He put the bags of takeout on the counter; it had been a shitty week, and I was grateful for the gesture. But still, my chest felt wound up in anxiety. Just like what they say — everything that could have gone wrong this week, had in fact, gone wrong. I suppose everyone has weeks like this — but damn, did it suck.
I had been on the verge of tears for days. And I was losing the battle today.
I tried to smile, but it felt pasted on. “Thank you,” I said.
His gaze traced over my expression, and his eyes darkened. “You’re welcome.” He paused. “Are you okay?”
I bit the inside of my bottom lip, and my eyes burned. “No.”
He closed the distance between us and held my chin in his palm. “What’s wrong?” As he tipped my head up, I lost my control over my tears, and they spilled down my cheeks in twin rivulets. “Come here,” he soothed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Been a bad week,” I whispered, as I turned my head and nuzzled against his chest. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about.” He wrapped his arms around me. “What can I do?”
What could he do?
I took what felt like my first full breath in days, and it came out in a shudder. “Help me… stop thinking. I don’t want to think anymore.” I was so tired, so exhausted from running over what had happened in my brain. A small reprieve from thinking sounded perfect.
His fingers wound themselves through the roots of my hair and squeezed. “Do you want to get on your knees, Duchess?”
I laughed, I couldn’t help it. “Some day, you’ll realize the answer to that question is always yes.”
“Maybe I like hearing you say it.”
My cheeks heated. Maybe I liked saying it, too. “Yes, I want to get on my knees.” My voice was small already, eager.
I felt his big hands settle on my shoulders and push me toward the ground. My knees buckled in eager submission. As I knelt in front of him, my hands automatically clasped behind my back and my gaze fell to the floor.
Another full breath, easier this time.
If I had been in the mood to reflect, I might have marveled at how goddamned right this felt, to be kneeling at his feet.
He ran his fingers through my hair, hard and possessive.
I purred as my thoughts of the past week faded.
“Tell me what you need.” He grabbed a fist full of hair and made me look at him.
My tears felt cool on my blushing cheeks. “Use my mouth, please. Use my throat like a fuck hole. Please. Use me.”
A dangerous smile crawled across his jaw, as he dragged his fingers down the front of my face and over my lips. “Here?” he asked, pushing between my lips. “Is this the hole you want me to use, Duchess?”
I shivered at the nickname and nodded, moving a fraction of an inch forward to get him deeper.
His expression darkened, and it made things low in my body tighten. “Show me,” he said. “Show me how you want me to abuse this slutty hole.”
My blush deepened, and I smiled. I pushed my head toward him, until I felt the tips of his fingers breach the entrance to my throat.
A hole. Just a hole. Eager little fuck hole.
I pushed until I felt his fingers much too deep in my throat, and I gagged, pulling myself off of him.
Strings of saliva trailed from my mouth, and he smeared them across my face. His fingers again rested against my lips. “Again,” he said.
I slid his fingers back into my mouth, wishing they were his cock.
“You’re not nearly wet enough,” he said, as it reading my thoughts. “Show me what a messy little whore you are. Show me how wet you can get for me.”
A low moan escaped my throat. I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about my pussy, although I knew my panties would be a lost cause by the time he deemed my mouth ready to fuck. I worked his fingers against the back of my throat, abusing my gag reflex, until new tears ran down my face.
These tears felt good. Good and right. Because they were his.
I gagged again, and thick cords of drool followed his fingers out from my lips. I tilted my head back as he plastered them against my skin. “Again, please,” I begged.
“As you wish.” And he held the back of my head steady as he finger fucked my throat in earnest, with the same ferocity as he would have used to make my pussy squirt for him. His brutal in and out brought waves of slime dripping from my mouth. Each time I gagged and cried, he applied another layer of that ooze to my face, until my eyelashes were heavy with it, and I could feel it dripping onto the bare skin of my thighs.
I heaved in great breaths as my stomach warned its revolt. I looked up at him through the gloss of my own throat slime. “Please don’t stop.”
He smiled, and I felt the threat of it. Goosebumps slithered across my skin. “More?” he asked.
I nodded. “Please.”
He added two more fingers and resumed his assault. The new thickness invading my throat was so much, too much. I sobbed as I gagged on him again and again, my saliva pooling on my exposed legs and dripping onto the floor underneath me.
I cried as he abused my throat, prepared my fuck hole for his cock. My stomach lurched as he emptied handful after handful of slippery spit over my face and down my cheeks, until I couldn’t even open my eyes anymore.
“Spread your legs,” he said, his voice a deep rasp. The sound of a zipper was loud in my ears. “Edge that needy pussy for me while my cock is down your throat. I want to see a goddamned puddle there, Duchess.”
Well that wasn’t going to be a problem.
Filthy little slut.
I felt his cock against my lips, and I opened my mouth for him.
He slid all the in, all the way down my throat, until my face was pressed against his torso. “Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, you little whore.” He worked his cock in and out, groaning every time it breached the back of my throat.
I gagged, I couldn’t help it. My reflex was already despoiled, and my throat contorted, squeezing against him as long stings of saliva escaped around his cock. They dripped down over my breasts, soaking the front of my t-shirt.
I needed this.
I needed to be fuck hole. Needed him to use me. Turn me into a slimy, wet mess.
My fingers snaked down between my legs, and I moaned as I found my clit.
His answering groan above me was followed by merciless hard strokes, fucking my mouth like a cunt.
Throat cunt. Just want to be his throat cunt.
“Ready, Duchess?” The words were pushed from between his clenched teeth. “I’m going to cum down your slutty throat, and you’re going to cum with me.”
I nodded, but the movement was lost to him.
I was so close, so terribly close. My fingers flew in rhythm to his fucking, and as he bottomed out and held me in his vicious grip, groaned as he emptied his cum directly into my stomach. My lips stretched around him, feeling the pulse and pump of his cock, and that knowledge threw me over the edge.
I screamed my own orgasm against the head of his cock, and I could feel my eyes rolling back into my head as my pussy leaked and dripped onto the floor.
“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he yelled as he pushed himself even deeper. “Fucking whore, cumming with a cock down your throat. Fuck, you’re a little slut.”
Aftershocks tore through me, and my lungs burned. Even the fire in my chest felt good.
His grip on my hair tightened, and he held me there until I felt my muscles lose their tension. As the weight of my body became too much of a burden without fresh oxygen, I felt myself land with a slimy splash in the pool of liquid underneath me.
“Good girl,” he said, his voice languid and patronizing. “Clean that mess up, while you’re down there.”
Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash