Chapter 6: Mouth Fucking & Mirror Play
The threat from Marcus hung in the loft’s air, a sour note beneath the scents of sex and spiced whiskey. Joanna pretended to read a magazine, her eyes skimming the same paragraph three times without comprehension. Riley was at her workbench by the window, methodically cleaning a carburetor, the rhythmic scrape of her tools the only sound. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a held breath.
Joanna watched her. Riley’s focus was absolute, her hands sure and steady. There was a violence in her precision, a contained force in the set of her shoulders. This was how she dealt with things—by taking them apart, cleaning the pieces, reassembling them into something functional. Joanna didn’t know how to be a machine.
“He can’t really do anything, can he?” The question escaped her, brittle in the quiet.
Riley didn’t look up. “Morality clause is standard. Meant for when you get caught with a minor or a kilo of coke in your luggage. Not for…” She gestured between them with a greasy socket wrench. “This.”
“He’ll spin it. ‘Former adult film star in lewd relationship with convicted felon.’” The words tasted like ash.
The scrape of metal stopped. Riley set the wrench down with a deliberate click. She wiped her hands on a rag, her gaze lifting to meet Joanna’s. “I did six months for aggravated assault. I was nineteen. Guy was harassing my mom at a bar. I broke his jaw and two ribs with a tire iron.” She stated it flatly, a fact. “It’s public record. He’ll use it.”
Joanna felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. It wasn’t revulsion; it was a terrifying understanding. Riley was a fighter. She protected what was hers. And now, somehow, Joanna had become part of that territory. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Riley stood, crossing the space between them. She loomed over the couch, her scent of oil and solvent cutting through the loft’s sweetness. “I’m not. He wants a war, he’s got one. But you…” She crouched, her eyes level with Joanna’s. “You gotta be sure. Once that trash website posts the first story, there’s no scrubbing it off. Your nice, quiet retirement? Gone.”
Joanna reached out, tracing the line of Riley’s jaw. The skin was rough with stubble. “It was never quiet. And it wasn’t nice. It was lonely.”
Riley captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm that was more a brand than a caress. “You’re not lonely now.”
“No.” The word was a vow.
Riley’s eyes darkened. She leaned in, her voice a low rasp. “Then show me. Show me you’re not looking back.”
The magazine slid from Joanna’s lap as Riley moved. She pushed Joanna back into the deep cushions of the couch, straddling her hips. The worn denim of Riley’s jeans pressed against the thin silk of Joanna’s robe. She could feel the heat of her, the solid strength.
“Show me how bad you want it,” Riley growled, her hands going to the belt of her own jeans.
Joanna’s breath hitched. This was different. Not a frenzy, not a tender reclamation, but a deliberate, forceful claiming. She watched, her mouth going dry, as Riley undid the button, the zip a harsh sound in the quiet. She shoved her jeans and briefs down just enough to free herself.
Riley’s cock sprang heavy and thick, already fully erect. The sight of it, ruddy and potent against the faded blue of her denim, sent a bolt of pure need straight to Joanna’s core.
Riley didn’t ask. She fisted herself, giving one long, slow stroke, her eyes locked on Joanna’s. Pre-cum beaded at the slit. She shifted forward, balancing on her knees, and guided the swollen head to Joanna’s lips.
The taste was primal, salt and skin and Riley. Joanna opened her mouth, her tongue darting out to lap at the drop of moisture. A rough groan escaped Riley. She pushed forward, not slowly, feeding her cock into the wet heat of Joanna’s mouth until the head nudged the back of her throat.
“That’s it,” Riley breathed, her fingers tangling in Joanna’s blonde hair, not yanking, but holding with absolute possession. “Take it. All of it.”
Joanna relaxed her jaw, letting Riley set the depth. She hollowed her cheeks, applying suction, her world narrowing to this: the stretch of her lips, the weight on her tongue, the musky scent filling her nostrils. Riley began to move, a slow, devastating rhythm that was all control. Each forward stroke was a declaration; each withdrawal a promise of return.
Riley’s other hand slid inside Joanna’s robe, finding her cock, already hard and leaking. She wrapped her calloused fingers around it, her grip firm. She began to jerk her in time with her thrusts, a perfect, synchronized counterpoint.
The dual sensations were overwhelming. The fullness in her mouth, the rough friction on her own cock. Joanna moaned around Riley’s length, the vibration earning a sharp curse from above.
“Fuck, your mouth,” Riley gasped, her hips snapping forward a little harder. “Always knew it was made for this. Not for cameras. For this.”
The words, the crude affirmation, undid Joanna. Her hips bucked into Riley’s fist. The pleasure coiled, tight and urgent.
