Chapter 55: The Taste Test
The blindfold stayed on. It had become your world—a scratchy, dark universe where every sound was a threat and every touch a verdict. You were still on your knees, your shorts and underwear a damp tangle around your thighs. The smell of sex and sweat and spilled beer was a thick curtain in the air.
“Clean it up.”
It was Chris’s voice, but from further away now, near the hallway. A towel, rough and smelling of mildew, was tossed onto the back of your neck. It slid down your bare skin.
“The table. The floor. Where I came.”
Your hands shook as you felt for it. You groped blindly, finding the sticky wet patch on the table’s edge, the slick trail on your own skin. The towel grew damp and foul as you wiped. No one spoke. The TV had been muted. The only sounds were your frantic, hiccupping breaths and the soft, obscene drag of terry cloth on wood.
A new hand grabbed your hair, not Chris’s—the grip was meaner, less assured. Mark.
“He said the floor too, cunt. You leaking all over the rug.”
He yanked your head down, guiding your blindfolded face toward the floor. The rough fibers of the carpet scratched your cheek. “Lick it.”
Revulsion coiled tight in your throat. You hesitated.
His foot connected with your ribs, not a kick, but a hard, pushing nudge. “Now.”
You extended your tongue, touching the wet spot on the rug. The taste was bitter, salty, mixed with dust and stale fabric. You gagged, dry heaving.
Mark laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Pathetic.”
You heard the flick of a lighter, the deep pull of a breath. The scent of weed joined the cocktail of smells. “Your week just started, princess. Gonna be a long one.”
Footsteps retreated. A door closed down the hall—David’s room, the escape of the unwilling witness. You were alone with Chris. You could feel his presence like a pressure change in the room. He hadn’t moved.
“Stand up,” he said.
Your legs were weak, trembling. You got to your feet, pulling your shorts up with fumbling hands. The material chafed against your sore, wet flesh.
His fingers found the knot of the blindfold at the back of your head. He didn’t undo it. Instead, he took your hand and placed it on his jeans. The denim was rough. Beneath it, he was already hard again, a thick, formidable length.
“You feel that?”
You nodded, your breath catching.
“That’s for you. All of it.” He guided your hand, making you stroke him through the fabric. “You guessed wrong. This is what you wanted. So now you service it. On your terms.”
He finally pulled the blindfold off.
The light was a blurry assault. You blinked, tears welling from the sudden brightness. Chris’s face was inches from yours. His expression wasn’t cruel like Mark’s. It was intense, focused, a quiet storm. He looked at you like you were a problem he’d decided to solve.
The living room was a disaster in the gray dawn light creeping through the blinds. The three glasses still sat on the table, empty now. A monument to your failure.
“Suck my cock,” he said, his voice low. “Right here. And do it like you mean it.”
He unfastened his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free himself. He was fully erect, thick and veined, the head already glistening. He guided you back to your knees on the rug you’d just cleaned.
The first touch of your lips to his skin was electric. He smelled of musk and salt and himself. You took him into your mouth, but he placed a hand on the back of your head, not forcing, but controlling.
“Open wider,” he instructed, his voice calm. “Use your tongue. On the underside.”
You obeyed, swirling your tongue along the frenulum. A low groan rumbled in his chest. He let you set a rhythm for a minute, your own saliva making wet, slick sounds in the quiet room. Then his hand tightened.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Now you don’t.”
He began to fuck your mouth in earnest. It was not gentle. He held your head still and pushed his hips forward, driving his cock deep into your throat. You choked, eyes watering, your hands coming up to grip his thighs for balance.
“Relax your throat,” he commanded, pulling back only to slam back in. “Take it. You wanted my cum? You swallow every fucking drop I give you.”
He set a brutal, measured pace. Each thrust hit the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with spit that dripped from your chin. You couldn’t breathe. Your world narrowed to the stretch of your lips, the salty-bitter taste of him, the overwhelming fullness, the sound of his hips meeting your face.
He watched you the entire time, his dark eyes missing nothing—the tears, the struggle, the way your body trembled.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his rhythm stuttering. “Look at this fucking pretty mouth, ruined for me. This is all you are now. A warm, wet hole for my dick.”
His words sent a jolt straight to your core, a fresh wave of humiliation and arousal that made you moan around him. The vibration made him curse.
His control snapped. With a final, deep grind against your lips, he held himself there, buried in your throat. You felt the hot, pulsing release directly down your constricted esophagus. You had no choice but to swallow, each thick spurt a forced, rhythmic gulp. He kept coming, filling you, until you were dizzy from the lack of air and the sheer, degrading act of it.
When he finally pulled out, you gasped, dragging in ragged, whooping breaths. Cum and saliva dripped from your swollen lips.
He tucked himself away, zipped his jeans. He looked down at you, wrecked and kneeling at his feet, your face a mess.
“Go shower,” he said, his voice back to that neutral calm. “You smell like all of us.”
He walked to the couch and sat, picking up a game controller. The screen flickered to life with silent, colorful violence. He didn’t look at you again.
You stumbled to your feet, your knees aching, your body feeling used and hollowed out. As you shuffled toward the bathroom, his voice stopped you, casual, as if commenting on the weather.
“We’re not done. I own that cunt, too. I’ll collect after you’re clean.”
The bathroom door clicked shut behind you, locking you in with the steam and the echoing memory of his weight, his taste, his words. The water wouldn’t be hot enough. It would never be hot enough. You stared at your blurred reflection in the mirror, at the reddened lips and the empty eyes, and you understood the true horror wasn’t in his taking.
It was in your body’s relentless, shameful readiness for more.