Chapter 5
The last door bangs somewhere near the foyer, and then it’s the two of us and a room full of empty stations.
I lean into him and kiss him. He tastes like water and salt. He’s been flogging people all night, after all.
His lips move slow against mine, no hurry in them at all, the same patience he had with the floggers.
I press further, and his mouth opens. I get his tongue, careful at first, then not.
My hand finds his chest through his shirt.
The cup drops from my other hand and rolls off somewhere across the concrete.
He pulls back an inch, looks at me, then straightens up onto his knees. He crosses his arms, grabs the hem of his shirt, and peels it over his head in one motion.
His left shoulder is covered in ink. Black, dense, geometric.
Bands of pattern wrap from his collarbone down over the cap of his shoulder and partway onto his chest, rows of triangles and interlocking shapes that keep almost resolving into something and then don’t.
I follow one band down his arm and there, worked into the pattern like it grew there, a sea turtle.
Once I see it, I can’t unsee it. The shell is made of the same triangles as everything else.
I reach out and put my fingers on it. His skin is warm. I trace the turtle’s shell, and my mind digs around for something, a documentary maybe, a program note from some show years ago.
“Polynesian?”
“Hawaiian.” He watches my fingers move. “Close.”
“What does it mean?”
“Long story. The turtle’s for my grandmother.” He catches my hand, flattens my palm against the ink, holds it there. “The rest, I’ll tell you another time.”
Another time. I file that away.
Then his other hand comes up to the back of my neck, under my hair, and he pulls me in and kisses me harder than I kissed him.
His mouth takes over the pace. His thumb moves along my jaw.
My shirt and bra slide off my lap and onto the floor.
I leave them there, both hands on his chest now, the pattern under one palm, his heartbeat under the other.
He stands and pulls me up with him. My shirt and bra stay on the floor where they fell. He steers me two stations down, past the cross, to a padded table under the crane track. Twice as wide as a massage table, black vinyl, cleaned and wiped down for the night. It comes up to my hip.
I hop up onto it, the vinyl cool against the backs of my thighs. Then I lean back on one hand, pop the button of my jeans, and work them down off my hips from a seated position, which is exactly as graceless as it sounds. Some blocking can’t be saved.
He hooks two fingers in the cuffs and pulls. The jeans slide off my legs and drop to the concrete with my socks still inside them.
He steps in-between my knees, still standing, and kisses me. Then his palms find my breasts, and I tingle. His thumbs move over my nipples, slow circles, and I moan.
I spread my knees wider and pull him in by the waistband of his jeans until his hips meet the table’s edge. He’s hard against the denim. I press against him and rock, once, and the seam of my underwear drags exactly where I need it. My breath goes ragged.
“Eager,” he says against my jaw.
“Grateful.” My voice comes out lower than I expected.
He laughs, quiet, and rolls one nipple between his fingers. My head drops back, and his mouth lands on my throat.
“Then let me accept your gratitude,” he says.
He hooks his thumbs into my underwear at both hips. I lift, and he draws them down my legs and drops them. Then he goes down to his knees on the concrete, and his shoulders come up under my thighs. He pulls me to the edge of the table with both hands on my hips like I weigh nothing.
His eyes come up to mine. Then they go down, deliberate, no shame in it at all, and he looks at me there for a long second. I’m wet. I know I’m wet. I’ve been wet since before the cross, and now he knows it, too.
He parts me with his thumbs, just slightly, and then his mouth is on me—warm, deliberate, unhurried.
The first touch of his tongue is light, almost reverent—a swipe along the outer edge, feather-soft, as if he’s testing the water.
Then another, higher, slower. He moves with the same precision he used when he mapped my skin with leather and cord, learning the topography of my body one sensation at a time.
I can feel him noticing everything—the tiny hitch in my breath when he flicks just above my clit, the way my thighs tremble when he grazes the inner swell of my lips.
He traces a slow, flat stroke from bottom to top, barely applying pressure, and I gasp.
He does it again, just to confirm, and I know he files that reaction away behind his quiet eyes.
He’s cataloging me. The way he studied the rise and fall of my back beneath the flogger, counting each mark, remembering where I flinched and where I arched into pain. That same focus is here now, redirected, intimate.