Riley sensed it. She pulled her cock from Joanna’s mouth with a wet pop. “Not yet.” Her voice was guttural. “I want you coming when I’m inside you. When you can’t tell where you end and I begin.”
She stood abruptly, pulling Joanna up by the arm. The robe fell open. Riley spun her around, bending her over the back of the low-slung couch. The cool leather pressed against Joanna’s stomach and breasts. Riley’s hands gripped her hips, positioning her.
There was no preparation, no gentle stretching. Riley spat into her palm, slicked herself, and without ceremony, pressed the broad head against Joanna’s entrance.
“Tell me you want it,” Riley demanded, applying pressure but not pushing in.
“I want it,” Joanna panted, pushing back against her.
“Louder.”
“I want your cock, Riley! Please, god, fuck me raw!” The words were torn from her, obscene and true.
Riley slammed home.
The invasion was brutal, perfect, a searing fullness that stole the air from Joanna’s lungs. Riley filled her completely, a claiming so profound it felt like being rewritten from the inside out. Riley held there, buried to the hilt, her body trembling.
Then she moved.
This was not making love. This was a piston-driven fuck, each thrust a hammer blow driving Joanna into the leather. Riley’s pace was relentless, a deep, punishing rhythm that left no room for thought, only sensation. The sound of skin slapping against skin, Riley’s ragged grunts, Joanna’s choked cries—they built into a crude symphony.
One of Riley’s hands snaked around, fingers finding Joanna’s clit, rubbing rough, tight circles. The other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The dual assault, the deep penetration and the frantic stimulation, pushed Joanna to the cliff’s edge.
“Come for me,” Riley snarled, her thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. “Come all over my fucking cock. Show me this is mine.”
The command was the final trigger. Joanna’s orgasm exploded through her, a convulsive, blinding wave that clenched around Riley’s pounding length. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that held weeks of fear and longing.
The violent tightening of her muscles pulled Riley over. With a roar that was half curse, half triumph, Riley drove in one last, searing time and came, her release pulsing hot and deep inside Joanna in frantic, claiming bursts.
They collapsed over the back of the couch, a tangled, sweat-slicked heap of shuddering limbs. Riley’s weight was heavy, anchoring. Joanna could feel Riley’s heart hammering against her back, a wild drum syncing slowly with her own.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing settling.
Riley softened inside her, slipping out. She pressed a kiss, surprisingly soft, to the nape of Joanna’s neck. “Okay?” she mumbled into her skin.
Joanna nodded, incapable of speech. She was more than okay. She was remade.
Riley shifted, pulling them both down to lie on the floor amidst the discarded clothes. The worn rug was scratchy against Joanna’s back. Riley propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at her. In the dim afternoon light filtering through the curtains, her face was stripped bare. The defiance was gone, replaced by something vulnerable and weary.
“I need to know something,” Riley said, her voice quiet. “Before this goes any further. Before the shit really hits the fan.”
“Anything.”
Riley’s gaze searched hers. “When you look at me… what do you see? The mechanic? The ex-con? Someone to slum with before you go back to your real life?”
Joanna reached up, cradling Riley’s cheek. “I see you. The woman who fixes broken things.” She swallowed. “I see the person who asks me to stay. No one else ever has.”
Riley closed her eyes, leaning into the touch. When she opened them, they were clear. Decided. “We can’t just wait for him to make the next move.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to look him in the eye,” Riley said, the steel returning to her voice. “I want you to look him in the eye. Not in some lawyer’s office. On neutral ground. You tell him it’s over. You’re done. That you belong to yourself.”
“And you?”
A faint, dangerous smile touched Riley’s lips. “I’ll be there. As a witness. To make sure he hears you.”
The idea was terrifying. And necessary. Joanna thought of the photos Marcus might have, the headlines being drafted. She saw herself shrinking, becoming a victim again. Or she saw herself standing, with Riley at her shoulder.
“Okay,” Joanna said.
Riley nodded, a single, sharp dip of her chin. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
They lay there on the floor as the sun faded, the city’s lights beginning to blink on outside the window. The fear was still there, a cold stone in Joanna’s gut. But it was outweighed by the warm, solid weight of the woman beside her, and by the new, unyielding spine she felt forming within herself. She was no longer just Joanna Levin, retired model. She was becoming something else. Something that could fight.
The silence that followed was not empty, but thick with the gravity of the decision. Riley finally moved, standing with a soft grunt and offering a hand. Her grip was firm, pulling Joanna up from the floor where their bodies had left damp shadows on the rug. “We’ll need coffee,” Riley stated, her voice returning to its practical timbre. “Lots of it.”
