Chapter 50: Jealousy Unleashed
The shower’s spray was a feeble attempt at purification. The water, scalding as you could stand it, did nothing to erase the phantom weight of David on your tongue or the sticky residue on your chin. It just turned the memory into a steam that filled your lungs. You scrubbed at your skin until it was pink and raw, the coarse loofah scraping over curves that still felt like a borrowed costume. Your own hands on your body—the swell of your E-cup breasts, the dip of your waist—felt like a violation. A familiar, hollow ache pulsed between your legs, a traitorous echo of the morning’s act.
Wrapping a towel around yourself, you stepped out into the hall, the damp air clinging to you. From behind Mark’s door, you heard it: a low, rhythmic grunting, the wet, sloppy sounds of a mouth working hard, and a high-pitched, eager giggle you didn’t recognize. Your feet carried you forward before your mind could protest. The door was ajar. You pushed it open, just enough.
The scene hit you like a physical blow. Mark was sprawled on his king-sized bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, his worn comforter bunched at his feet. He was shirtless, his athletic frame relaxed in a pose of pure entitlement. And between his spread legs, a busty blonde you’d never seen before was on her knees, her head bobbing furiously in his lap. Her lips were stretched into a tight, red O around the thick, familiar base of his cock. Her tits, large and fake, swayed heavily with each eager thrust of her head.
Mark’s eyes were closed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, that’s it, Chloe. Suck that dick.”
A white-hot wire of pure, irrational jealousy seared through your numbness. It wasn’t about affection. It was about territory. That was your cock. The one that had carved out the space in your throat, the one whose taste was still layered under the soap in your mouth. The one that made David’s feel like a consolation prize. Seeing another woman’s lips on it, hearing her make those sounds, felt like a personal theft.
Without a word, you let the towel drop. It pooled at your feet. You crossed the room, the clutter of gaming controllers and pizza boxes a blur. The girl, Chloe, didn’t notice you until you were right beside her, dropping to your knees on the stained carpet.
Mark’s eyes flicked open. He didn’t look surprised. He looked amused. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Chloe pulled off with a wet pop, glaring at you, her lipstick smeared. “Hey, what the fuck? Get your own.”
You ignored her. Your focus was entirely on Mark’s cock, glistening with her saliva, thick and veined and impossibly hard. You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the base, feeling the powerful throb beneath the skin. With your other hand, you cupped his balls, possessively, feeling the heavy weight of them in your palm. You leaned in and ran your tongue, slow and deliberate, along the throbbing underside from base to tip, lapping away the taste of her, replacing it with your own.
“Fuck,” Mark groaned, his hips bucking slightly. “You see this, Chloe? This is what a trained mouth looks like.”
Chloe scoffed. “I was doing just fine.”
“She was,” Mark said, his voice a low rumble of pleasure as you continued to lick and suckle at the head. “But now I’ve got two greedy little sluts who want my cum. You gonna share, Chloe?”
“Fuck no,” she spat, but she didn’t move away.
“Then you’d better step up your game.” Mark’s hand landed on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair. Not guiding. Claiming. He pushed your face down onto his cock.
You opened up for him, your throat yielding instantly, a well-practiced hole. You took him deep, until your nose was buried in his coarse pubes, the head of his cock nudging that familiar, deep spot. You held it, breathing through the stretch, your eyes watering. You pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.
“My turn,” Chloe snarled, pushing you aside and taking him into her mouth with a messy, aggressive enthusiasm.
A competitive fury ignited in your gut. You shoved her shoulder, not hard, but enough to make her lose her rhythm. “You’re doing it wrong,” you hissed, the words foreign and vile in your mouth.
“The fuck I am!”
Mark laughed, a rich, dark sound. “Fight over it, then. I don’t care who wins, as long as I do.”
That was all the permission you needed. You dove back in, your mouth finding a home on his shaft while Chloe worked the head. It was a chaotic, wet tangle of lips, tongues, and hands. You sucked and licked, tracing the thick veins, while she noisily slurped at the tip. The taste of him—musky, salty, purely Mark—flooded your senses, overwriting everything else. Your revulsion was a distant echo, drowned out by the primal need to be the one who made him come.
Your own cunt was dripping, a slick heat gathering between your thighs that you ignored. This wasn’t about your pleasure. This was about possession. About being the best.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Mark grunted, his hands now on both your heads, holding you in place. “Suck my fucking dick. Both of you. You’re just a pair of cocksleeves. A warm, wet hole for me to use.”
His words should have shamed you. Instead, they fueled you. You redoubled your efforts, taking him deeper than Chloe could, your throat working around him in rhythmic pulses. You felt him swell, the telltale pulse that signaled his climax.
“Gonna come,” he growled, his voice tight. “Where do you want it, you filthy whores?”
“In my mouth!” Chloe begged.
“Swallow it,” you demanded, your voice a husky rasp around his flesh, not giving her an option.
With a final, powerful thrust of his hips, Mark came. A hot, bitter flood shot directly down your throat. You swallowed greedily, not missing a drop, while Chloe frantically tried to catch what spilled past your lips. You kept sucking, milking him, until he was soft and spent, pushing your head away with a satisfied sigh.
You sat back on your heels, breathless, his cum warm in your belly. Chloe wiped her mouth, glaring at you with pure hatred before gathering her things and stalking out without a word.
Mark looked down at you, his expression one of lazy, post-coital arrogance. “You’re getting possessive, Taylor. I like it.” He reached out and pinched your nipple, hard enough to make you gasp. “But remember your place. You’re the house pet. You don’t get to get jealous.”
He rolled over, turning his back to you, the conversation clearly over. You were left on your knees, the taste of him and the sting of his words settling deep, another layer of filth that no shower would ever wash away. The hollow ache inside you was wider than ever, and you knew, with a sinking certainty, that only he could fill it.