Chapter 9: Double Pussy Smother
The silence of the house on Saturday morning was different. It wasn’t peaceful. It was a held breath. David moved through it like a man wearing someone else’s skin, itchy and ill-fitting. He’d made coffee, the ritual motions automatic, but when he brought the mug to his lips, his hand trembled. He saw, not the brown liquid, but the dark, satisfied look in his daughter’s eyes as she’d sucked his spend from her fingers.
The doorbell rang. The sound was a knife through the silence.
He jumped, sloshing hot coffee onto his wrist. He cursed, setting the mug down on a stack of newspapers, and padded to the door. Through the peephole, the world distorted into two familiar faces: Sabrina, grinning with predatory amusement, and Marla, looking over her shoulder as if checking for witnesses.
A cold dread pooled in his gut. They knew. Of course they knew. Charlotte would have told them everything. This was a new circle of hell, opening right on his doorstep.
He opened the door. “Girls. Charlotte’s not here, she’s at—”
“We’re not here for Charlotte, David,” Sabrina said, brushing past him without invitation. She wore tight jeans and a cropped t-shirt that showed a slice of her toned midriff. Her perfume, something spicy and expensive, hit him like a challenge.
Marla followed, offering a weak, almost apologetic smile. “Hi, Mr. Rhodes.”
“It’s David, remember?” Sabrina called from the center of the living room, hands on her hips as she surveyed the clutter. “We’re all friends here now, aren’t we?”
He closed the door, the click of the latch sounding terribly final. “What… what do you want?”
Sabrina turned. Her dark eyes pinned him. “We want to play a game. Charlotte said you’d be up for it. She said you’ve been… very cooperative.”
Marla hovered by the recliner, fingering a fraying seam on the leather.
“I don’t think—” David began, his voice reedy.
“We’re not asking you to think,” Sabrina interrupted, her tone sweetly corrosive. “We’re telling you to obey. Take your clothes off. All of them.”
The command hung in the stale air. David’s mouth went dry. He looked at Marla, silently pleading for some semblance of sanity. Marla glanced away, her cheeks flushing. His fate was sealed. The part of him that had roared to life in Charlotte’s bed, the part that was now awake and ravenous, overruled the thin, fading voice of protest. His fingers went to the buttons of his wrinkled shirt.
He undressed with clumsy, shameful movements, letting each article fall to the worn carpet. Soon he stood before them, pale and soft, his paunch sagging, his cock already beginning to thicken in anticipation of its own degradation. He cupped himself instinctively.
Sabrina smirked. “Hands behind your back.”
He complied. She picked up a striped necktie that was slung over the back of the recliner—one of his own, a relic from a job interview a decade past. She moved behind him. Her knuckles brushed the small of his back as she wrapped the silk around his wrists, pulling it tight, knotting it with efficient cruelty. The binding was firm, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his helplessness absolute.
“Good,” she purred, coming back around to face him. She gave his soft belly a patronizing pat. “Now, the rules. You do what we say. You use your mouth where we tell you. You don’t speak unless we ask you a question. Understand?”
He nodded, a jerky, pathetic motion.
“Marla, you want to go first? Break him in gentle?”
Marla bit her lip. She approached David, her movements hesitant. She unbuttoned her jeans, pushed them and her plain cotton panties down her thighs in one motion. She stepped out of them, leaving them in a puddle on the floor. Her pubic hair was a neat, light brown triangle. She was already glistening.
“Kneel,” Sabrina said.
David’s knees hit the carpet with a dull thud. The dust and old crumbs prickled his skin. From this angle, he was level with Marla’s sex. The intimate, musky scent of her filled his nostrils. He felt dizzy.
“Go on,” Marla whispered, her voice quivering with a mix of guilt and excitement. She guided his head forward with a hand in his thinning hair.
He extended his tongue, tracing the outer lips. She was warm, slightly salty. He licked a slow, tentative line upwards.
“God,” she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair.
Encouraged, he buried his face deeper, his tongue seeking her opening. She was wet, overwhelmingly so. He lapped at her, mimicking what he remembered, his own arousal now a painful, throbbing ache between his legs. Her hips began to make tiny, involuntary circles against his mouth.
