Chapter 48: Drunk slut
The stale beer taste lingered in your mouth, thick and sour, as you swayed in David’s doorway. The cheap vodka sloshing in your stomach burned, a dull counterpoint to the sharper ache between your legs, a phantom echo of Mark’s relentless training sessions. The room swam – piles of laundry, textbooks spilling off a desk, the flickering blue glow of a muted TV playing infomercials. David’s bed was a chaotic island in the gloom, blankets tangled, a half-eaten pizza box teetering precariously on the edge. He sat propped against the headboard, glasses askew, blinking at you with confusion clouding his usually sharp eyes.
"Taylor?" His voice was hushed, wary. "You okay? You look… wrecked."
"Fine," you slurred, the word thick on your tongue. The alcohol buzzed in your veins, a warm, numbing fog promising oblivion. Maybe enough oblivion to silence the screaming dissonance in your head. Maybe enough to drown the memory of your own reflection scrubbing skin raw in that sterile hotel bathroom, the phantom taste of cum still clinging. Maybe enough to finally not gag. Mark’s voice echoed, harsh and instructive: Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Take it deeper, slut. You’re built for it now. The revulsion curdled, but beneath it, a treacherous, liquid heat pulsed low in your belly. Your new body betrayed you constantly.
You stumbled forward, the cheap carpet rough under your bare feet. You didn’t ask. You just climbed onto the messy bed, the springs groaning under your added weight – her weight. The unfamiliar curves, the heavy breasts swinging against your ribs as you moved, still felt like a grotesque costume. You crawled towards him, the scent of stale pizza and David’s faint, clean sweat filling your nostrils.
"Whoa, Tay—" David started, pushing his glasses up nervously. "What are you—"
"Shhh." You pressed a finger clumsily to his lips. The vodka emboldened you, eroded the jagged edges of your shame. "Just… let me." The plea sounded pathetic even to your own ears. You needed this. Needed to prove you could do it without choking, without the humiliation. Needed to feel something other than this crushing alienation, even if it was just the physical act. Needed the numbness to win.
His eyes widened behind his lenses, a flicker of conflict warring with the undeniable heat you saw ignite in them. Guilt twisted his features. "Taylor, we shouldn’t… not like this. You’re drunk. And after… everything." He meant Mark. He meant the bet. He meant the hotel bathroom.
"Don’t care," you mumbled, your hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingers felt thick, clumsy. "Please, David." The name felt strange, intimate. He wasn’t Mark. He wasn’t cruel. He was David, who used to share shitty beer and play video games with him. With you. Before. The thought made your throat tighten, but you pushed it down, drowning it in vodka fumes.
He hesitated, his body rigid. Then, with a sigh that sounded like surrender, he lifted his hips slightly. You yanked the sweats and his boxers down in one clumsy motion. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and uncut, glistening faintly in the TV’s blue light. It looked different than Mark’s – less aggressively veined, the head darker. Familiar, yet utterly foreign. Your old self would have recoiled. Your new body thrummed.
You didn’t hesitate. Driven by booze and a desperate, twisted need, you lowered your head. The musky scent of him filled your senses. You opened your mouth, wider than felt natural, remembering Mark’s drills. Open wide, bitch. Wider. You took the head in, the skin surprisingly soft against your lips. Saliva pooled instantly. You swirled your tongue around the ridge, tasting salt and skin.
David gasped, a sharp intake of breath. "Fuck, Taylor…" His hand hovered near your head, unsure whether to push you away or pull you closer.
Ignoring him, you pushed down. The thick shaft pressed against your tongue, filling your mouth. You focused on breathing through your nose, just like Mark taught you. Out. Slow. The head nudged the back of your throat. Your gag reflex clenched instinctively, a violent spasm threatening to expel him. Panic flared – the familiar choke, the humiliation. You froze, eyes watering.
Breathe. Through. Your. Nose. Mark’s voice was a drill sergeant in your skull. Relax your fucking throat. You want to be useful, don’t you?
You forced your jaw wider, forced your throat muscles to unclench. You sucked in a desperate breath through flared nostrils, the air whistling slightly. And then you pushed. Hard. You drove your head down, taking him deeper, forcing the thick length past the resisting ring of muscle at the back of your throat.
