Epilogue - Jino #2
I grip her hair again, gentle but firm. "You're in complete control right now.
You're setting the pace, the depth, the rhythm.
Everything is on your terms." I tilt her head back slightly.
"But when Giovanni fucks your throat, you won't have any control.
None. He'll use your mouth like it belongs to him, because in his mind, it does. "
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by arousal. Her pupils dilate.
"So what we need to practice," I continue, "is you maintaining your breathing, your composure, your awareness of your own limits—while I control everything else. While I take away your ability to set the pace or pull off when you want to."
I watch her process this, see the moment she realizes what I'm actually offering her.
"You're finally gonna do it," she says. Not a question.
"I'm going to teach you how to survive being throat-fucked," I correct.
"There's a difference. Because Giovanni won't care if you're ready or not.
Won't care if you need to breathe. Won't care if you're scared or overwhelmed or reaching your limit.
He'll just take what he wants and expect you to handle it. "
Her breathing has changed. Faster, shallower. But she's not pulling away.
"The only reason Giovanni hasn't let you do this yet is because he knows he'll hurt you if you're not prepared." I lean down slightly, making sure she hears every word. "So I'm going to push you. Hard. And you're going to learn where your actual limits are versus where you just think they are."
She swallows audibly.
"But here's the deal," I say, my thumbs stroking along her jawline. "You keep your hands on my thighs. If you need me to slow down or stop, you tap twice."
"OK," she whispers. Her hands move to my thighs, gripping lightly.
"Now open your mouth and keep it open." I pause here…
wondering if I'm letting her get away with too much brattiness.
But then decide I'm not. It's better for me to know where she's at.
And it's better for her to know what's coming.
She wants to love a monster, she needs to understand what that means.
Emmaleen opens her mouth wide, tongue slightly out, eyes still locked on mine.
Fucking hell.
I guide my cock back between her lips, slow at first. Let her adjust to giving up control. Then I push deeper, watching her face for signs of distress. Her eyes water slightly but she doesn't gag. Doesn't pull away.
I push deeper.
No warnings. No coaching. No gentle buildup to ease her into it.
She wanted the real thing—what Giovanni will do to her—so that's what she gets.
My cock slides past the back of her tongue, and I feel the moment I hit her throat. Her eyes widen, tears springing immediately, but she doesn't pull back. Her hands grip my thighs but she doesn't tap.
I hold there. Let her feel the fullness, the invasion, the loss of control.
Her nose flares as she struggles to breathe around me. I can feel her throat working, trying to accommodate, and fuck—the sensation is incredible. Tight and hot and desperate.
I pull back just enough to let her catch a breath, then push in again. Deeper this time.
She gags. Can't help it. Her body's natural reflex kicking in as I breach that barrier her throat wants to protect. But she keeps her hands on my thighs, keeps her eyes on mine even as tears stream down her face.
Good girl.
I set a rhythm. Not fast or brutal—not yet—but relentless. Every thrust pushes past her comfort zone, forces her to adapt, to override every instinct screaming at her to pull away.
The sounds she makes are obscene. Wet, desperate, almost musical in their desperation. Gagging and choking and somehow still taking more.
I grip her hair tighter, using it as leverage to control the angle. Tilt her head back slightly so I can slide in straighter, deeper. She whimpers around my cock but the sound is laced with something that isn't fear.
It's arousal.
Her eyes are glassy now, pupils wide, mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks. She looks absolutely ruined and we've barely started.
I pull out completely. Let her gasp and cough and catch her breath. Then push back in, and this time I don't stop. Don't pause. Just keep sliding deeper until my cock is buried completely in her throat and her nose is pressed against my pelvis.
She gags violently, her whole body convulsing with the reflex, but her hands stay on my thighs. No tapping. Just gripping harder, nails digging into my skin.
I hold there. Count to five in my head while she struggles.
When I finally pull back, she sucks in air desperately through her nose, drool and spit dripping down her chin. Her lips are swollen, her face flushed, her eyes streaming.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Color?" I ask, giving her the check-in she needs.
"Green," she gasps. "So fucking green."
I smile. Can't help it. "You want me to fuck your face properly now?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Please, Jino. Please fuck my throat."
I like the yes.
I like the yes a lot.
Not just because I'm getting something out of this, either. But because it makes me feel like we've got things in control here. Like this… this whole arrangement might actually be working.
But my answer is, "No. That's enough." and I tuck my cock back in my sweats.
"But Jino!" She begins to complain, and insist, and throw her little Emmaleen tantrum.
I stop her there. "When you do it, Emmaleen, don't you want it to be Giovanni you're doing it with? You don't want it to be me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love it if you did. But this isn't about me."
She does a dramatic melting thing here where she collapses onto the floor in a heap. "Way to ruin the mood…"
I laugh and grab her hand, then pull her up to her feet. "Come on, let's get dressed. We've got a diner and a thrift store with our names on them."
When she gets up, heading towards the closet where she keeps clothes here, I smack her playfully in the ass. The look she shoots me over her shoulder is pure comic relief. "Promises, promises…"
Yeah, I think, taking the stairs to my bedroom two at a time.
Promises.
To ourselves. To each other.
That's what this whole thing is built on.
Knowing our lanes.
Where our hearts are, where our loyalties lie, and the limits that divide us.
I like my lane.
I get Emmaleen Rourke all week long. It's just her and me, doing our thing, . She's quite literally my best friend these days.
No, she doesn't write me poetry.
No one is giving her lessons on how to please me.
But Saturday mornings are mine.
And I don't want to waste it on a stupid blow job.