Chapter 14: The Viagra Marathon
The climb up the stairs was a slow, silent procession. Tara led, her legs unsteady, each step a reminder of the thorough use her body had endured. Matthew followed, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. Richard brought up the rear, his footsteps heavy, his breathing still uneven.
The master bedroom was a sanctuary of soft greys and blues, a world away from the sweat-scented chaos of the living room. Jasmine from a potted vine by the open window perfumed the air, a fragile sweetness that did little to cut through the musk of sex and salt that clung to them. Tara went directly to the en suite, leaving the door ajar. The sound of water hitting the tiles echoed for a moment before she returned, a damp washcloth in her hand. She didn’t look at either man as she cleaned herself between her legs, a practical, weary motion. She dropped the cloth into a hamper and stood naked before the king-sized bed, her skin glowing in the soft lamplight.
“Well?” she said, her voice raspy. Her gaze was fixed on Matthew, a challenge and an invitation.
From his pocket, Matthew produced a small, single blue pill. He popped it into his mouth and dry-swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He gave her a slow, dangerous smile. “Just getting started.”
Richard sank into the upholstered armchair in the corner, its fabric a neutral beige that seemed to judge the scene. He made no move to undress further, his trousers still loose around his hips. His own flaccid cock lay against his thigh, ignored. He was an audience now, a witness to a performance he had commissioned but could no longer participate in.
Matthew closed the distance to Tara. He didn’t kiss her. He gripped her hips and turned her to face the bed, bending her over the footboard. The polished wood was cool against her feverish skin. He positioned himself behind her, his erection, already formidable, now a rigid, terrifying promise against her backside. He spat into his hand, slicking himself, and then guided his cock to her entrance. She was still swollen, sensitive, stretched from their earlier efforts.
He entered her in one smooth, brutal thrust.
Tara cried out, her fingers scrabbling against the duvet. This was different. There was no warm-up, no building rhythm. It was a merciless, piston-like fucking from the first moment. The bed rocked with the force of it, the headboard tapping a steady rhythm against the wall.
“Is this what you wanted?” Matthew grunted, his voice low and rough in her ear. “This what you needed after all those months of his pathetic, lazy fucking?”
“Yes!” she gasped, the word torn from her.
“You like this used cunt getting properly ruined?”
“God, yes! Ruin it!”
He drove into her, again and again, his hands moving from her hips to grip the cheeks of her ass, spreading her open, making sure Richard had a perfect view of his cock plunging into her depths. The wet, slapping sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Richard watched, his hand moving automatically to stroke himself. He was half-hard, a feeble echo of the machine-like rhythm happening just feet away. He saw the concentrated fury on Matthew’s face, the way Tara’s body jolted with each impact, the way her knuckles were white where she gripped the bedding. This wasn’t passion. It was demolition.
Matthew pulled out, his cock glistening and impossibly hard. “On your back,” he commanded.
She obeyed, flopping onto the mattress, her chest heaving. He didn’t give her a moment to recover. He hauled her to the edge of the bed, dropped to his knees, and buried his face between her legs. His tongue was a ruthless instrument, licking, sucking, probing. Tara arched off the bed, a long, wailing moan escaping her as a second, shocking orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed, but he didn’t stop. He lapped at her, drinking her in, until her cries turned to whimpers and she pushed weakly at his head.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and flipped her onto her stomach again. He mounted her from behind, entering her with the same relentless force. He fucked her on her knees, then against the wall, then bent over the armchair where Richard sat, his cock just inches from her face. Richard stared, his own hand moving faster, his breath catching as he watched his wife’s expression contort in a mixture of agony and ecstasy.
“Please,” Tara sobbed during a brief respite as he changed position again, laying her on her back and hooking her legs over his shoulders. “Matthew, I can’t… it’s too much.”
“You can,” he growled, sinking into her once more, the angle impossibly deep. “You’re taking every inch. You love this fucking dick. Tell me you love it.”
Tears streamed down her temples, soaking into her hair. “I love it,” she choked out. “I love your fucking dick.” Her body was trembling uncontrollably, a vessel being filled beyond its capacity.
