He didn't have to wait long. The bedroom door opened without a knock and Dana filled the frame — denim jacket gone, just a black tank top and jeans, hair shoved back off her face with a hand that still had a smear of something on the knuckles. She looked at him laid out flat on the sheets, arms at his sides, cock resting against his belly, and she didn't smile.

"Remember my name ?"

"Dana."

"Good." She crossed the room and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down the length of him like he was a job she'd been putting off. Then she climbed on, knees on either side of his thighs, and put her hand around his cock without preamble — no warm-up, no slow. She jerked him hard and fast, dry at first,her grip too tight and exactly what she meant it to be. His hips came up off the mattress and she pushed them back down with her free hand flat on his stomach. "Stay."

She worked him like that until he was fully hard and starting to shake, and then her other hand went between his legs, two fingers sliding back past his balls, finding his asshole and pressing there — no spit, no warning. He jerked. She pressed harder.

"Relax. You'll take it better."

He made himself go loose and she pushed one finger in to the second knuckle, slow and deliberate, and curled it. Something in his gut went hot and tight and wrong and good all at once, and his cock jumped in her other fist. She laughed — a short, flat sound, no warmth in it. "There it is." She worked the finger in and out of him while she pumped him, a rhythm that had his breath coming in pieces, and when she pulled out she wiped the finger on the sheet beside his hip like it was nothing.

"Sit up."

He pushed up onto his elbows and she stripped — tank top over her head, tits swinging loose and heavy, small dark nipples, then the jeans shoved down and kicked off the end of the bed. She had a thick waist and strong thighs and a thatch of dark hair between them, and she climbed back over him and settled her cunt down on his stomach, warm and damp through the hair, and brought her chest to his face.

"Lick them. Gentle. I said gentle."

He got his tongue out and dragged it across one nipple, soft, the way she'd said, and she made a low sound and cupped the back of his head to hold him there. He licked the flat of his tongue over it, then the other, slow circles around the areola, lapping at the stiff little point until it pebbled under his mouth and she was breathing through her nose. She tasted of sweat and the same whiskey she'd been drinking and something underneath that was just her skin. He kept it gentle — no teeth, no sucking hard — and she let him work for a long time, shifting her weight from knee to knee, one hand in his hair and the other braced on the headboard, until his jaw ached and her nipples were wet and dark from his mouth.

"Enough." She pushed his head back into the pillow and crawled up his body, thighs coming down on either side of his face, and sat. Her cunt came down over his mouth wet and open and hot, and he got his tongue up into her immediately because there was nothing else to do with it, and she started to ride. Slow at first, grinding her clit down on his chin, then faster, both hands braced on the headboard, her tits swinging over his face, her breath going harsh and ragged. He licked and sucked and kept his tongue flat while she used his mouth, and she tasted stronger than Patty had, saltier, the wet running down his chin and into his ears. Her thighs clamped hard around his head and she came with a long, grinding shudder, her cunt clenching against his tongue in pulses he could feel in his jaw, her hips still working through it until she finally lifted off and sat back on his chest, breathing hard.

Then she climbed off him entirely and stood beside the bed, and he thought it was done. It wasn't. She grabbed his hip and flipped him onto his stomach with a strength that surprised him, and before he could get his arms under himself her palm came down flat and hard on his left ass cheek. The crack of it filled the room. He yelped and she hit him again, same spot, and again, working down the cheek in a steady rhythm that left no time between for the sting to fade, and the welts she had left two nights ago lit up under her hand like they'd been waiting for her. By the sixth he was gripping the sheets. By the tenth he was making a sound he didn't recognize coming out of himself, high and thin, and she hadn't even started on the other side. "Count them," she said. "Out loud." He got to twelve on the left with his voice cracking, and then she moved to the right and did the same, twelve more, and by the end of it his eyes were running into the pillow and his ass was one long band of fire and he was crying the way she'd wanted him to — not sobbing, just tears coming steady and silent while she stood over him and caught her breath.

"There," she said. "Now you know what my hand feels like."

She rolled him onto his back again, and his ass screamed against the sheets, and she climbed on top of him and took his cock in her hand and lined it up and sank down onto it in one long push. He was hard and it hurt, and she was wet enough that he slid in to the root on the first stroke, and she sat there a second with him buried in her, both hands flat on his chest, looking down at his wet face. Then she started to move — slow, deep grinds that took him all the way in and rolled her clit against his pubic bone on every pass, and she watched his face the whole time, reading it, taking her time.

