted, his hips lifting to meet my downward strokes. His thumbs rubbed small circles on my hip bones. "So tight… so fucking wet…"
"Yeah," I breathed, forcing the act. "Your cock feels so good inside me, Davey. So deep." I put my hands on his chest for leverage, my breasts bouncing with the rhythm of my hips. "Filling my little slutty pussy right up. You love that? Love fucking me?"
"Yes," he moaned, his eyes glued to where our bodies joined. "So much… Taylor… I…"
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the pillow beside his head, my hair falling around his face. The angle changed, driving him deeper. I felt a jolt that made my thighs clench. No! I ground my hips down, hard. "Come on, baby," I purred, the filthy words falling automatically now. "Fuck me harder. Gimme that big dick. Make me your cum dump. Pump it deep inside my greedy cunt."
The crude language, the sheer degradation of it, seemed to tip him over the edge. His eyes squeezed shut. "Oh god… I'm gonna… Taylor…" His hips bucked erratically beneath me. His fingers dug into my hips. He let out a choked gasp, a shudder running through his whole body. I felt him pulse inside me, the hot rush of his release flooding deep.
I stayed still, impaled on him, feeling the wet warmth spread inside my body. My own traitorous cunt clenched around him, milking him. The revulsion surged back, hot and sickening, mixing nauseatingly with the echoes of unwanted physical sensation. His spend, deep inside me. Less viscous than the cup, but just as violating.
His breathing was ragged. His eyes opened, meeting mine. The guilt slammed back into his expression, stark and horrified. "Taylor… I…"
I didn’t let him finish. I pulled off him abruptly, the sudden emptiness almost as jarring as the filling. His cum, white and sticky, started to seep out of me immediately, dripping onto his sheets. I ignored it, ignored him, and scrambled off the bed. I grabbed my shorts and panties from the floor, not bothering to put them on yet.
"Deal’s done," I said, my voice devoid of the slutty persona, flat and cold. "For today."
I didn't look back as I opened the door. The taste of him, the feel of him, the wetness between my legs – it all coalesced into a heavy, sickening weight as I stepped into the silent hallway. Mark’s door remained shut. Chris’s too.
For now.
The clock on the living room wall read 6:47 AM. Seventeen hours and thirteen minutes until midnight. The lead ball of dread in my stomach pulsed with the phantom throb between my legs. Next.