Chapter 7: Day 3 morning
The stale taste wouldn't leave. It coated my tongue, clung to the back of my throat – a sour, salty phantom of last night’s degradation. Sleep had been a fractured thing, filled with the sensation of choking, the echo of Chris’s grunts, David’s guilty whispers. My jaw ached dully, a constant reminder of being stretched wide, forced down. The raw ache inside was marginally better, a low throb instead of a tearing fire, but the memory of the countertop pressed against my spine was still sharp.
Sunlight, weak and grey, filtered through the grimy living room window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the debris-strewn coffee table. Beer cans, a half-eaten bag of stale chips, a controller sticky with god-knows-what. I’d burrowed into the corner of the couch, wrapped in a thin blanket, trying to disappear into the worn fabric. Trying to be invisible. Twenty-six days. The number pulsed behind my eyes like a migraine.
Footsteps, heavy and purposeful, shattered the fragile quiet. Not David’s shuffle, not Chris’s silent tread. Mark. He strode into the living room, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips. Morning light glinted off the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. He raked a hand through his messy hair, yawning widely, then his gaze locked onto me. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," he announced, his voice thick with sleep and something else – anticipation. He stretched, muscles rippling, and deliberately adjusted himself inside the loose sweatpants. The prominent bulge left nothing to the imagination. "Got a present for you."
I shrank further back. "Mark… please. Not now." My voice was a rasp, my throat still tender from Chris’s brutal invasion. "I’m… I’m still sore. Everywhere."
He chuckled, stepping closer, looming over the couch. "Sore? Aw, poor baby." He didn’t sound sympathetic. He sounded amused. "Saw you got hammered pretty good last night. Chris doesn’t fuck around, does he? Pun intended." He smirked. "But see, thing is, I woke up with this fucking problem." He gripped himself through the fabric, giving his cock a slow squeeze. It thickened visibly under his hand. "Hard as a rock. Needs attention. And since your pussy’s apparently out of commission…" He let the implication hang, eyes fixed on my mouth.
Revulsion coiled in my gut, cold and heavy. The thought of taking him in my mouth again, so soon, with my throat still raw… "Can’t it… can’t it wait?" I pleaded, hating the tremor in my voice. "Just… later?"
"Nope." He popped the 'p'. "Morning wood’s a bitch. Needs dealing with. Now." His expression hardened slightly. "Or are you trying to renegotiate the deal already, Ella? Day four? That’d be a bad fucking move."
The threat hung in the air, mingling with the stale pizza smell. Homelessness. Again. The ultimate lever. My stomach clenched. The alternative – letting him push inside my still-tender body – was unthinkable. The mouth was the lesser torture. My own traitorous body, responding to the raw dominance in his stance, pulsed with an unwelcome slickness between my legs. No, not now. Not for him. But the dampness was undeniable.
I swallowed, wincing at the friction in my throat. "Fine," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. "But… gently. Please. My throat…"
"Gently?" Mark scoffed, but his grin returned. "Yeah, yeah. I’m a gentleman. Mostly. C’mon, get down here. Time for your morning lesson." He stepped back, giving me space to slide off the couch onto the worn carpet. My knees protested, still tender from last night’s kneeling.
He pushed the sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, fully hard now, thick and uncut, the head already glistening faintly. He gripped the base. "Alright, class is in session," he announced cheerfully. "First rule: Eye contact. Always. I wanna see those pretty eyes looking up at me, understanding your place. Got it?"
I forced my gaze up, meeting his arrogant, expectant stare. The humiliation burned. I opened my mouth.
"Ah-ah," he tutted, pulling his cock back slightly as I leaned forward. "Not yet. Use your tongue first. Lick it. Like a fucking ice cream cone. Show it some appreciation."
I hesitated, bile rising. Then I extended my tongue, touching the swollen head. Salty skin, warm. I dragged my tongue slowly up the underside of the shaft, tasting him, feeling the thick vein pulsing beneath my lips. He groaned. "Yeah… that’s it. Good girl. Now… suck it in. But not just suck. Suck your cheeks in. Like you’re trying to vacuum the fucking soul out of my dick. Make it tight."