"You feel that?" she said. "That's what you're for." She rode him harder, hips slapping down on his thighs, her tits bouncing, and he could feel the orgasm building in his balls and the base of his spine, hot and gathering, and he tried to hold it. "Don't you come," she said. "Not yet. Not until I do." She ground down on him, fast and hard, and her breath went to pieces and her cunt clenched around him, and then she came — a long, shuddering grind that rolled through her whole body, and she stayed seated on him through it, twitching, and as the last of it went through her she said, "Now. Come now."

He came with a sound that tore out of his throat, hips bucking up into her, cock pulsing inside her cunt while she held him down with both hands on his chest and watched it happen. She stayed on him until the last pulse faded, then lifted off and sat back on her heels between his legs, and looked at his cock lying wet against his belly, still half-hard.

"You're not done," she said. She leaned forward and wrapped her hand around him, slick with her own jucies, and started to rub — fast, hard, no mercy, working the head with her thumb on every upstroke, and he was still coming down and it was too much, the nerves raw and screaming, and he tried to pull his hips back and she put her other hand flat on his stomach and held him in place. "Take it." He was making a thin, broken sound and his eyes were running again, and she kept going, brutal and steady, until his cock jerked and spat a last drop cum across his own chest and he was crying outright, and even then she didn't stop — she kept rubbing the oversensitive head until he was sobbing and trying to twist away and she was laughing, low and satisfied, holding him down with one hand while the other worked him past the point he could bear.

She let go when she was bored. He lay there gulping air, face wet, chest streaked, ass on fire, and she stood up off the bed and pulled her jeans back on, then her tank top, and shook her hair out with her fingers. She picked her jacket up off the floor where she'd dropped it and shrugged it on, and she looked down at him one last time — wrecked, spread out on the sheets, still shaking.

She zipped the jacket and looked at the door, and then she looked back at him one more time, and something moved across her face that wasn't softness exactly — more like the satisfaction of a job finished properly. "You remember my name now," she said. "Say it again."

"Dana."

"That's right. and you are a weak little girl" She pulled the door open and the hallway light cut across the bed, and she didn't look back again. The door clicked shut behind her and her boots went down the hall, unhurried, and then the apartment was quiet except for his own breathing and the wet tick of the sheets under him.

He didn't move for a while. His ass was a single band of heat from the top of his cheeks to the crease, and every time he shifted, the cotton dragged across it and lit it up fresh. His cock lay slack against his thigh, still slick, and he could smell her on his face — his chin, his upper lip, the corners of his mouth where she'd ground down on him — the salt and musk of her cunt sitting on his skin like a mark.

Then the door opened again, and he straightened up without meaning to, hands going to his knees, and Patty stood in the frame with her jacket still on and her knuckles already cracked. She looked at the sheets, then at his face, then at the red handprints blooming on both cheeks of his ass where he sat.

"She warmed you up," Patty said. She stepped in and shut the door behind her with her heel. "Good. Saves me the trouble."

She didn't wait for him to move. She reached over her shoulder, grabbed a fistful of the leather jacket, and shrugged it off both arms at once, letting it drop in a heap by the door. The white tank top came next, peeled up over her head and tossed on top of the jacket, and her tits swung free — heavy, low, the nipples a pale brown against the white of her chest, the muscle of her arms and shoulders standing out like something carved. She had a boxer's body, thick through the ribs, soft at the belly, and the scar on her chin caught the light when she looked down at him.

"On your knees. Hands behind your back."

He slid off the edge of the bed and went down on the floorboards, the wood cold under his knees, and laced his fingers together at the small of his back. She stepped in close and planted one bare foot between his knees. Her jeans were still on, unbuttoned and sagging at the hips, and she hooked a thumb in the waistband and shoved them down her thighs and stepped out of them, kicking them aside. No underwear. She stood over him with her hands on her hips and her cunt level with his face, dark hair trimmed close, the lips already slick.

"Lick them. Not the nipples first — the underside. Where they hang."

He leaned in and got his tongue under the left one, into the soft crease where the breast met her ribs, and dragged it up slow. Salt. The flat taste of her skin. She smelled of whiskey and leather and the morning's work, and under all of it the deeper thing he'd had on his tongue an hour ago. He licked the underside, then up over the swell, then took the nipple into his mouth and sucked it soft, and she made a low sound and threaded her fingers into his hair.

