Chapter 54: The Taste Test
The blindfold was a strip of black cotton, tight enough to press your eyelashes against your cheeks. The living room’s ambient noise felt amplified—the drone of the sports recap, the creak of a leather couch as someone shifted, the wet, ragged sound of your own breathing.
“Hold still,” Chris’s voice said, low and close to your ear. His hands were on your bare shoulders, keeping you kneeling on the scratchy rug before the coffee table.
You could smell the stale room, the pepperoni grease from the boxes, and something sharper, saltier.
“Game’s simple,” Mark announced from the couch. “Three glasses. You taste. You guess whose is whose. You get it right…” He let the sentence hang. “You get it wrong, Chris gets to do whatever the fuck he wants with his winnings. For starters.”
A glass, cool and smooth, pressed against your lower lip. Chris’s fingers tilted it. “Open.”
The liquid was lukewarm, thick. It flooded your mouth with a salty, bitter, unmistakable familiarity. Cum. Your throat tried to close. You swallowed reflexively, a grimace twisting your face.
“That’s one,” Mark laughed. “C’mon, guess. That’s David’s, isn’t it? Tastes like failure.”
From somewhere to the right, David made a weak, protesting sound.
The second glass came immediately after. This was thinner, more acidic, with a chemical edge that burned the back of your tongue. You choked.
“Swallow it,” Chris commanded, his voice devoid of inflection.
You did. Your stomach lurched.
“Two,” Mark sang. “Getting warmer.”
The third glass was pressed to your lips. This sample was different—viscous, slightly sweet, with a musky, deep scent you recognized from beneath the poker table. Chris’s. It coated your tongue, heavy and potent. A hot, shameful pulse beat between your legs. Your traitorous body was already wet, slickening in humiliating anticipation.
You were silent, trembling.
“Well?” Mark demanded.
You nodded towards the third glass, your voice a hoarse whisper. “That one’s Chris’s.”
A beat of silence.
“Wrong,” Mark crowed, delighted. “That was mine, you stupid cunt. Chris’s is long gone. He made you swallow every drop last night, remember? You just picked the filthiest one, is all.”
Cold dread poured through you. Chris’s hands left your shoulders.
“Game over,” he said.
You heard the rustle of his jeans, the shift of his weight. Hands—Mark’s—grabbed your wrists and yanked them behind your back, tying them quickly with what felt like a rough cord. Then you were being pushed forward, your cheek pressed against the sticky veneer of the coffee table. An empty pizza box crumpled beneath your elbow.
Chris moved behind you. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. There was no preamble, no pretense of care. He shoved your thin shorts and underwear down to your thighs in one brutal pull. The air was cold on your exposed skin.
He spat once, a crude, wet sound. The spit was warm between your ass cheeks. He pressed the head of his cock there, against your tight, unprepared hole.
“You belong to me this week,” he murmured, his breath hot on your neck. “Every hole. And this one’s mine first.”
He pushed.
The pain was a bright, white撕裂. You cried out, a strangled sound muffled by the table. He was huge, stretching you wider than you thought possible, a burning, invasive fullness that stole your breath. He didn’t stop. He shoved forward, burying himself to the hilt in one relentless, brutal stroke.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his body going rigid against yours. “So fucking tight.”
He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again. The table skidded an inch on the floor. A can clattered off and rolled.
This wasn’t the controlled rhythm from under the poker table. This was raw possession. Each thrust was a punishment, a claiming. The wet, slapping sounds of his hips driving into your ass filled the room, syncopated with the grunts tearing from his chest. Pain bled into a shocking, unwanted heat, a deep internal friction that sparked something degrading and electric.
“Look at that,” Mark said, his voice gleeful from the couch. “She’s taking it all. Look at her fucking back arch.”
You were. You couldn’t help it. Your body bowed, pressing back against the invasion, seeking relief from the pressure in the only way it could.
Chris read the movement. One hand snaked around your front, sliding down your belly, fingers plunging into your soaked cunt.
“You’re dripping,” he snarled in your ear, fucking you harder. “Your ass is full of my cock and your pussy is fucking weeping for it. You’re a sick little bitch.”
His words sent another wave of shameful arousal through you. His fingers worked you roughly, matching the punishing pace of his thrusts. The dual sensation overwhelmed you—the painful fullness from behind, the frantic, crude stimulation from his hand. Your climax built like a sickness, a wave of humiliation and pleasure that you couldn’t fight.
It broke with a silent scream, your body clenching violently around him, a shuddering, endless contraction that made him roar.
He fucked you through it, his rhythm fragmenting into desperate, hard jerks. His fingers dug into your hipbone, holding you impaled as he came. You felt the hot, pulsing flood deep inside your ass, each jet another mark of his ownership. He ground against you, emptying himself, his weight heavy and suffocating.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the TV’s distant commentary. Then he pulled out. The loss was abrupt, leaving you feeling gaping and used. Something warm and wet trickled down your inner thigh.
He untied your wrists. His hand, surprisingly gentle, lifted your chin from the sticky table.
He leaned close, his lips nearly touching your ear. His voice was a whisper, for you alone. “You guessed wrong on purpose.”
You froze.
“You wanted this.” He said it not as a question, but as a cold, hard fact. “You wanted me to take it. Now you’ve got me. For the whole week. And we’re just getting started.”
He stood up. You heard his zipper. He walked away, footsteps fading down the hall.
On the couch, Mark exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Well,” he said, his laughter tinged with something like respect. “Damn.”
You lay there, blindfolded, bound by the wetness between your legs and the aching, violated heat in your core, knowing with a terrifying certainty that he was right.