They moved through the loft’s morning routines in a quiet, synchronized dance. Joanna showered first, the hot water sluicing away the sweat and the scent of sex, but not the feeling of Riley’s possession, which had seeped into her bones. When she emerged, Riley was at the stove, scrambling eggs with a concentration usually reserved for engine blocks. The domesticity of it, the smell of toast and brewing coffee, felt like a fragile shield against what was coming.
“He’ll want to meet somewhere public,” Joanna said, wrapping herself in one of Riley’s flannels. It smelled of grease and her.
“Probably.” Riley didn’t turn around. “Some overpriced place where he feels in charge. We’ll pick the spot. Somewhere with no memories for you.” She slid the eggs onto two plates. “Eat. You’ll need the protein.”
They ate at the counter, shoulders brushing. The eggs were perfectly cooked, the coffee strong and black. Joanna watched Riley’s hands, the scarred knuckles holding a fork. Those hands could dismantle a transmission or make her come apart with equal expertise. “What if he doesn’t listen?”
“Then we walk out.” Riley’s eyes met hers, steady. “He can’t force you into a car. He can’t force you to sign anything. All he has is noise. We let him make it to an empty room.”
After breakfast, Riley dressed in clean jeans and a black t-shirt, looking more like she was heading to a fight than a negotiation. Joanna chose clothes carefully: dark trousers, a simple silk blouse, understated jewelry. Armor. She studied herself in the bathroom mirror. The woman looking back had shadows under her eyes, but her gaze was clear. She applied a swipe of lipstick, then wiped most of it off. She needed to look strong, not painted.
Riley leaned in the doorway, watching. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.” A faint, approving smirk touched Riley’s lips. “Means you’re not stupid.” She pushed off the frame. “Let’s go.”
The diner Riley chose was a cavernous, chrome-edged relic on the industrial edge of town. It was all cracked vinyl benches and the smell of decades-old grease. It was neutral, impersonal, and entirely Riley’s territory. They took a booth by the window, the morning sun glaring off the Formica. Joanna sat facing the door, her hands clasped on the table to stop their trembling. Riley slid in beside her, not opposite, a united front.
Marcus arrived exactly on time. He saw them immediately, his mouth tightening into a line of pristine disapproval. He navigated the sticky floors in his tailored suit, looking like a transplant from another planet. He didn’t sit, towering over their booth.
“Joanna. You look… tired.” His eyes flickered to Riley, a dismissive scan. “And you must be Riley.”
Riley leaned back, draping an arm across the back of the booth behind Joanna. She said nothing, just stared up at him with a flat, unnerving focus.
“I’m not signing anything, Marcus,” Joanna said, her voice surprising her with its steadiness.
“This isn’t a request.” He placed a manila folder on the table but didn’t open it. “Your contract is clear. Public conduct bringing the brand into disrepute. The social media chatter alone is a liability. The photos are worse.”
“What photos?” Joanna kept her eyes locked on his.
“Of you entering this… person’s residence. Of the two of you in various… compromising situations.” He almost shuddered. “We have a rebranding opportunity with a family-friendly lifestyle platform. This… dalliance… jeopardizes everything.”
Riley’s low chuckle was a dry, dangerous sound. “Dalliance. Fancy word for me fucking her brains out every night.”
Marcus ignored her, his attention laser-focused on Joanna. “Walk away now, issue a statement about a regrettable temporary lapse, and we can salvage this. The alternative is a lawsuit for breach of contract you cannot win, and a public unmaking that will follow you forever.” He tapped the folder. “The documents are here. Sign them, and the photos disappear.”
A cold fury, clean and sharp, replaced Joanna’s fear. She looked at the folder, then at Marcus’s carefully composed face. She thought of the morality clause, of the millions of eyes that had watched her on screens, of the profound loneliness that had festered beneath the glamour. She thought of Riley’s hands on her, not owning her, but seeing her.
She picked up the folder. She didn’t open it. She tore it in half, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet diner. Then she tore it again, letting the pieces flutter onto the table between the sugar dispenser and the ketchup bottle.
Marcus’s face went pale, then flushed. “You stupid bitch. Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away?”
Joanna stood up, her movements smooth. Riley stood with her, a silent, solid presence at her shoulder. “I’m not throwing anything away, Marcus. I’m choosing something. Myself.” She dropped a twenty on the table for the coffee they hadn’t ordered. “Don’t contact me again.”
They walked out, the bell on the door jingling behind them. The sunlight outside was brutal and clean. Joanna’s heart was pounding a wild, exultant rhythm against her ribs. She felt Riley’s hand find the small of her back, a brief, grounding touch.
In the truck, the engine roared to life. Riley didn’t pull away immediately. She sat, her hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. “That,” she said finally, “was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
A laugh burst from Joanna, half-hysterical, half-liberated. It echoed in the cab of the truck. “He’s going to destroy me.”