"Harder. Suck it hard."

He pulled it deep and worked it with his tongue, and her breath went through her nose and her hand tightened. He moved to the other one and did the same — underside first, then the whole of it, sucking until the nipple stood up stiff and wet and she was rocking her hips a little, restless. "Good," she said. "Now turn around. Face the bed."

He turned on his knees, hands still locked behind his back, and she stepped around behind him. The floorboard creaked. Then her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him forward until his chest was down on the mattress and his ass was up in the air, and she kicked his knees wider apart with her foot. "Stay just like that." He heard her spit, felt it land warm on his bum, and then her thumb was smearing it down into the crease of his ass and pressing there. "You're going to lick me from behind first," she said. "And if you stop before I say, I'll put you over my knee."

She climbed onto the bed in front of him and swung a leg over his head, settling her cunt down over his face from the front, her knees on either side of his ears, her ass up and her weight forward. He got his tongue up into her from underneath, into the wet heat of her, and she ground down slow, dragging her clit along the bridge of his nose. "That's it. Now back." He slid his tongue down, past her cunt, into the crease, and found her asshole with the flat of it and licked — slow, broad strokes, tasting the salt and the musk and the faint bitter of soap. She made a sound low in her chest and pushed back against his mouth, and he kept licking, up and down the crease, around the tight ring of her, while her cunt dripped onto his chin.

"Enough of that," she said finally, and lifted off him, and then her hand caught him by the hair and hauled his head up. "On your back. Middle of the bed. Hands above your head."

He rolled onto his back and stretched out, wrists crossed above his head, and she climbed over him and settled her cunt down over his mouth, facing his feet this time, her ass planted on his chest and her thighs clamping his ears. She braced her hands on his knees and rode his face — long forward strokes, her clit grinding down onto his nose, then a slow drag back so his tongue slid the whole length of her slit. He got his tongue up into her and held it flat and let her use it, and she went faster, her breath coming in short grunts, and he could feel her getting wetter against his mouth, the slick running down his chin and into his ears. Her thighs clamped hard and her hips ground down and she came with a long shudder, her cunt clenching against his tongue in pulses he could count, and she stayed seated through all of it, breathing hard, before she lifted off and swung around to face him.

"Turn over."

He turned onto his stomach and she knelt up beside his hip and put her hand flat on the small of his back. "You remember what Dana's hand felt like?" He didn't answer. Her palm came down on his left ass cheek, hard, and the crack of it filled the room and the welts from two nights ago lit up under her hand. He yelped. She hit him again, same spot, and again, and again, a steady rhythm that left no time between for the sting to fade, and by the sixth he was gripping the sheets. "I asked you a question."

"Yes," he got out. "Yes, I remember."

"Good. Because this is going to be worse."

She didn't count she just laid into him, both cheeks, no order to it, her palm landing wherever it wanted, and the difference between her hand and Dana's was the difference between a belt and a brick — Dana had snapped the welts up like a whip, all sting and crack, but Patty put her shoulder into it, drove through the skin and into the muscle underneath, and each one sat there a half-second before it bloomed into something deeper than pain. He got his face into the mattress and his hands out from under him, gripping the fitted sheet, and by the eighth he was making a noise he hadn't made for Dana, a raw open-mouthed sob that came up from his chest, and by the twelfth he was begging — not words at first, just sound, and then words: "please, please, I can't—"

"You can." She hit him again, lower, across the crease where the cheek met the thigh, and his whole body jerked off the bed. "Say it right."

"Please, Patty — please stop—"

"Wrong." Two more, fast, one on each cheek, and he heard himself wail into the pillow and didn't recognize the voice as his. "You don't get to ask me to stop. You ask me to keep going."

He sobbed into the sheet and got it out. "Please — keep going."

She did. Four more, slow, deliberate, letting each one land and settle before the next, and he cried through all of them, tears running sideways off his nose into the mattress, his ass a single sheet of fire from the top of his cheeks to the backs of his knees. Then her hand stopped and rested flat on the hottest part of him, and he felt the weight of it there, warm and still, and the sob came out of him in pieces. "There you go," she said, and it was almost gentle. "Now you're warm."

