Chapter 7: Throat Training
The pizza box remained unopened on the kitchen counter, a greasy monument to the confrontation. The loft felt different now. The air, once thick with defiant certainty, had thinned into a nervous quiet. They had showered separately, a rare thing, the spray doing little to rinse off the clinging dread.
Joanna stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the city lights bleed into the dusk. Her reflection was a ghost over the urban grid. She saw the woman who had torn up a contract, who had chosen chaos. She also saw the faint, lurid mark on her neck from Riley’s teeth. A brand. She touched it.
Behind her, Riley moved through the space, a contained storm. She cleaned the already-clean workbench. She adjusted tools that didn’t need adjusting. The silence was a third presence, growing heavier by the minute.
“He won’t wait,” Riley said, finally. Her voice was too loud in the quiet.
“I know.”
“It’ll be tonight. Or tomorrow morning. The ‘sources close to’ bullshit. The photos.”
Joanna turned from the window. Riley was looking at her, her eyes dark with a protective ferocity that made Joanna’s chest ache. “I’m scared,” she admitted, the words a bare whisper.
Riley crossed the room in three strides. She didn’t offer empty comfort. She took Joanna’s face in her hands, her thumbs rough on her cheekbones. “Be scared. Then get angry.”
The kiss was not soft. It was a transfer of energy, a spark meant to ignite tinder. Joanna met its force with her own, biting Riley’s lower lip, feeling a jolt of satisfaction at the sharp intake of breath it provoked. The fear mutated, twisting into a need to feel, to be so profoundly claimed that the outside world couldn’t touch her.
Riley broke the kiss, her breathing ragged. Her gaze dropped to Joanna’s mouth, then lower. “I need you,” she said, the statement stripped of all adornment. “I need to feel you. Now.”
She took Joanna’s hand and led her, not to the bed, but to the wide, sleek bathroom. She flicked the lights on, harsh and uncompromising. The chrome and white tile gleamed under the glare. Riley turned on the shower, a rainhead cascading water into the glass enclosure, steam already beginning to fog the mirrors.
But they didn’t get in. Riley backed Joanna against the cold, hard vanity, the edge digging into her tailbone. The mirrored wall behind her reflected their tense forms, Riley’s broad back blocking Joanna’s view of her own face. Riley’s hands went to the waistband of Joanna’s sweatpants, yanking them and her panties down in one brutal motion. They pooled around her ankles. She did the same with her own jeans and briefs, kicking them aside.
They stood there, naked and exposed under the clinical light. Riley’s cock was already hardening, thick and heavy against her thigh. Joanna’s own arousal was a slick, urgent ache between her legs.
“On your knees,” Riley said, the command leaving no room for debate.
Joanna didn’t hesitate. The cold porcelain tile was a shock against her skin. The perspective was humbling, daunting. Riley stood over her, all power and intent, her cock now fully erect, jutting proudly from a thatch of dark curls. The scent of her, musk and soap and pure Riley, filled Joanna’s senses.
Riley fisted her own shaft, giving it two slow, firm strokes. A bead of pre-cum welled at the tip, catching the light. She didn’t guide it to Joanna’s mouth. She simply held herself there, a demand.
“Show me,” Riley murmured, her voice low and gravelly. “Show me what you chose.”
Joanna leaned forward, her eyes on Riley’s. She opened her mouth, her tongue extending to lap at the salty drop. The taste was electric, intimately familiar and endlessly thrilling. She took the swollen head past her lips, her tongue swirling around the ridge.
A rough groan escaped Riley. Her hand descended, tangling in Joanna’s blonde hair, not to guide, but to possess. She held her there as Joanna worked, taking more of her length, hollowing her cheeks, savoring the weight and texture.
“Yeah,” Riley hissed. “Just like that. Take it.”
She began to move, shallowly at first, testing Joanna’s resistance. Joanna relaxed her jaw, letting Riley slide deeper. The head nudged the back of her throat. She breathed through her nose, her eyes watering.
Riley watched her, her own face a mask of intense concentration. “Deeper,” she growled.
She applied pressure with the hand in Joanna’s hair, not a yank, but an insistent push. Joanna yielded, allowing Riley’s cock to sink further into her throat. The sensation of being filled, of being used so completely, burned away every other thought. Her own need was a throbbing, insistent pulse. She reached between her own legs, her fingers sliding through slick folds to circle her clit.
“No,” Riley said, the word a crack of command. She pulled her cock from Joanna’s mouth with a wet sound. “You don’t touch. I do.” She stepped back, her cock glistening with saliva. “Turn around. Hands on the vanity.”
Joanna obeyed, her body humming with submission. She rose on trembling legs, turning to face the fogged mirror. She placed her palms flat on the cool surface, her reflection a blurred impression of want. Riley moved behind her, her body a solid, heat-radiating presence.
She spat into her palm, the sound crude and deliberate in the steamy room. Joanna heard her slick her own cock. Then Riley’s hands were on her hips, gripping, aligning. The broad, wet head pressed against her entrance.
There was no asking. Riley pushed forward, a single, relentless invasion that stole Joanna’s breath. She filled her in one smooth, breathtaking stroke, burying herself to the hilt. Joanna’s cry was muffled against her own arm. The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that anchored her to the spot.
Riley held still, buried deep, her body trembling with the effort. “Look,” she said, her voice strained.
Joanna forced her eyes open. In the mirror, she saw the faint outline of their forms through the condensation. Riley behind her, eyes fierce, jaw clenched. Herself, back arched, mouth open in a silent cry. It was a raw, pornographic tableau, and it was the most honest thing she’d ever seen.
