yooo

“We can’t do this.”

That should do it. You’re proud of that, even if it’s not a believable statement. Some weight of denial before it turns into something you can’t control anymore.

“When’s the last time he’s made you finish?”

But did you ever have control over this?

Your eyes flutter, breath flickering in your lungs for a split second. That man hasn’t wasted a second on your pleasure.

“Never.” It’s a whisper.

Simon’s hands curl tighter around your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he’s actually angry at the fact. “Poor cunt.”

Your inhale a sharp breath, embarrassingly so.

“Jus’ let me get a taste, yeah?”

His fingers slide under your shirt, resting at your rib cage. Thoughts of how he could snap each rib, one by one, flash into your mind. Maybe he’s counting them, slotting the feeling of each ridge into a file deep in his mind like every other animal he’s slaughtered and cut into pieces. Maybe he’s imaging how easy it would be too.

Your mouth salivates at the thought.

“Show you how a cunt should be treated.”

You finally look up at him. “We shouldn’t.”

“You don’t ‘ave to do anything. Jus’ gotta let me do all the work.” He slides you off the counter, feet stamping to the floor before he flips you around swiftly, back pressed to chest, ass pressed to hips. Goosebumps bloom from how quickly he was able to turn you around, how easy it was for him to move you as he pleased.

You don’t have to do anything.

You think he said that on purpose. Like he knows that your religious guilt would bury its talons in your skin until you ran out of his shop without a second look. As if he’s the one doing everything then you won’t have any blame in it.

Your religions talons don’t compare to the fangs pierced in your throat. A snake. A wolf. The devil’s teeth holding you in place. You hope it doesn’t leave a mark.

You think about your mom. At a time like this, it feels wrong, but you see her, standing with a cross and sending you off to private school because you snuck out once. You think about how she would view you now, bent over a table with your butcher practically begging for a taste.

Your leggings are at your ankles before you can even finish the thought.

“Poor cunt.” He cups your pussy through your underwear, and his palm is so big and so warm it makes you shiver. “Just wasting away, huh?”

When you feel his fingers hook into the seams you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hide from the way you instinctively part your legs wider when they reach your ankles. Face burning when you just get tangled in the fabric and Simon chuckles. You choose to ignore the way you feel your underwear snap against your skin once and the sound of fabric tearing next. That’s a problem for later.

He helps you then, nudging your legs open with his foot, your hands falling flat on the counter. Your pussy on display, spread wide open for him, becomes an after thought when his fingers meet your bare skin.

“Fuckin’ mess back ‘ere.”

You can’t even imagine the slick spread down your thighs or the way it probably clung to your underwear when he tore them in two.

“Sorry, I don’t know why—“

He laughs again, and you’re not sure why he’s laughing when he’s got his fingers on your pussy, when he swipes them along the length and it makes a wet sound echo in the walls.

You whine again, burying your face in your arms so you lay flat against the cold counter. Tears well in your lash line from sheer embarrassment, humiliation, something. Your husband hasn’t even gotten you close to this and Simon hasn’t done anything. He’s surely never spoken to you like this either.

“Jus’ my mouth an’ fingers, yeah? Treat ya the way you deserve?”

You’re not sure if you deserve this. You shouldn’t deserve this. Your husband tells you so.

Horrible wife. Whore. Cheater. Immoral.

Still, you nod against your arms.

“Please.”

He lifts you with a hand around your throat, fingers practically touching in the middle. “Need you to say it.”

You keep your eyes closed, as if to shield yourself from the reality of what you’re doing. You can’t turn back now.

“Your mouth and fingers, please, I want them.”

You don’t deserve them. Shouldn’t have them, but you’ve already decided you need them. And you can’t remember the last time you’ve done something for you, without the weight of your husband’s heavy hand and God's watchful gaze.

Your necklace presses to your chin, ring to your palm. You don’t have the strength to take them off. You let them stay while you go against every message they portray.

The feeling in your abdomen, deep in your chest, coiled around your throat, and heavy behind your eyes is a nasty one when he slips a finger in. A storm brews in your mind and spreads to your toes and fingertips, emotions so contradictory that you don’t know what the right answer is.

You’re trapped, stuck in white water rapids that make it impossible to breathe. Struggling to come up for air and fill your lungs with anything but sin. Your jaw aches where your teeth clench. Tears wet on your cheeks from guilt when another joins the first and you finally understand why any woman would consent to this.

The white in your eyes is blurry when he glides his fingers out so fucking slowly you feel every bone in his fingers. Slumping when he slides them shallowly and presses down once.

“Sweet fuckin’ cunt.”

You let yourself drown.

Arching your spine, and pressing your forehead against the counter, sinking into the cold water. The sound you make is gurgled, like you’re choking on water or maybe it’s tears, spreading your legs even wider as he continues.

He likes that. He hums approvingly.

“Atta girl.”