She rolled him onto his back with a hand on his hip and he cried out when his ass hit the sheets and she didn't care, just climbed over him and knelt up between his legs. Her cunt was wet enough that it shone in the low light, and she reached down and took his cock in her fist and worked it twice, rough, and he was hard — had been hard the whole time, hard through the crying, and that was its own humiliation, the way his body had stayed up for it while his face was wet. She looked at it in her hand and then at his face. "Look at you," she said. "You cried like a baby and you're still standing up for me." She gave it a squeeze at the base and his hips twitched. "That's a good girl."

She shifted up his body and put her knees on either side of his hips and reached back between her legs and lined him up and sat down on him in one slow drop, and he felt himself go into her all the way to the root in a single long slide, her cunt hot and gripping and wetter than Dana had been, and she stopped when her ass met his thighs and sat there with her hands flat on his chest and her breath going through her nose. "Feel that?" she said. "That's what you're for. Same as Dana told you." She started to move — slow at first, grinding down on him, taking him deep and rolling her hips at the bottom of every stroke, and every time she came down her ass slapped against his thighs and the welts lit up and he made a sound and she smiled at it. "There it is. Every time I fuck you, you feel my hand. Good. Remember her."

She picked up the pace, hips slapping down on him, tits swinging, and he could feel the orgasm gathering low and hot at the base of his spine and in his balls, and he tried to hold it, and she saw it on his face and leaned down over him with her hands braced on either side of his head and her nipples dragging across his chest. "Don't you dare," she said. "You don't come until I say, and I'm not going to say. You're going to lie there and take it and keep it in." He made a thin desperate sound and she rode him harder, faster, her cunt clenching around him on every stroke, and he was right at the edge and holding it by a thread, his whole body shaking with the effort, and she watched his face the whole time, reading it, enjoying it. Her breath went to pieces and her thighs clamped down on his hips and she came with a long grinding shudder, her cunt pulsing around him in waves he could feel in his teeth, and she stayed seated on him through all of it, twitching, her eyes closed, and he held on — barely — his cock throbbing inside her, his balls drawn up tight, one more stroke away from spilling and not allowed to take it.

She slid off him slow, deliberate, the wet heat of her pulling away like a wound opening, and he felt the empty pulse of air where she’d been. He was still shaking, still hard, still aching with the near-miss of it, his cock twitching against his stomach, slick and angry. She looked down at him, his chest heaving, his hands fisted in the sheets, and said, “Satisfactory.” The word landed like a slap, cool and clinical, and then her fingers found his balls — cupped them, weighed them, and squeezed.

Not hard. Just enough. Just exactly enough to make the pleasure curdle into pain, to rip a sob from his throat that was half relief and half ruin. His whole body convulsed, his hips bucking uselessly into the air, his vision going white at the edges, and she watched him break with the same flat, amused gaze she’d used to read him all along.

Then she stood. Stretched, casual, her skin still flushed and damp, her thighs slick with both of them. She gathered her clothes in a loose bundle, not bothering to put them on, and walked out. The door clicked behind her. He lay there, twitching, his balls still throbbing from her grip, his cock still leaking, his heart still slamming against his ribs — and the silence of the room pressed down on him like a weight, the ghost of her touch burning everywhere she’d been.

He barely had time to catch his breath before the door opened again, and he heard the weight of her before he saw her — heavy footsteps, labored breathing, the creak of the floorboards under a body that carried its years like cargo. Clara filled the frame, and she was exactly what he remembered from the parlor, only bigger in the low light of the bedroom, her floral housedress stretched tight across a belly that hung low and loose, her gray-streaked hair pinned up in a messy bun with strands escaping around her face. She smelled of sweat and unwashed skin and something sour, and she looked at him spread out on the sheets — still slick from Dana and Patty, still shaking — and she laughed, a deep, phlegmy sound that came from somewhere in her chest.

"Look at you," she said, her voice a rasp. "All cleaned up and pretty for me. I told Denise I wanted a turn with the boy from the parlor. She said you'd been a good girl lately." She reached behind her and pulled the housedress over her head, and it caught on her shoulders for a second before she wrestled it off, and underneath she wore nothing. Her body was a landscape of soft folds and deep creases — breasts that hung to her navel, heavy and veined, nipples dark and wide as saucers, a belly that rolled over her cunt, thighs thick and dimpled. She wasn't washed. He could smell her from the bed, the musk of her, the sweat of the day crusted in the creases of her skin.

"Come here, sweetheart," she said, and she climbed onto the bed on all fours, the mattress groaning under her weight, and settled back on her heels with her legs spread wide. "You remember what I like. Lick them. All of them. Don't rush."