I took him into my mouth, trying to obey. I sucked, hollowing my cheeks, creating pressure around the head and upper shaft. It felt grotesque, a parody of intimacy.
"Fuck yes," he hissed. "Tighter. Tighter! Imagine you’re trying to suck a thick milkshake through a straw. Yeah… ohhh fuck, Ella…" He thrust shallowly, just the head moving past my lips. "Now… use that tongue. Don’t just lie there. Swirl it. Swirl it around the head. Like I’m a fucking lollipop you’re desperate to taste."
I moved my tongue, circling the sensitive ridge under the head, probing the slit. Precum leaked onto my tongue, slick and bitter. The act felt mechanical, degrading. My jaw was already protesting.
"Good… good…" he panted, his hips beginning a slow, controlled rock. "Now talk to it. Tell it how much you love sucking it. Tell it how fucking good it tastes."
No. The word screamed in my head. I won’t say that. I stayed silent, focusing on the motions, sucking, swirling.
"Talk!" he barked, his hand tangling roughly in my hair, not pulling, but holding firmly. "Tell my cock it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever had in your mouth." His thrusts became sharper. "Say it!"
Tears pricked my eyes. "It… it tastes good," I choked out around his girth, the lie acidic in my throat.
"Louder. Tell it." He pushed deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I gagged reflexively.
"Y-you taste good," I rasped, saliva dripping down my chin. "So… so big."
"Fuck yeah," he groaned, thrusting harder. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want to choke on my fucking load."
"I…" My throat spasmed. "I want… I want you to come."
"Where?" he demanded, pulling almost all the way out, then slamming back in deep, making me gag again. "Say it!"
"In my mouth!" I gasped, the words ripped from me, humiliation washing over me in a sickening wave. "Come in my mouth!"
He let out a harsh groan. "That's my good little slut. Now suck it like you fucking mean it! Suck me dry!" He abandoned any pretense of gentleness or teaching. His hips pistoned, fucking my face with hard, rhythmic strokes, using my hair as a handle. I choked, tears streaming, spit slicking my chin, my throat protesting violently with each brutal invasion. He grunted, primal and satisfied. "Oh fuck! Yeah! Take it! Swallow every fucking drop, you filthy cocksucker!"
He slammed deep and held, grinding against my lips. Hot, thick ropes of cum blasted against the back of my throat, pulses of bitter salt flooding my mouth. He kept his cock lodged deep, forcing me to swallow convulsively, gagging as I struggled to gulp down the viscous fluid. He groaned long and low, shuddering, holding my head pinned against him until the last tremor faded.
Finally, he pulled out with a wet, obscene sound. I stayed kneeling, head bowed, coughing, trying to catch my breath, spittle and tears dripping onto the carpet. The taste was overwhelming, thick and acrid.
"See?" Mark said, his voice rough but satisfied, tucking his softening cock away. He patted my cheek, a patronizing gesture. "Lesson learned. You're getting the hang of it. Just needs more… enthusiasm." He stepped back, stretching again. "Twenty-six, Ella. Count 'em down."
He walked towards the kitchen, whistling. As he passed the hallway, I saw David standing there, frozen. He’d witnessed the end. His face was pale, eyes wide with a mix of horror and something else… arousal? He looked away quickly, embarrassed, and retreated into his room without a word.
Latina in only a oversized shirt on the floor. She is drooling. She has a tired look on her face. She is sitting cross legged.
I stayed on my knees on the scratchy carpet, trembling. The sun was brighter now, harshly illuminating the dust, the crumbs, the stains. My jaw ached fiercely. My throat was raw, scraped anew. The taste of Mark coated my tongue, my sinuses. Twenty-six days. I crawled back onto the couch, curling into a tight ball, pulling the blanket over my head, trying to block out the light, the smell, the memory of his voice demanding filth. Trying to ignore the persistent, shameful ache between my legs that throbbed in time with my pulse, a traitorous echo of the violation. The lesson wasn't just about technique. It was about breaking something deeper. And it was working.