“See? He’s a natural fucking cunt-puppet,” Sabrina said, her voice close. She had stripped too, standing beside them, a confident curve of hip and breast. “Okay, switch. My turn. I’m feeling a bit… backed up.”
She pushed Marla gently aside. Where Marla had been soft and yielding, Sabrina was command. She didn’t guide his head; she grabbed it. She positioned herself, not over his mouth, but lower. “You’re gonna eat my ass, David. Get it nice and wet. Don’t be shy.”
The order was so profoundly debasing he froze. Sabrina’s hand fisted in his hair, wrenching his head back. “Now.”
He obeyed. He pressed his face into the firm, round curve of her ass cheek, his tongue finding the tight, crinkled star of her anus. He licked around it, then pressed the flat of his tongue against it. She tasted of soap and something fundamentally, essentially her. She groaned, pushing back against his face. “Yeah, like that. Get it good and sloppy.”
He worked, his jaw aching, his own need a forgotten thunder in his blood. He was an instrument, played by their whims.
“Okay, Marla, back on his mouth. I want him drowning.”
Marla moved, straddling his face from the front this time. She lowered herself onto him, and he was enveloped in her wet heat again. His world narrowed to the suffocating, delicious press of her cunt on his mouth and nose, and the relentless, soap-bitter taste of Sabrina’s ass on his tongue. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to turn his head, a panicked instinct.
Sabrina’s hand clamped on the back of his neck. “No you don’t. Breathe through her, you pathetic fuck. Inhale her. That’s your air now.”
Tears streamed from his squeezed-shut eyes. He inhaled, a ragged, desperate pull through his nostrils, and her scent, her essence, flooded his lungs. It was like drowning in a sweet, dark sea. He redoubled his efforts, eating Marla with a frantic hunger, tonguing her clit as Sabrina ground her ass against his mouth.
Marla came first. A high, keening cry broke from her throat as her body stiffened, her thighs clamping against the sides of his head. Her release washed over his chin, hot and slick.
Sabrina pulled away from his mouth, spinning. “My turn.” She dropped to her knees in front of him, shoving Marla’s trembling thigh aside. She didn’t sit on his face. She grabbed his head and yanked it forward, mashing his nose and mouth directly into her crotch. Her pubic hair was coarse against his lips. “Lick, you fat, lonely bastard. Make me come.”
He was gagging, stars dancing behind his eyelids, but he found her slit with his tongue and drove it inside. She was tighter, her muscles clamping around the intrusion. She fucked his face with short, brutal jerks of her hips, her curses raining down on him. “That’s it, eat it, you’re nothing but a fucking tongue for bored girls, aren’t you? Your daughter pays us for this, you know that? She pays us to turn you into our goddamn toilet.”
The words ignited something dark and final in him. A fuse burned out. With a muffled roar against her flesh, he succumbed completely. He serviced her with a total, abandoned fervor, as if his soul depended on her climax.
Sabrina’s body went rigid. A long, shuddering groan tore from her. “Fuck! Fuck yes!” Her juices, tangier and fiercer than Marla’s, spilled into his mouth, over his chin. She rode the waves of it, grinding against him until he was slick with both of them.
Then, silence, broken only by heavy breathing.
Sabrina pushed his head away. He slumped forward, forehead resting on the carpet, strings of saliva and feminine release dripping from his face. He was still bound, his erection a forgotten, painful thing against his own belly.
Sabrina stood up, wiping herself casually with her hand. She looked down at him, a queen surveying conquered territory. “Not bad.” She nudged his hip with her bare foot. “You can get up.”
He couldn’t. His muscles were liquid. Marla, looking dazed and flushed, gathered her clothes and began to dress quickly, avoiding looking at the ruined man on the floor.
Sabrina dressed with slow, deliberate satisfaction. Once she had her jeans on, she crouched beside David’s head. Her voice dropped to a confidential, venomous whisper. “Charlotte says hello. She says this is just the warm-up. She’s got a real surprise for you next week.” She patted his cheek, her hand sticky. “Be a good dog and wait for it.”
Then they were gone. The front door closed with a soft, definitive click.