He crawled forward on his hands and knees, the sheets bunched under him, and she reached down and caught one of her breasts in both hands, lifting it like a melon off her belly and offering it to him. The skin was loose and warm and damp with sweat, the nipple dark and wide, and he leaned in and got his mouth around it — the whole flat of his tongue against the underside first, into the deep crease where it hung, tasting the salt and the day's labor crusted in the fold. She made a low sound of approval and pressed the weight of it deeper into his face, and he sucked it soft, then harder, working the nipple up against his tongue until it stood stiff and wet, and she smelled of herself, of hours unwashed, of the sour musk that had been building in the creases of her all day.

"That's it," she said, her voice a rasp. "The other one now. Don't skimp."

He moved to the right breast and did it the same way — underside first, dragging his tongue through the crease where it met her ribs, then up over the heavy swell of it, then the nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth and working it with his tongue until she was rocking her hips a little and breathing through her nose. She held his head with both hands, fingers buried in his pink-tipped hair, and she didn't pull him off — she pushed him in, ground the soft weight of herself against his face, and he could feel the heat of her cunt from where she sat, feel the wet of her against the sheets, and he kept licking, tasting the day on her skin, the salt and the sour and the deeper musk underneath.

"Enough," she said finally, and she pushed him flat onto his back and climbed over him, her knees on either side of his hips, her belly hanging low over him, her breasts swinging. She reached back between her legs and took his cock in her fist — he was still hard, had been hard through all of it, his body refusing to learn the lesson — and she lined him up and sat down on him in one heavy drop, sinking onto him all the way, and the sound she made was deep and satisfied, a sound from her chest. "There he is," she said. "That's what I came all the way here for." She started to move, slow and grinding, her weight settling on him with every stroke, and she was hot and slick and open around him, gripping him in waves, and he could feel her everywhere, the sheer mass of her pressing down on him, her cunt clenching around his cock.

"You're going to come with me," she said, and it wasn't a request. "When I tell you. Not before." She rode him harder, her hips slapping down, her belly rolling against his, her breasts swinging heavy over his face, and she leaned forward and put her hands on his chest and dug her nails in. "I'm close. You feel that? You feel how powerful I am?" She was, he could feel it, the clench of her around him building, and he was right there with her, the orgasm gathering low and hot at the base of his spine, and he tried to hold it, to wait for her word, and she saw it on his face and smiled down at him. "Now," she said. "Come with me now."

He let go and it ripped through him, his hips bucking up into her, his cock pulsing deep inside her, and she came with him, her cunt clenching around him in long shuddering waves, her whole body seizing, a low guttural sound torn from her throat. She rode him through it, grinding down, milking him until he was empty and twitching, and then she sat still on him for a long moment, breathing hard, her weight crushing him into the mattress, her thighs slick with both of them.

She slid off him with a wet sound and the empty pulse of air where she'd been, and he was still shaking, still catching his breath, when she turned around and settled her cunt down over his face, her knees on either side of his head, her ass planted on his chest. She was dripping with him, slick and hot, and she grabbed a fistful of his hair and ground down. "Clean it up," she said. "Every drop. And then get me off again."

He got his tongue up into her and licked, tasting himself and her mixed together, the salt and the musk, and she rode his mouth slow and deliberate, grinding her clit down onto his nose, dragging his tongue the whole length of her slit. She was still swollen and sensitive from coming, and she made a sound every time he hit the right spot, her thighs clamping his ears, her weight settling heavier on his face.

She rode his mouth harder, her weight pressing down until he could barely breathe through the pressure of her thighs, and he kept his tongue flat and firm against her clit, lapping at her in steady strokes while her hips worked in slow grinding circles. The taste of her and him mixed together was thick on his tongue, salty and musky, and she was so wet it ran down his chin and soaked into the pillow beneath his head. Her hand fisted in his hair, yanking his face up harder into her, and she let out a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his skull. "Yeah," she breathed. "Right there. That's my boy. Don't you dare slow down."

He didn't. He dug his fingers into the meat of her thighs and held her open and licked her like she was the last thing he'd ever taste, his tongue finding her clit and circling it until her whole body shuddered, then dragging down to push into her cunt, tasting himself still leaking out of her, then back up again. She started to shake above him, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and she ground down on his face with a force that pushed his head into the mattress. "I'm coming," she said, and it came out like a warning and a promise both.