A third climax seized her, this one less a wave of pleasure and more a systemic shock. She screamed, a raw, broken sound, her back bowing off the bed. Her cunt clamped down on him in a series of violent, involuntary spasms. She thrashed her head from side to side, sobbing openly. “No more, please, no more, I can’t.”
Matthew, fueled by the chemical fire in his blood, was unmoved. He held her hips down and kept pounding, his rhythm never faltering. He was a force of nature, fucking her through her oversensitivity, through her pleas, through her tears.
Richard came then, with a choked gasp, his own orgasm a pale, shameful spurt over his hand and trousers. He watched, horrified and mesmerized, as his wife was broken and remade before his eyes.
Finally, with a guttural roar that seemed to shake the room, Matthew slammed into her and held, his body rigid. Tara felt the hot, pulsing flood deep inside her, a final, claiming release. He collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing, his breath roaring in her ear.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and Tara’s quiet, hiccupping sobs. The jasmine scent from the window was now entirely drowned by the smell of sweat, sex, and exhaustion.
Matthew eventually rolled off, his body slick, his cock finally, miraculously, beginning to soften. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling like a bellows.
Tara didn’t move. She felt utterly hollowed out, a ghost of herself. She was sore in places she didn’t know could be sore, her mind a blank static of sensation and fatigue.
From his chair, Richard spoke, his voice thin and reedy. “Tara?”
She turned her head slowly on the pillow. She looked at her husband, saw the stunned, vacant look in his eyes, the mess on his trousers. Then she looked at Matthew, spent and powerful beside her.
She didn’t answer Richard. Instead, she reached out a trembling hand and laid it on Matthew’s damp, heaving chest, feeling the frantic, slowing beat of his heart beneath her palm.
A single, clear thought cut through the wreckage in her mind: This changes everything.
A single, clear thought cut through the wreckage in her mind: This changes everything.
Her trembling hand, still resting on Matthew’s chest, curled into a weak fist. She pushed against him, a feeble effort that he understood. He shifted his weight off her, his body separating from hers with a soft, wet sound. The room’s air felt cold on her overheated skin. She rolled onto her side, facing him, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache between her legs and the sticky mess cooling on her thighs.
Richard watched from his chair, a statue of irrelevance. "Tara?" he tried again, his voice a whisper.
She didn’t even glance his way. Her entire world had narrowed to the young man lying beside her, his breathing still deep and rhythmic. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his softening cock. It was still thick, heavy in her hand, a weapon temporarily at rest. He flinched at her touch, oversensitive, but didn’t pull away.
She looked him directly in the eyes, her own gaze still blurred with spent tears but now sharp with a terrifying new resolve. Her voice was raw, shredded from screaming, but absolutely clear.
“I want you to take one of those pills,” she said, her fingers stroking him slowly, feeling a faint, promising twitch. “Every night. From now on.”
The silence in the room became absolute. The hum of the city outside vanished. Matthew’s eyes widened slightly, then darkened with understanding. This wasn’t a request. It was a mandate. Richard made a small, choked sound in the corner, but it was the protest of a ghost.
Matthew held her gaze, the dynamic between them solidifying into something new, something permanent and dangerous. A slow smile touched his lips, not one of pleasure, but of acknowledgment. He saw the hunger in her, a hunger he had unleashed, a hunger that now demanded to be fed indefinitely.
“Okay,” he said, the single word a vow.
In one fluid motion, he moved over her again. He didn’t kiss her. He simply guided himself back to her entrance, his cock already beginning to swell and harden once more with unnatural speed, the pharmaceutical promise taking hold. She was sore, swollen, utterly spent, but she opened for him, a raw, accepting gasp hissing through her teeth as he pushed the thick head inside.
“Every night,” she repeated, a desperate mantra, as he began to move again, a slower, more deliberate rhythm this time, a claiming that went deeper than flesh. “I need you to fuck me like this every night.”
Richard stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He looked from his wife’s blissfully pained face to the powerful, dark back of the man fucking her, and he finally understood his role was over. He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him. His footsteps echoed down the stairs, a retreat.
Tara barely heard him go. Her universe was the feeling of being filled, stretched, and owned. She wrapped her legs high around Matthew’s waist, locking him in, her hips meeting his thrusts with a painful, glorious determination.
“Harder,” she breathed into his ear, her voice cracking. “Don’t you ever stop.”