Chapter 298: Chapter 298- Don’t you Enjoy It?

The taste was the first thing.

The full, layered, undeniable complexity of it—arriving on Mira’s tongue with the complete, sensory weight of everything that had happened in this room tonight. Her lips stretched around his cock head, her jaw forced wide to its absolute limit, the stretched, aching quality of cartilage and soft tissue accommodating something her body had not stopped protesting since the first time.

Her eyes were wet.

Not from effort. It was the passive, overflowing quality of eyes that had run out of the ability to hold things in—tear ducts simply spilling because the body had filled past capacity and had nowhere else to put it.

’Mmhnn—~’

The muffled sound moved through her throat. His cock head rested against her tongue with the full, pulsing, post-release warmth of a man who had just finished and had now brought his cock to her face for cleaning—and her tongue was moving.

That was the thing.

The thing she had not given it permission to do.

Her tongue was moving on its own.

Slow circles. Attending the underside of the head with the thorough, automatic quality of muscle memory that had been written by tonight—by hours of this man and this room and his particular method of instruction. Her hand had not moved to push him away. Her head had not turned. Her body had quietly, traitorously decided to do this.

’I’m—’ The thought arrived soft and bewildered. ’I’m doing this.’

The taste intensified.

The dark, deep, earthy complexity of where he had been—Avriana’s interior, the full, biological reality of his recent occupation—landed against the flat of her tongue with the undeniable quality of information she could not file away as abstract. It was specific. It was Avriana. It was the woman lying beside her, and Mira’s own passage earlier, and his release, and all of it compounded into the single, impossible, deeply wrong flavor that her tongue was—

Still moving.

’It’s—’

’Dirty.’

The word arrived with the flat, unambiguous certainty of a diagnosis. She knew what this was. She knew precisely what coated him and what she was doing to it and the specific mechanics of how profoundly inappropriate this was. Her tongue curved around the head and her cheeks hollowed slightly with the light suction that she had also not instructed them to perform.

’It’s dirty and I am—’

Still going.

badump

Her heart was doing something irregular.

And then—in the peripheral blur of her tear-tracked vision, the corner of her eye still running with the passive, ongoing overflow—

She saw it.

Avriana.

Lying flat on her stomach, spread and still and utterly wrecked—the way she had been since he had dropped her. The frog-sprawl of total depletion. Hands open. Face sideways on the sheet.

But.

A glow.

The faint, warm, skin-deep quality of light that had no business being there—not the lamplight, not the window, not a trick of the room—but something interior, something ’beneath’ the surface of Avriana’s skin, like a coal had been placed somewhere behind her sternum and was quietly, steadily deciding whether to catch.

Mira’s eyes stilled.

Her tongue did not.

’…..’

She blinked. Once. The tears tracked down. Her jaw was still stretched around his cock head with the full, aching quality of a mouth that had been open too long, and her vision was blurred enough that certainty was not available—

’Am I—’

The glow pulsed.

Soft. Rhythmic. The slow, attending throb of something being born. Avriana’s fingers—the ones lying open against the sheet with the boneless quality of total exhaustion—twitched.

’I’m imagining it.’

The thought arrived with the flat, exhausted quality of a mind offering the most available explanation. She had been in this bed for hours. She had come. She had cried. She had held a woman through something and been bitten and leaked milk and been fingered through someone else’s screaming and her mind was—

Overwhelmed.

That was the word.

Her mind was overwhelmed and her mouth was doing things without her, and her tongue was tracing the ridge of his cock head with the thorough, humiliated, ’automatic’ quality of a woman whose body had learned things tonight that her intellect had no say in.

The taste of Avriana was still on her tongue.

’It’s Avriana.’

The thought sat there, flat and present and unavoidable. ’That’s what she—that’s where he—’

Her tongue swirled.

The deep, deliberate circle around the head—gathering, thorough, doing exactly what he had told her to do with the full, attending completeness of a body that had received an instruction and had no remaining capacity to refuse it.

’It’s dirty.’

She knew.

She knew it was dirty. She knew what she was tasting and she knew where it had been and she knew that the correct response to this particular set of sensory inputs was revulsion and refusal and the immediate deployment of whatever dignity remained—

Her cheeks hollowed again.

The light suction. The attending pull. Her lips sealed more completely around him with the trained, helpless quality of a mouth that had been taught what ’clean it’ meant and was following through with the thoroughness of a woman who, if she was going to do a humiliating thing, was going to do it completely.

’Still going.’

Her eyes drifted upward.

The slow, tear-blurred, reluctant upward travel of eyes that had been avoiding this—avoiding the sight of him looking down—and found it anyway. His face, above. Half of hers visible from where he sat, the lower half occupied, her jaw stretched wide, the wet, obscene quality of his cock in her mouth visible from above in the way she knew it was visible, the way she could feel the visual impact of it in the quality of his expression.

He was watching.

The low, attending quality of a man who had positioned himself precisely to see this—her tear-tracked face, her stretched jaw, her tongue working, the wet, thorough, humiliated effort of a pregnant woman cleaning his cock in the way he had taught her body to.

He chuckled.

The low, warm, entirely private sound of it—not loud, not unkind, carrying the satisfied quality of a man who found something genuinely pleasing about what was below him. His thumb moved to her cheek.

The unhurried, attending quality of it—his thumb tracing the tear track from the outer corner of her eye downward, clearing the wet trail with the flat, gentle, entirely proprietary quality of a man wiping something that belonged to him.

“What happened?”

His voice was low. Easy. The amused, fond quality of a man asking a question whose answer he already had. He tilted his head slightly, looking down at her, his cock still seated in her stretched mouth, his thumb still at her cheek.

“Don’t you enjoy it?”

’—!!!’

PAH.

Two fingers.

The sudden, unannounced, deep-driving plunge of two fingers into her pussy—arriving without preparation, without preamble, with the flat, efficient quality of a hand that knew exactly where it was going and had simply gone there.

“UMMMBGH—!!”

The muffled scream.

The sound that wanted to be a full, raw, open-mouthed cry and had nowhere to go—trapped behind his cock, compressed into the wet, vibrating sound of a woman screaming against an obstruction. Her body lurched, her hips bucking instinctively away from the intrusion and finding no purchase.

He twisted.

The slow, deliberate rotation of his fingers inside her—turning against her interior walls with the attending quality of a man who knew exactly how sensitive this passage was and was applying that knowledge with precision.

“UMMNGHHH—!! HHH—!!”

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