She came with a long, rolling shudder, her cunt clenching against his tongue in pulses he could feel in his jaw, her whole body going tight and then loose above him, and she stayed there, grinding through it, riding his mouth until the last wave passed and she went slack. He kept licking, slow and gentle now, lapping at her until she finally lifted off him with a wet sound and rolled onto her back beside him, her chest heaving, sweat standing out on her forehead. For a long moment she just lay there, breathing hard, her eyes closed, and then she let out a deep, satisfied laugh. "Well," she said, her voice a rasp. "Denise wasn't lying. You're a keeper."

He lay there, his jaw aching, his mouth slick with her, his cock soft and spent against his thigh, and she propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him — really looked at him, the pink-tipped hair, the bare skin, the marks on his ass still pink and new. "You did good, sweetheart," she said. "Maybe I'll come back for more of that tongue of yours. Denise said you're going to be busy, but I bet you can make room." She reached over and patted his cheek, a gesture almost maternal, and then she hauled herself off the bed with a groan and gathered up her housedress.

She was still pulling it over her head when the door opened again, and Denise stood in the frame, a glass of wine in her hand, her sharp bob catching the low light. She watched Clara go with a small, knowing smile, then stepped aside to let her pass, and when the door clicked shut behind her, Denise turned to Tim. He was still sprawled on the bed, wrecked and shining, and she looked at him the way she looked at a meal she'd ordered and was pleased to find exactly to her taste. "Well," she said, taking a sip of her wine. "That's three. You're holding up better than I expected. but you have a long way to go and a lot of women to please and then baby me!” and she left.

She left the door open behind her. Yuki came in without hurry, still in the gray sweater and dark jeans, the silver knife pendant swinging at her throat. She didn't look at the bed or the sheets or the marks on him. She looked at his face, the way she always did, reading it. Then she reached behind her head and pulled the sweater up over her shoulders in one motion, folded it, and set it on the chair by the wall.

She undressed the way she did everything — methodically, without performance. The jeans came down her legs and she stepped out of them, folded them, set them on top of the sweater. No underwear underneath. Her body was small and compact, the muscle of a swimmer under smooth skin, small high tits with dark nipples, a neat triangle of black hair between her thighs. She crossed to the bed and stood at the foot of it, looking down at him where he lay wrecked on the sheets.

"On your knees on the floor. Face the wall."

He slid off the mattress and knelt on the floorboards, the wood cold under his knees, the welts on his ass still burning where the sheets had dragged. Behind him he heard her climb onto the bed and settle, the mattress dipping. Then her voice, calm and low: "Come back here. Between my legs. Use your mouth on my ass first. Slow. I'll tell you when to move on."

He turned and crawled back to the edge of the bed. She was on her hands and knees, facing away from him, her back arched, her ass offered up and open. He leaned in and put his tongue to her — the crease first, flat and broad, dragging up from her cunt to the tight ring of her asshole, tasting the salt and the faint bitter of soap and underneath it the deeper musk of her. She made a small sound, barely more than a breath, and pushed back against his mouth. He licked around the ring, slow circles, then pressed the flat of his tongue against it and worked it there until it softened under him, and she reached back and put her hand on the back of his head and held him in place.

"Good," she said. "Now inside. Just the tip."

He pushed his tongue against the ring and it gave, just barely, and she made a sound low in her throat and her fingers tightened in his hair. He worked his tongue in small circles against the opening, tasting her there, the tight heat of it, and she rocked her hips back onto his mouth in a slow rhythm, taking what she wanted. "That's it," she said. "Don't stop until I say."

She let him work for a long time. Her breath went slow and even, the way it did when she was concentrating, and her hand stayed in his hair, guiding him, holding him there. When she finally pulled him off, it was with a small tug, and she turned and sat back against the headboard with her legs stretched out in front of her. "Now lie down. On your back. Head in my lap."

He stretched out on the sheets, his head settling in the warm hollow of her thighs, and she looked down at him with her dark eyes crinkling the way they did when she was amused. She cupped one small breast in her hand and lifted it toward his mouth. "Lick them. Both. Slow. I want to feel your tongue on them." He got his tongue out and dragged it across the nipple, soft and flat, and she made a low sound and pressed the weight of her breast against his face. He worked the nipple until it stood up stiff and wet, then moved to the other, lapping at it in slow circles, and she watched him the whole time with her head tipped back against the headboard, her hand resting light on his hair.