Then something changes
He stops skimming the surface. He presses his whole face into me, mouth open, and licks up through my lower lips in one long, sure stroke—deep, possessive, sure-handed.
My fingers fly to his hair without thought, tangling in the short strands at the nape of his neck, holding on like I might float away.
The other arm braces behind me on the cool, peeling vinyl of the table, the only thing grounding me.
He works his tongue inside me—thick, insistent—and then draws it up again, dragging across my clit with agonizing slowness. He circles once, twice, then pulls back before I can crest, leaving me gasping. Again. Again. Each stroke a promise half-kept.
I’ve always thought cunnilingus looked awkward—messy, undignified, a man on his knees doing something too private to be beautiful.
But Gabriel makes it look good. There’s no greed in it, no performance.
No slurping, no showy pauses to grin at me.
Just steady, patient pressure—like he’s praying, not performing.
He adjusts his grip on my hips, dragging me forward until my ass teeters on the edge.
My thighs rest on his shoulders, his stubble rasping against my inner lips with every movement—rough where everything else is slick and soft.
The contrast makes my spine bow. My hips jerk forward instinctively, grinding against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop me.
Lets me fuck myself on his tongue, takes it all without complaint.
“God,” I whisper, head thrown back, voice cracking over emptiness.
He hums in response, low and deep, and the vibration floods through me like current.
My heels dig into the muscle of his back, urging, pleading.
Heat pools low in my belly, spreading upward in slow, insistent waves.
My clit thrums, over-sensitized and desperate.
I’m close—closer than I realized—and he knows it.
Still, he doesn’t rush. Just keeps licking, slow and deep, like he could do this all night and be happy.
His thumbs press into my hip bones like anchors, holding me still even as my body bucks.
I come with a gasp that turns into a sob, my toes curling, fingers still twisted in his hair.
The orgasm rolls through me in thick, pulsing waves—less sharp than pain, more consuming.
My thighs tremble against his shoulders.
He doesn’t pull away. Keeps his mouth on me, tongue moving slow, gentling me down, tasting me through the aftershocks.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, half-sprawled on the table, head tipped back, breath ragged. His hands glide up my sides, warm, calloused, grounding. He presses a kiss just above my pubic bone, then another, lower, then rises.
He steps back, unbuckles his belt.
I watch him. Watch the metal slide free, the button of his jeans pop open. Watch the denim fall to his ankles.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, already fully hard. I don’t look away. Can’t.
He starts to reach for me again, but I slide off the table. My legs are shaky, but they hold. I step toward him, catch my breath, then lower myself to my knees.
I’m at his waist now. Eye level. His cock juts toward me, veins standing beneath the skin, the head dark and smooth.
I open my mouth. I think of that girl from an hour ago—the one in the Powerpuff Girls shirt, mouth stretched wide around a cock, eyes glazed, blissed out, completely gone. Cum-hungry slut. Not irony. Pride.
I want to look like that. Not play it. Be it.
I bring my hand up, wrap my fingers lightly around the base. He doesn’t move. Lets me. I tilt my head, part my lips wider, and take him into my mouth.
The taste hits first—salty, musky, warm.
Then the weight of him on my tongue. I let my jaw relax, sink down slowly.
He doesn’t thrust, letting me set the depth.
I go deeper than I expect, until the head brushes the back of my throat.
I stay there, breathing through my nose, letting my muscles adjust.
My eyes stay open. Fixed on the floor. On his bare feet. For just a moment, I wonder when he took his shoes off before concentrating on the cock in my mouth. On the shadow of his body above me. I feel him. All of him. Not just in my mouth. In my ribs. My gut. My spine.
I pull back then move down again. Slow. Deliberate. One hand stays at the base, the other cups his balls, light. He makes a sound—low, rough—but still doesn’t move. Lets me work him. Lets me learn.
I keep going. Keep taking him.
I take him deeper each time, learning the length, the swell just behind the head, how he thickens when I graze him with my tongue. My jaw aches, but I don’t stop.
His fingers touch my hair. Not pushing, not guiding. Just there. A weight. Warmth.
I look up.
He’s watching me, face unreadable, breath steady through his nose.
His hips haven’t twitched. His hands stay at his sides.
Only his eyes betray him—darker, fixed on my mouth, on the slow stretch and release as I slide up and down.
I hollow my cheeks on the pull back, drag my tongue along the underside, and his breath hitches.