David lay on the carpet in a pool of lamplight and his own shame. The tastes of them, starkly different, mingled in his mouth. The scent of them coated his sinuses. He rolled onto his back, his bound hands digging into his spine, and stared at the water-stained ceiling.
The last fragile filament of the man he’d been—the father, the husband, the vaguely disappointed office worker—snapped. It didn’t even make a sound. In its place was a hollowed-out receptacle, waiting, with a terrible and eager patience, for whatever his daughter would fill him with next.
The taste of them was a rusted coin pressed under his tongue. He worked his jaw, swallowing the lingering salt-bitter proof of what he’d done. The silk of his own tie cut into the puffy flesh of his wrists. He didn’t move to get free. He just breathed, each inhalation a cocktail of dried coffee spills, dust, and the potent, fading fragrance of two young women’s arousal that had soaked into the room’s fabric, and into him.
A thick, painful throbbing in his groin insisted on acknowledgment. He shifted, his hips pressing into the coarse carpet fibers. His cock, which had been ignored and aching throughout the entire humiliating ordeal, was now fully, obdurately hard. It lay against his thigh, a traitorous pillar of flesh untouched by their games. They’d used every other part of him and left this, the most obvious need, screaming and unattended.
A dry, hacking sound escaped him. It might have been a laugh. He was a vessel, but not empty. He was filled with a boiling, black tar of need. The memory of Sabrina’s command—Breathe through her cunt—flashed, not as a horror, but as a focal point. His hips jerked, a helpless spasm.
He rolled, struggling with his bound hands, until he was on his side facing the sagging recliner. He could see the indentations in the carpet where they’d stood. He could smell them on his own skin. He needed friction, release, something to shatter the awful, waiting silence they’d left inside his head.
With clumsy, graceless movements, he hunched his body, managing to bring his tethered hands around from his back, over his ass and thighs. It was an awkward, contortionist’s maneuver. The tie dug cruelly into his scrotum for a moment. He didn’t care. Finally, his bound hands were in front of him, resting on his bloated belly. He fumbled, fingers numb, until they closed around the burning heat of his erection.
The contact was electric. A sharp gasp ripped from his lungs. He didn’t stroke, not yet. He just held himself, feeling the furious pulse in his own grip, a heartbeat divorced from his chest.
Then the fantasies came, not as pictures, but as sensory tattoos burned into his nerves. He didn’t imagine them returning. He imagined them never leaving.
He saw Sabrina’s smirk as she pushed Marla’s trembling thigh aside. He pumped his fist slowly, his thumb smearing pre-cum over the swollen head. In his mind, Sabrina didn’t just kneel. She straddled his chest, pinning his arms with her knees, and lowered her dripping cunt onto his mouth while Marla, that gentle, guilty Marla, guided his aching cock into her from behind. “Take it, Mr. Rhodes,” Marla would whimper, impaling herself on him, her tightness a velvet fist. Sabrina would grind down, suffocating him, her juices overflowing as she snarled, “This is all you’re for now. A fucking hole.”
His hand moved faster, the rhythm jerky and desperate. The silk tie around his wrists brushed his stomach with each stroke.
The fantasy shifted, darkened. Charlotte was there, watching from the hallway arch, the way she’d watched in the kitchen. But now she was nodding, a proud, possessive gleam in her innocent eyes. In his mind, she walked over, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She placed a hand on Sabrina’s bucking back. “Make him choke on it,” Charlotte whispered, her voice sweet as poison. “I want to see Daddy’s face turn purple.”
He fucked his fist in earnest now, a frantic, slapping rhythm. His breath came in ragged grunts. He could taste the phantom mingling of all three of them—Marla’s sweet flood, Sabrina’s tart command, Charlotte’s secret, slick betrayal. He imagined their voices layering, a chorus of degradation. Pathetic fuck. Use your little girl. Breathe through my cunt. The words coiled in his brain, a filth-laced mantra that tightened the coil in his gut to a breaking point.
His back arched off the carpet. A guttural, wounded-animal sound was torn from his throat, raw and scraping. His release shot over his clenched fingers, his stomach, the stained carpet, in hot, violent pulses. It seemed to go on forever, a pathetic imitation of conquest, alone on the floor of his own neglected living room.