"Enough," she said finally. She shifted out from under his head and swung a leg over his chest, settling her cunt down over his mouth, facing his feet. Her thighs clamped his ears and she braced her hands on his knees and started to ride. She was wet from the ass-licking, slick and open, and she ground down slow at first, dragging her clit along the bridge of his nose, then faster, her breath going short and sharp. He got his tongue up into her and held it flat and let her use it, and she rode him in a rhythm she set and did not vary, her hips rolling, her cunt clenching against his tongue. Her thighs clamped hard and her hips ground down and she came with a small, contained shudder, her cunt pulsing against his tongue in quick beats, and she stayed seated through all of it, breathing through her nose, before she lifted off and sat back on his chest.

She looked down at him, his face slick to the jaw, his cock still hard and untouched against his belly, and she shook her head slowly. "No," she said. "You don't come with me. You don't come at all this time." She climbed off him and stood, reaching for her jeans. "That's the lesson. Some of us don't need you to finish. We just need your mouth." She pulled the sweater back over her head, smoothed it down, and picked up the pendant where it had swung against her chest. "Denise will send in the next girl when you've had a minute." She walked to the door and pulled it open, and the hallway light cut across the bed. "You did well," she said, and closed it behind her.

He barely had time to sit up before the door opened again, and this one came in slow, sideways, like she'd had to think about the doorframe first. She was short — shorter than Yuki, shorter than anyone who'd come through that door all day — and wide with it, a body that had settled low and heavy with the years. Her hair was white going yellow, set in curls that had given up hours ago, and she wore a flowered dress the color of weak tea, stretched tight over a chest that hung down onto her belly like two sacks of flour tied off at the top.

"Well, look at you," she said. Her voice was a smoker's voice, low and graveled, and she stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and took him in — the pink-tipped hair, the bare chest, the cock still lying slack and wet against his thigh. "Denise said you were pretty. She undersold it."

She crossed to the bed and stopped at the foot of it, close enough that he caught her smell — powder and sweat and something sweet underneath, like the inside of a purse. "I'm Betty," she said. "And I'm not going to do any of the work. That's what you're for. Stand up."

He got off the bed and stood, and she had to look up at him, which she didn't seem to mind. She turned her back to him and lifted her arms, and the dress had a zipper down the spine that she'd left open for him. "Go on. Undress me. Slow. And kiss what you uncover — I want to feel your mouth on every inch of me before you get anything."

He pulled the zipper down tooth by tooth, and the dress fell open down her back — soft, mottled skin, a roll of flesh at the waist, a spine he could count. He bent and put his mouth to the nape of her neck and worked down, kissing each knob of her spine, and she made a low sound and reached back and patted his hip. "That's it. Keep going." He peeled the dress off her shoulders and it dropped to the floor in a puddle of flowers, and she stepped out of it and turned around, and he saw all of her — the heavy breasts hanging low onto the swell of her belly, the deep creases under them, the soft folds at her waist, the thick gray thatch between her legs, the dimpled thighs. She smelled stronger now, unwashed, the day's sweat in the creases of her. He knelt without being told and kissed the soft place under her jaw, then her throat, then the tops of her shoulders, working his mouth down her arms, over the loose skin of her upper chest, and she stood there with her hands on his head and let him do it.

"Good boy," she said. "Now the bed. Sit down and put your back against the headboard." He climbed onto the mattress and settled against the headboard, and she got up after him — slow, one knee at a time, the mattress groaning — and sat down facing him with her legs spread wide and her breasts resting on her belly. "On your knees in front of me. And get your mouth on these first. The undersides. Where they hang."

He knelt between her spread thighs and leaned in, and she lifted one breast in both hands and offered it to him like a fruit — the weight of it soft and warm, the skin loose, the nipple wide and dark and already stiff. He got his tongue under it first, into the deep crease where it met her ribs, and dragged up slow, tasting the salt and the powder and the day on her skin, and she hummed low in her chest and pressed the whole soft weight of it against his face. He sucked the nipple into his mouth and worked it with his tongue, and she held him there with a hand on the back of his head, rocking a little, and he could feel the heat of her cunt already coming off her, close to his chest. "Other one," she said. "Don't rush it." He moved and did the same — underside first, then the flat of his tongue over the swell, then the nipple, sucking it deep until it stood up wet and dark — and she breathed through her nose and her thighs shifted wider, and he could smell her now, sharp and musky, sitting right in front of his face.

