Chapter 35: Day 11: David morning
The ache woke me first. A deep, bruised throb radiating from my asshole, a raw tenderness between my legs. Memory flooded back – Mark’s brutal invasion, Chris’s silent intensity, the impossible fullness, the blinding pain, the horrifying betrayal of my own climax. I curled tighter under the thin sheet, the scent of stale sweat and sex clinging to my skin, a vile reminder. Revulsion churned hot and sour in my gut.
But beneath it… beneath the shame and the physical hurt… something else pulsed. Low. Insistent. A familiar, unwelcome heat coiling deep in my belly, radiating outwards. My nipples tightened against the sheet, painfully sensitive. My cunt felt swollen, heavy, slick. Again? The hormonal tide, this traitorous fucking body, didn’t care about last night’s degradation. It only screamed its need. Need. The word echoed, hollow and terrifying.
I glanced at the cheap digital clock on the nightstand: 7:03 AM. Too early. The house was silent, heavy with post-dawn stillness. Except for the frantic pulse between my legs. It drowned out the ache, the shame, the phantom sensation of being stretched and filled. It demanded. Now.
I slid out of bed, wincing as my ass protested. The cool air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps. I didn’t bother with clothes. What was the point? Modesty was a luxury I’d forfeited. Padding silently down the hall, past Mark’s closed door (a shudder ran through me), past Chris’s (a different kind of chill), I stopped outside David’s. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with something floral – my perfume? – seeped under the door. A strange, jarring blend.
I knocked softly. Twice. Hesitant.
A rustle, then the door opened a crack. David blinked, sleep-tousled hair, wearing only faded sweatpants slung low on his hips. His eyes widened as he took me in – naked, breasts heavy and swaying slightly, skin flushed, the unmistakable scent of arousal mingling with the lingering aftermath of last night clinging to me. He saw the shadows under my eyes, the tightness around my mouth. He saw the desperate hunger warring with the revulsion.
"Taylor?" His voice was thick with sleep, laced with immediate concern. "What… are you okay? After last night…" His gaze flickered down, then snapped back up, guilt flashing across his face. He knew. He’d probably heard.
The hormonal surge crested, a wave of pure, demanding lust washing over the fragile dam of my control. The words spilled out, flat, rehearsed, echoing yesterday morning in this very doorway. "Payment’s due, David." My voice sounded strange, detached. "Let me be your perfect little cumslut."
He flinched. Actually recoiled a fraction. "Jesus, Taylor… you don’t have to… not after…" He gestured vaguely towards the living room, his expression pained. "Look at you. You’re hurting."
"I’m horny," I corrected, the word harsh, crude. The truth of it burned. "And the clock’s ticking. Every fucking day." I pushed past him into his room before he could protest further. The familiar chaos greeted me – textbooks piled high, dirty laundry spilling from a basket, the half-eaten pizza box still on his desk, the incongruous glimpse of my makeup bag under his bed. The conflicting scents intensified here – masculine musk, pepperoni, and my floral perfume. A snapshot of my fractured existence.
He closed the door softly, leaning back against it, watching me. Conflict warred on his face – desire warring with disgust, guilt wrestling with the undeniable pull of my body presented like this. "Taylor…" he started again, his voice strained.
"Don’t," I cut him off, turning to face him fully. I forced my shoulders back, making my breasts jut forward. I ran a hand down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, letting my fingers brush the damp curls between my legs. A deliberate, crude display. "You liked yesterday. You liked me being loud. You liked me begging for your cum." I met his eyes, trying to bury the screaming man inside me beneath the persona this body demanded. "Let me do it again. Let me control this. Please, David." The ‘please’ was a whisper, a crack in the facade.
He swallowed hard. His gaze dropped, tracing the lines of my body, lingering on the dark bruises forming on my hips – Mark’s fingerprints? Chris’s? His own cock stirred visibly beneath the thin sweats. The intellectual, the conflicted one… his body betrayed him too. He nodded, once, curtly. "Okay. Okay, Taylor. You… you control it."
Relief, sharp and bitter, flooded me. Control. Even this twisted, degrading version of it. "Good," I breathed, stepping towards him. I reached out, hooked my fingers into the waistband of his sweats, and tugged them down. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and flushed. Familiar territory now. "Sit," I commanded, nodding towards the edge of his unmade bed.
He obeyed, perching on the edge, his legs slightly apart. His eyes were dark, intense, fixed on me. I sank to my knees between his legs, the worn carpet rough against my skin. The scent of him, musky and male, filled my nostrils. My own arousal pulsed, a counterpoint to the lingering soreness. I leaned forward, nuzzling the base of his shaft, inhaling deeply. "Mmm, you smell so good, David," I murmured, letting my voice drop into a husky purr. "All hard for me already." I flicked my tongue out, tracing the thick vein running along the underside. He hissed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.
I took him into my mouth slowly, deliberately. Not deep, not yet. Just the swollen head, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty pre-cum beading at the slit. "Fuck, Taylor," he groaned, his hips jerking slightly.
"Yeah?" I pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at him through my lashes. "You like my mouth on your cock? Like your good little slut sucking you?" I didn't wait for an answer. I dove back down, taking more of him this time, hollowing my cheeks as I sucked hard. My hand wrapped around the base, pumping in rhythm with my mouth. Slurp. Suck. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room. I moaned around him, a deep, vibrating hum that made his thighs tense. "God, your cock tastes so fucking good," I gasped, pulling off again, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his glistening tip. "Need it deeper. Need you to fuck my slutty mouth."