It breached. A sudden, shocking invasion. Your throat stretched obscenely around him, a tight, burning pressure. Tears sprang to your eyes, blurring the sight of his stomach muscles clenching tight. You gagged violently, a wet, choking sound tearing from your constricted throat. Spit dripped freely down your chin, onto his thighs.
"Oh god… oh fuck…" David groaned, his voice strangled. His hand finally settled on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your long hair, not forcing, just holding. "Jesus, Taylor… you don’t have to…"
But you did. You had to conquer this. You held yourself there, impaled on his cock, your nose buried in the coarse hair at his base. The burning stretch was intense, overwhelming. You focused on the rhythm of your breath, shaky but steady. Out. The vodka helped, dulling the razor edge of the sensation, turning it into a thick, muffled ache. You felt the pulse of him against the walls of your throat. Felt your own treacherous cunt clench, slick and needy, a traitorous response to the violation.
Slowly, tentatively, you began to move. Pulling back until just the head rested heavy on your tongue, tasting pre-cum, salty and bitter. Then plunging down again, forcing your throat open wide, taking him deep. Each downward stroke was a battle against your own reflex, a victory measured in inches swallowed. Gagging sounds punctuated the wet slurps, spit coating his shaft, dripping onto the rumpled sheets. Your jaw ached. Tears streamed down your cheeks, cutting paths through smudged eyeliner.
David’s breathing grew ragged, his hips giving tiny, involuntary thrusts upwards, meeting your descent. "Christ… your mouth…" he gasped. "So fucking hot… so deep…" His fingers tightened in your hair, a gentle pressure urging you on. His conflict seemed momentarily drowned out by raw sensation.
You lost yourself in the brutal rhythm. Down, gag, breathe. Up, gasp, taste him. Down again, deeper, harder. The room faded – the TV’s drone, the smell of stale pizza, the mess. There was only the thick cock stuffing your throat, the burning stretch, the wet sounds, David’s choked groans, and the relentless ghost of Mark’s voice guiding your movements. That’s it. Take it all. Good little cocksucker. The degradation was a familiar cloak, strangely comforting in its awfulness. Your body moved with a practiced efficiency it shouldn’t possess, your throat working him mechanically.
His thrusts became less tentative, more urgent. His cock swelled impossibly thicker in your throat. You felt the telltale tension coiling in his balls, pressed against your chin. "Gonna… fuck… Taylor… gonna come…" he warned, his voice tight.
You didn’t pull off. You pushed down harder, taking him to the hilt, your lips mashed against his pubic bone. You held yourself there, throat stretched taut, eyes squeezed shut, tears still leaking. You wanted it. Wanted the final proof you could take it. Wanted the hot flood to drown the thoughts, the memories, the you that didn’t belong in this skin.
With a guttural cry that was almost a sob, David erupted. Thick, hot pulses of cum shot directly down your constricted throat. You gagged violently, convulsing, but held on, swallowing frantically. It was thick, salty, slightly bitter. More than you could swallow. It spilled out around the sides of his cock, coating your lips, dripping down your chin. Your throat worked, milking him, swallowing every spurt he gave until he was spent, shuddering, his cock twitching against the sensitive walls of your gullet.
Finally, gasping, you pulled off. A thick strand of cum and saliva connected your lips to his softening cock for a second before snapping. You collapsed back onto your heels, coughing violently, wiping your slick chin with the back of your hand. Your throat felt raw, bruised. Your jaw throbbed. The taste of him, salty and alien, filled your mouth. You looked up at David.
He was staring down at you, chest heaving, his glasses fogged slightly. His expression was a mess of awe, lingering pleasure, and profound, gut-wrenching guilt. His eyes traced the tears still wet on your cheeks, the cum glistening on your lips and chin, the utter wreckage of you kneeling amidst his messy sheets.
"Taylor…" he whispered, his voice raw. "I… fuck… I shouldn’t have…"
You didn’t answer. The vodka buzz was fading, leaving behind a crushing wave of nausea and a familiar, icy self-loathing. You’d done it. Deep-throated him. Taken his load. Like a trained whore. Just like Mark wanted. The victory tasted like bile and semen. You scrambled off the bed, your legs shaky, the room tilting dangerously. You needed air. You needed to scrub your skin raw again. You needed to escape the pity and horror in David’s eyes, and the echo of Mark’s satisfied smirk you knew would be waiting in the silence. You stumbled towards the door, leaving David staring after you, the taste of betrayal thick in the stale, beer-scented air.