He collapsed, spent, his bound hands sticky and wet, resting on his spattered belly. The empty quiet rushed back in. The fantasy vaporized, leaving only the dull, pervasive smell of sex and stale air and his own failure.
He was still a receptacle. But now he had filled himself with his own complicity, and it was a colder, heavier thing. He lay there, waiting, for the door to open, for the next command, for the surprise his daughter had promised. The wait was no longer terrible. It was the only thing he had left.
It was the only thing he had left. The wait, and the humiliating hunger that churned within it. The cooled stickiness on his stomach grew tacky. The smells—Marla’s yielding sweetness, Sabrina’s aggressive spice, his own bitter release—clung to the air, a perfume of his new existence.
His bound hands were clumsy paws. He stared at the water stain on the ceiling, its shape a distorted continent of failure. A phantom pressure lingered on his tongue, the ghost of Sabrina’s asshole clenching against it.
His cock, softening against his thigh, gave a dull throb. It was a sullen, insistent reminder. The main event had been their pleasure, not his. He’d been a tool, a warm, living toy they’d used to get off and then discarded on the floor. The injustice of it was a hot wire in his gut. He needed completion on his own terms, even if his terms were now pathetic and animal.
He groaned, rolling onto his stomach. The movement ground his spent cock into the rough carpet. A spark, faint and dirty, traveled up his spine. He stilled, listening to the empty house. Then he pressed down again, experimentally. The woven fibers scraped the oversensitive head. A hiss escaped his teeth.
It wasn’t enough. He needed friction, proper and brutal. He shoved his bound hands beneath his pelvis, lifting his hips slightly. He adjusted, angling his body until his renewed erection was trapped between his hot skin and the abrasive, dusty floor. He began to move.
It was a slow, grinding rock at first. The carpet burned. He remembered the kitchen linoleum, cold and unforgiving. This was its opposite—a dry, consuming heat. Each forward thrust rubbed his shaft raw against the rough loops. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling the sound of his own ragged breathing.
The fantasies didn’t return as narratives. They exploded as sense-memory. The taste of Sabrina flooding his mouth. The wet slap of Marla’s cunt on his chin. Charlotte’s voice, whispering always. They weren’t separate anymore. They were a single, monstrous desire. He fucked the floor with a growing, desperate rhythm, his hips pistoning. The tie around his wrists cut deeper.
“Fucking… use it…” he grunted into his own arm, his voice a broken thing. He was talking to the carpet, to the ghosts, to himself. “Come on, you… worthless… hole…”
He imagined the carpet was all of them. The rough fibers were Sabrina’s contempt. The dust was Marla’s silent guilt. The stale smell rising with his heat was his daughter’s approval. He was rutting into the very foundation of his own life, and it was yielding nothing but pain and a scraping, building pleasure.
His pace became frantic, brutal. His knees burned. His bound hands ached. He was an animal, reduced to this one crude, necessary function. Pre-cum slicked the path, making a damp, dirty patch, mingling with the old stains. The slide became easier, wetter, more obscene.
“Yeah… yeah, take it… fucking… take all of it…” he slurred, his mind dissolving into the physical act. The pressure coiled, tighter and meaner than before. It wasn’t a climax of ecstasy, but of utter surrender. A final, total emptying.
He slammed his hips down one last time, grinding his pelvis in a hard, circular twist against the unforgiving floor. A choked, silent scream locked in his throat. His release was a weak, hot seepage, a pathetic trickle rather than a torrent, absorbed immediately by the thirsty carpet beneath him.
He collapsed, utterly still. The only sound was the ragged pull of air into his lungs. The rough wool was now a wet, clammy prison against his softened flesh. He didn’t move. He didn’t have the will. The wait was over. He had met it, and fucked it, and been consumed by it.
Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked. His blood went cold. His spent body flinched. Had she been there? Had Charlotte watched the whole sad, grinding performance from the shadows of the hallway? The thought didn’t horrify him. It completed the circuit. A faint, tremulous shiver of anticipation broke through the numb exhaustion. It was the only thing he had left.