Then Riley moved.
Her thrusts were slow, deep, and punishingly deliberate. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each forward stroke a full, re-claiming penetration. The angle was perfect, hitting a spot inside Joanna that made her vision spark. Riley’s balls slapped against her ass with a wet, rhythmic smack. One of Riley’s hands stayed anchored on her hip, the other came around, fingers finding Joanna’s clit with unerring accuracy.
The dual sensation was devastating. The deep, rhythmic fullness and the rough, circular pressure on her most sensitive nerve built a coil of tension so tight Joanna feared it might snap her in half. Her moans were continuous, ragged sounds lost in the hiss of the shower.
“This is it,” Riley grunted, her pace increasing, becoming less controlled. “This is what he’s trying to take. This feeling. This right here.” She drove into her, hard. “Mine.”
“Yours,” Joanna gasped, the word torn from her. “God, Riley, please…”
Riley’s fingers worked her clit faster, rougher. Her thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, driven. Joanna felt the orgasm gather like a storm surge, unstoppable and immense. It broke over her with a violence that made her legs buckle. She convulsed around Riley’s cock, a keening wail tearing from her throat as the waves of pleasure blinded her.
The violent clenching of her muscles was all Riley needed. With a guttural shout that was Joanna’s name and a curse fused together, Riley slammed home one final time and came, her release jetting deep inside Joanna in hot, pulsing ropes. She collapsed forward, her body heavy on Joanna’s back, both of them held up only by their braced arms on the vanity.
Their harsh breaths fogged the mirror completely, obscuring the reflection. The only sounds were the shower’s spray and their slowing heartbeats. Riley softened inside her, slipping out. She pressed her forehead between Joanna’s shoulder blades.
For a long time, they stayed like that, a sculpture of spent passion and shared defiance.
Eventually, Riley stood, her hands gentle now as she turned Joanna around. She cupped her face, her thumbs wiping away the tears Joanna hadn’t realized she’d shed. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were an overflow, a release of pressure.
Without a word, Riley led her into the shower. The hot water washed over them, rinsing away sweat and salt and other, more intimate fluids. They soaped each other slowly, silently, the act more tender than any that had preceded it. It was a reclaiming of peace, a quiet reaffirmation.
Later, wrapped in towels, Riley’s phone buzzed on the vanity. A single, harsh vibration. They both froze.
Riley picked it up, her face a blank screen as she read. She said nothing, just handed it to Joanna.
It was a link from a blocked number. Joanna clicked it.
The website loaded, a garish gossip blog. The headline was in bold, screaming type: FROM PENTHOUSE TO THE PITS: FORMER PORN ICON JOANNA LEVIN’S SORDID AFFAIR WITH EX-CON MECHANIC. Below it were the photos. Grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. Her and Riley, kissing outside the loft door. Riley’s hand possessively on her ass as they walked to the truck. Another, clearer one, through the diner window, of her tearing up the folder. Marcus had provided caption fodder, a quoted “insider” bemoaning her “tragic fall from grace” and “association with known criminal elements.”
The world tilted. The bathroom, so recently a sanctuary, felt like a glass box suspended over a void. She heard a strange, whining noise. It was her own breath, trapped in her lungs.
Riley took the phone from her numb fingers, her own face grim. “Okay,” she said, the word flat and solid. “Okay. It’s out.”
Joanna looked at her, the panic a cold claw around her throat. “What do we do?”
Riley scrolled, her jaw tightening. “Comments are already rolling in. The vultures.” She tossed the phone onto the vanity, where it clattered against the porcelain. She took Joanna’s hands, which were trembling. “We do nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“We don’t read it. We don’t engage. We don’t justify.” Riley’s eyes were like flint. “We live. Right here. We eat that cold pizza. We sleep. We wake up tomorrow, and we live some more.”
“They’ll call. My agent. My… my few friends. The few I have left.”
“Let them.” Riley pulled her close, wrapping the towel tighter around her. “Anyone who doesn’t call to ask if you’re okay, but to scold you or get gossip… they’re not your people.”
Joanna buried her face in Riley’s shoulder. The fear was still there, a churning pit in her stomach. But Riley’s arms were around her. The photos were out. The worst had happened. And they were still here, in the steamy aftermath, clinging to each other.
“The pizza will be terrible,” Joanna mumbled into her skin.
Riley’s chest vibrated with a low chuckle. “Probably. But we’re eating it in our fucking towels. And we’re not hiding.”
They did just that. They sat on the floor by the coffee table, towels wrapped around them, and ate cold, congealed pizza. They didn’t talk about the article. They talked about the terrible movie playing silently on the TV. They talked about the weird noise Riley’s truck engine had made that morning. They existed, stubbornly and simply, in a small circle of light, while the digital storm raged unseen outside.
Later, in the dark of the bedroom, Joanna lay awake, Riley’s breath a steady rhythm against her neck. She pictured the headlines, the comments, the whispers. The old shame tried to rise, the fear of being seen, of being judged.
But then she replayed the feel of the tile under her knees, the taste of Riley on her tongue, the searing fullness of her inside her. She remembered the feeling of tearing that contract. The look on Marcus’s face.
She had chosen this. She had chosen herself. She had chosen the messy, raw, unfiltered woman sleeping beside her.
The shame had nowhere to land. It dissipated, like fog under a hard sun.
She turned, fitting herself into the curve of Riley’s body, and slept.