That’s all. No moan. No order. Just the smallest shift in his chest.
I go deeper.
My throat opens. I take him in, all the way, nose brushing his pubic bone. I hold it. Don’t gag. Don’t pull. Just breathe. In through my nose, out through my nose. My eyes water. My throat pulses around him.
He exhales.
Then his hand closes gently around the back of my head. Not forcing. Just holding.
I stay like that, full and still, until he eases me back. I come off him slowly, lips tight, reluctant. He’s glistening, slick from my mouth, the head flushed darker now. I swipe my thumb across it, spread the wet, then circle my tongue around the rim, slow, watching his stomach tense.
“Enough,” he says.
I look up again. I wait.
He picks me up and turns me, guiding me back to the table. I lie down. He doesn’t lift me. Doesn’t manhandle. Just presses a palm to my hip, and I shift, trusting.
He steps between my legs.
Grabs my thighs, pulls me to the edge. I lift my knees, open wide.
He lines up, pushes in.
No rush. Just deep, steady pressure until he’s fully seated.
I feel every inch—thick, insistent, stretching me.
He stops, fully inside, and waits. Lets me adjust. Lets me feel it.
Then he starts to move.
Slow. Deep. Controlled. Each stroke measured, like the flogger’s fall, each one landing exactly where it should. His hands grip my hips, fingers pressing into flesh, anchoring me. I arch into him, and he adjusts, tilting his pelvis, and hits deeper.
I close my eyes.
He leans forward, braces over me, sweat from his chest dripping onto my skin. His mouth finds my ear.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
He keeps moving, eyes locked on mine, never breaking rhythm. Never losing control. I feel myself clench around him, pulse, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speed up.
He’s deep inside me, so deep I’m not just aware but centered on it. Every inch of him, making a rhythm within me.
He shifts his weight, leans his body closer until our chests nearly touch. His breath warms my neck, and I shiver, reflex amplifying the heat building where we are joined. My heels dig into the firm swell of his ass, urging him further, deeper, and he obliges with an exquisitely controlled thrust.
“Talk to me,” he husks—barely a whisper and loud amongst my thoughts.
“You … feel … You’re … inside of me.”
Gabriel’s eyes don’t leave mine. The air between us is thick, hot, charged. He waits. Still. Deep.
“Say it again,” he says. Not a request.
I swallow. My throat’s dry, but my body’s slick, open, full. I force my voice through the fog. “You’re … fucking me.”
He nods. Once. Approval. Then he shifts—deeper, harder—just one thrust, and I gasp.
“Louder. Tell me where.”
I grip the edge of the table, nails scraping vinyl. “You’re … Your cock is deep in my pussy. You’re … hands on my ass … You’re taking me … You’re fucking me.”
His breath hitches. Just slightly. But I feel it in his cock, how it swells a fraction deeper.
“What do you feel?”
I close my eyes. Try to think. But my body answers before my mind can catch up.
“I’m … so turned on. I feel your cock inside me. I feel so good. Like … like I’m yours right now. Like you’re using my pussy, and I want it. I want you to. Please—” My voice cracks. “Are you going to come in me?”
He laughs. Gently. Almost kind.
Then he moves. No more restraint. Thighs slap against mine. Hands lock on my hips, lift me slightly, tip my pelvis, and he drives in harder than before. Not rough. Not cruel. But certain.
I cry out. Can’t help it. The table creaks under us. My legs tremble, heels slipping on the vinyl. But he holds me. Owns the angle. Owns the rhythm. Owns me.
Each thrust grinds me just right—his pubic bone pressing down on my clit, dragging over it with every push. I’m not thinking anymore. Just feeling. His heat. His weight. The stretch, the fullness, the rightness of it.
I reach down, fingers searching. I find my clit, swollen, needing. Two strokes, and I’m there.
He feels me tighten. Feels the ripple. Groans low in his throat.
“Come,” he says. “Come on my cock.”
I do.
My body locks—spine arches, mouth opens soundlessly—and the orgasm tears through me, raw and deep. Not sweet. Not gentle. Conquered.
He doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking me through it. Makes it last. Makes it hurt just enough to matter.
Then he stills.
Heat pulses inside me. Once. Twice.
He’s coming.
I feel it—thick, deep, filling me—and I don’t want it any other way.