You hate the way it makes your knees buckle. Hate the way he laughs like you’re some clumsy prey in the palm of his hand. Like he thinks it’s cute. The counter edge digs into your hips that’ll surely bruise later, and Simon just places a hand on your tailbone, pushing you harder against it, keeping you firm in his grasp.

That’s when he dips deeper, as if he can finally give you what he wants now that you’ve succumbed. Now that the water is calm.

You feel his cock, fat and heavy, against your thigh. You’re taken aback with how hard he is, throbbing in his pants just from fingering you. As if he wants you as badly, something more than the way your husband uses you to get off.

And it shouldn’t happen this fast, the string weaved in your core shouldn’t already feel like snapping, but the threads are tearing at the seams. Desperately clinging to anything as he starts to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. Harsher, harder, deeper— deeper, deeper.

It takes everything in you not to break when his thumb stamps your clit. And he circles it slow, gently, soaked from your weeping cunt, but it’s still too much. Too much that you can feel his lips mapping out the curve of your ass, that his fingers have your legs shaking and knees knocking together, that you can feel his breath on your thighs.

On your cunt.

And suddenly it’s his tongue, one swipe replacing his thumb on your clit.

You jolt forward, head snapping back when you feel it. Wet and warm, licking through your folds like he has every intention to taste you whole. And you can’t remember if you showered this morning because everything’s a bit hazy, and you stormed over here, and you're sure you sweated on your way.

You attempt to push at his head, “Simon, wait—wait. I’m not clean.”

You feel him scoff against your pussy, sending vibrations against your thighs like he’s offended. “Your husband makes you shower before? Tastes the best part.”

“No,” You pause. “He’s never done this.”

His free hand curls around the back of your thigh tightly and he growls angrily. Angry that your husband’s never had his mouth around your clit or pressed to the inside of your gummy walls. Angry that he has you all to himself and he still wastes it all.

“Fuckin married a prick.”

Yeah.

You would voice your agreement, but then his tongue is flat against your pussy, fingers parting you just enough for his tongue to join and all you can manage is a shriek. Garbled words and breathless pants are all that make their way through your lips when he circles your clit. Sucking the bead between his lips harshly before smoothing figure 8’s over it again and again until your vision goes white.

You don’t last long, like some virgin. Breath caught in your lungs and abdomen tightening as you convulse. It washes over you like nothing before. It’s not the same by yourself or when you pretend with your husband.

This is overwhelming, pulse thrashing, and pussy quivering around his fingers before it finally calms. Pinpricks turn into soft tingles, soft buzzing under skin that makes you melt into the counter, falling into his touch like putty. You feel like warm honey, gooey and malleable, and so content for the first time in months.

You think this is the first time someone’s ever sought after you. The first time someone’s put your pleasure above theirs. The first time you felt more than just the broken cracks.

Did you think he was only going to give you one, bird?

You hear him, but it’s muffled, everything’s still hazy when his fingers slide out and his tongue takes their place. When you feel his tongue pressing against the inside of your walls and he’s fucking licking you clean.

God, it’s nasty.

Nothing could save you now. There’s not enough repentance in the world to make this god forgive you.

And then he’s going at it. Sucking like he’s fucking drinking a fresh coconut. Tongue wide and flat and so fucking obscene as he licks along your pussy. You scramble against the counter, moaning loudly, and rolling to your tippy toes to escape, but it’s too late for that.

He growls like a dog with a bone, hooking your knee onto the edge for a better angle. He laps like a dog, messy and so wrong, on his knees worshiping you like your pussys the altar. Eager. Voracious. Debauched.

You should hate it, blasphemy, but your second orgasm hits you like a truck and without warning, gushing on Simon’s tongue. Shaking and twitching frantically, lungs void of air as you struggle to catch your breath. Muscles tensing in your thighs sporadically, mindlessly rocking your hips back to meet his tongue until you physically can’t take anymore and whimper pathetically into your arms.

He catches you before you completely collapse.

“Easy, bird.”

He helps you turn around, helps you pull your leggings back up before he sits you on the counter. And you whine when he turns to leave your side.

He shushes you, sliding between your legs instead, big palms finding your hips, rubbing small circles into your skin. You blink at him lazily, eyes heavy and half lidded. He’s got a big smirk on his face that you can’t miss, lips glistening proudly with your cum.

You smile slowly, a huff of a laugh slipping from your lips as you look at him.

“Good?” He asks.

You nod with a giggle. “Even better.”

He leans down to kiss you, and you should push him away, be disgusted with tasting yourself on his tongue, but you don’t. Can’t be when he doesn’t care, when it’s an honor for him to have tasted you in the first place. Can’t care when two orgasms makes it impossible to be upset about anything.

You just lick into his mouth, deliriously, and he lets you, like you’re some animal lapping away. He only stops you when your hands trails where they shouldn’t.

“Let’s get you home, love.” You don’t want to go.

He helps you walk to his truck, kisses you goodbye a house down from yours, and sends you home with your underwear tucked into his back pocket and a pussy soaked with your cum and his saliva.

Reality floods your lungs when you see your husband.

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