“Probably.” Riley put the truck in gear and pulled out into traffic. “But he’ll have to work for it now.” She drove for a few blocks, the city flowing past. “Where to?”
Joanna looked at her, at the sharp profile, the focused eyes. The adrenaline was mutating, burning through the fear and leaving behind a sharp, desperate need. “Home. Your home. Now.”
Riley glanced over, a slow smile spreading across her face. She didn’t speak. She just hit the gas, weaving through traffic with a newfound urgency.
Back in the loft, the door barely shut behind them, the air crackled. The confrontation had stripped away the last pretense, leaving only a raw, volatile energy. Riley backed Joanna against the door, her body pinning her there, her hands caging Joanna’s head.
“Say it again,” Riley demanded, her breath hot on Joanna’s cheek.
“I choose myself,” Joanna whispered, her voice trembling.
“Louder.”
“I CHOOSE MYSELF!” Joanna shouted it, the words echoing off the high ceilings.
Riley kissed her, a violent, consuming collision of lips and teeth and tongue. It was a seal on the declaration, a physical ratification. Her hands pulled at Joanna’s clothes, the silk blouse tearing at the shoulder, buttons scattering on the floor. Joanna reciprocated, yanking Riley’s t-shirt over her head, her fingers scrambling at the button of her jeans.
They stumbled toward the bed, a tangled, desperate knot of limbs. There was no slow burn, no tender exploration. The fight had primed them, and now they needed the catharsis of collision.
Riley pushed Joanna onto the mattress, coming down over her. Her mouth was everywhere—biting at Joanna’s neck, sucking a bruise over her collarbone, taking a nipple deep between her teeth until Joanna arched and cried out. She shoved Joanna’s trousers and panties down her hips, her hands rough, urgent.
“On your knees,” Riley growled, turning her over.
Joanna obeyed, pushing herself up, presenting herself. Riley’s spit was warm and slick against her entrance, a crude, efficient lubrication. Then Riley’s cock was there, a blunt, insistent pressure. She didn’t ask. She pushed, sheathed herself in one relentless, burning stroke.
Joanna screamed, the sound muffled by the duvet. The stretch was breathtaking, a brutal fullness that echoed the defiance in her soul. Riley didn’t pause, didn’t gentle. She set a punishing rhythm immediately, each thrust a hammer blow driving Joanna into the mattress. Her hands gripped Joanna’s hips, fingers digging in, holding her in place for the assault.
“This is what you chose,” Riley chanted, her voice a ragged, driving force behind each snap of her hips. “This fucking mess. This chaos. My cock in your ass while the world burns.”
“Yes!” Joanna sobbed, pushing back to meet her, to take her deeper. The pleasure was a sharp, brutal edge, inseparable from the pain of the stretch, the sting of her slapped skin, the terrifying freedom of her choice. “Don’t stop! Fuck me like you mean it!”
Riley’s rhythm faltered, overcome by a wave of brutal need. She leaned over, blanketing Joanna’s back, her teeth sinking into the muscle of Joanna’s shoulder as she pistoned into her, hard and fast and deep. One hand snaked around, fingers finding Joanna’s clit, rubbing furious, tight circles.
The dual sensations, the deep, brutal penetration and the frantic focus on her clit, shredded Joanna’s control. Her orgasm ripped through her, a convulsive, mind-blanking wave that clenched around Riley’s driving cock with vicious intensity.
Riley felt it, the violent, gripping pulsing around her length. With a guttural roar, she buried herself to the hilt, her body locking as her own release erupted, hot and endless, filling Joanna with a final, claiming rush.
They collapsed, a heap of sweat-slicked, trembling flesh. Riley’s weight was crushing, perfect. Joanna could feel Riley’s heart thundering against her back, a wild drum slowly coming to rest. The silence returned, but it was different now. Cleansed. The room smelled of sex and salt and their shared, spent defiance.
After a long while, Riley rolled off, lying beside her. They stared at the ceiling together, their breathing gradually slowing.
“He’ll leak the photos tomorrow,” Joanna said, her voice hoarse.
“Yeah.”
“The story will be everywhere.”
“Yeah.”
Joanna turned her head on the pillow. Riley was already looking at her, her grey eyes calm, resolved. There were no promises of safety, no false comforts. There was only a fierce, unbroken presence.
Joanna reached out, her fingers tracing the new bruise on Riley’s knuckles, earned against the diner table or her own skin, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. “What do we do now?”
Riley caught her hand, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was sure, anchoring. “Now,” she said, her thumb stroking Joanna’s palm, “we order a fucking pizza. And we wait.”