"Christ…" he breathed, his control fraying. His hand came down, tangling in my hair, not forcing, just holding. Guiding? Needing?
I opened wide, tilting my head back, inviting him. "Do it, David," I urged, my voice thick with false desire. "Fuck my face. Shove that big dick down my throat. Make me gag on it." The filthy words felt like ash in my mouth, but they worked. A low growl escaped him, and he pushed forward, gently at first, then with more insistence. The head bumped the back of my throat. I relaxed, forcing my jaw slack, letting him slide deeper. Tears sprang to my eyes as my throat stretched, the intrusion triggering my gag reflex. I choked, sputtering, saliva dripping down my chin.
"Yeah… fuck… take it," he groaned, his hips rocking gently, feeding me more. "Such a good mouth… such a dirty fucking slut…" His words, usually hesitant, were fueled by lust now, mirroring my own filthy script.
I pulled back, gasping for air, drool slick on my chin and neck. "Need more," I rasped, scrambling up onto my knees. I straddled his lap, facing him, my wet cunt hovering just above his rigid cock. I reached down, guiding him to my entrance. "Need you inside me, David. Need you to fill my tight little pussy." I sank down slowly, gasping as he stretched me open. The soreness flared, a sharp reminder of last night’s brutality, but my body was slick, eager, accommodating him despite the protest. "Oh fuck… yes…" The moan escaped, partly performance, partly the shocking, undeniable friction igniting the hormonal firestorm inside me. "So fucking big… stretching me so good…"
I started to move, rocking my hips, riding him. My hands gripped his shoulders, my nails digging in slightly. "Look at me," I demanded. He did, his eyes wide, dark with lust and something else – awe? Horror? "Tell me how good my cunt feels," I commanded, bouncing harder now, my breasts swaying heavily. "Tell me how tight I am!"
"It… it feels incredible, Taylor," he stammered, his hands settling on my hips, helping me move. "So wet… so fucking tight…"
"Tighter than yesterday?" I gasped, grinding down hard, feeling him hit deep. "Tighter than when you made me scream?"
"Yes! God, yes!" His hips bucked upwards, meeting my downward thrust. "You feel amazing…"
"Louder!" I cried out, throwing my head back. "Tell everyone! Tell them how good David’s slut fucks!" I bounced faster, harder, the slap of our flesh echoing off the walls. The bedsprings squeaked in protest. "Fuck me! Fuck your perfect little cumslut! Pound this wet hole!" My voice was rising, becoming shrill, theatrical. "Make me cum! Make me scream! Oh GOD!" I arched my back, squeezing my internal muscles around his cock, milking him. The friction, the sheer physical intensity combined with the desperate performance, pushed me towards the edge. "Yes! YES! Fuck me harder! Breed me! Fill my slutty pussy with your fucking cum!"
He was lost. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers digging bruises into my hips. "Gonna cum… Taylor… fuck…"
"Do it!" I screamed, riding him frantically. "Cum inside me! Pump your fucking load deep! Mark me! Own your slut! FILL ME UP!"
With a guttural roar, his body locked. He slammed up into me, burying himself to the hilt, and held. I felt his cock pulse violently inside me, thick jets of hot cum flooding my depths. The sensation, the sheer vulgarity of it, combined with my own frantic movements, triggered my climax. It ripped through me, sharp and brutal, tearing a ragged, genuine scream from my throat. My body convulsed around him, milking every last drop.
We collapsed together, panting, slick with sweat. His softening cock slipped out of me, followed by a warm trickle of his release down my inner thigh. The silence rushed back in, heavy and suffocating, broken only by our ragged breathing. The scent of sex, stronger than yesterday, filled the small room.
David’s arms came around me, tentative, holding me against his chest. His heart hammered against my ear. "Taylor…" he whispered, his voice raw. "That… that was…"
"Payment," I finished flatly, the word landing like a stone. The performance was over. The desperate heat was receding, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache, the soreness, the sticky mess. The bruises from Mark felt sharper now. The memory of Chris’s silent intensity colder.
He didn’t argue. He just held me, his fingers tracing a light, almost apologetic path over the bruise on my hip. The intellectual conflict was back in his eyes, warring with the lingering satisfaction. I closed my eyes, resting against him, listening to his slowing heartbeat. The microwave clock in the kitchen, faintly audible through the wall, ticked over to 8:17 AM. Another day. Another payment made.
The silence stretched. Outside, a car door slammed. Life went on. I felt David shift slightly, his hand stilling on my hip. He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the charged quiet. "Do you… do you want to shower? Here?" The offer was hesitant, laced with that ever-present guilt.
I pushed myself up, away from his warmth. The air felt cold on my damp skin. Cum dripped onto his sheets. I looked at it, then at him. "No," I said, my voice devoid of the earlier theatrics. Just tired. Empty. I slid off the bed, wincing as my ass protested. "I need to… clean up." Before Mark or Chris saw. Before the next demand.
I walked to the door, naked, sticky, aching inside and out. I paused, hand on the knob. Without looking back, I added, my voice barely above a whisper, "Same time tomorrow, David?"
He didn't answer. I didn't need him to. I opened the door and stepped out into the silent, judging hallway. The clock kept ticking.