"Enough," she said, and pushed his head back with the flat of her hand. "Lie down. Flat on your back. Hands at your sides." He stretched out on the sheets and she climbed over him — the mattress dipping hard under her weight — and settled her cunt down over his mouth, facing his feet, her thighs clamping his ears. She was wet and open and heavy, and the first thing was the taste of her, strong and salt and sour, "Lick it," she said. "Flat. Slow. I'll tell you when I'm close." He got his tongue up into her and dragged it the length of her slit, and she rocked down onto his face in a slow grind, her clit sliding along the bridge of his nose, and he worked his tongue into her cunt and lapped at the wet heat of it while she rode him at her own pace, unhurried, taking her time. She tasted stronger than any of them, and she was wetter, dripping onto his chin and into his ears, and her thighs pressed his head into the mattress until he couldn't breathe through anything but her. Hesucked her clit into his mouth and worked it fast and flat, and she ground down hard, and then she came with a long, rolling shudder, her cunt clenching against his tongue in slow heavy pulses, and she stayed seated through all of it, riding it out, before she finally lifted off him and sat back on his chest.

She looked down at his slick face and laughed, low and phlegmy. "Good tongue on you," she said. "Now I want the rest." She shifted down his body and took his cock in her fist — he was hard again, had come up while she rode his face, and she weighed him in her hand and gave him a squeeze. "There he is." She straddled his hips, reached back between her legs, and lined him up and sat down on him in one long, heavy drop, and he felt himself sink into her all the way to the root, her cunt hot and slick and gripping him, her weight settling onto his thighs. She stopped at the bottom and sat there, breathing through her nose, and put his hands on her breasts. "Hold them. Gentle. And rub them while I ride you."

He cupped the heavy weight of them in both palms and kneaded slow, thumbs dragging over the stiff nipples, and she started to move — a slow grind at first, rolling her hips at the bottom of every stroke, her belly rolling against his, her cunt clenching around him in waves. "That's it," she said. "Harder on the nipples. Not rough — I said gentle." He found the balance and worked them the way she wanted, and she rode him faster, her thighs slapping down on his hips, her breath coming in short grunts, and he could feel the orgasm gathering low and hot at the base of his spine. She came the first time with a long grinding shudder, her cunt pulsing around him, and she didn't stop — she rode him straight through it, slower, letting the aftershocks roll, and then picked the pace back up. "Now you," she said. "Come with me. I want to feel it." He tried. He tried hard, hips pushing up into her, and nothing came — his body wouldn't answer, the edge there and not breaking, and she looked down at his face and read it and rode him harder, grinding down on him, her cunt working him in long deliberate strokes. "Come on, boy. I'm not getting off you till you do." She leaned forward with her hands on his chest and dug in and worked him without mercy, and he closed his eyes and reached for it, and finally it broke — a thin, reluctant orgasm that pulled out of him in short pulses, his cock jerking inside her, and she felt it and laughed and ground down on him through the last of it, taking every drop, and then sat still on him, breathing hard, her weight crushing him into the mattress. "There," she said. "That wasn't so hard, was it."

He lay under her with his hands still cupping the soft weight of her breasts, his cock softening inside her, and she didn't move for a long moment. Just sat there, breathing through her nose, her belly rising and falling against his. Then she reached down and patted his cheek with two damp fingers. "Not bad," she said. "For a boy who didn't want to."

She lifted off him with a wet sound and swung her leg over, and the mattress groaned as she settled onto her back beside him, her breasts flattening out across her chest, her thighs still spread. "Clean me up," she said. "Mouth. And don't be shy about it." He rolled onto his side and put his face between her legs, and she was slick with both of them, his own cum leaking out of her, . He licked her out slow, lapping up the mix of it, salt and musk and the flat sour taste of her, and she lay there with her eyes closed and her hand resting on the top of his head, not guiding, just there. When he'd cleaned her out she pushed his head away. "Enough. You'll get a crick in your neck."

She sat up on the edge of the bed and reached for the flowered dress on the floor, and he watched her pull it over her head without bothering with the zipper, the fabric settling over the heavy hang of her breasts. She stood and smoothed it down and looked at him lying there wrecked on the sheets — the pink-tipped hair stuck to his forehead, his mouth still shiny, the welts on his ass pink and raised.

"Denise says you're hers now," she said. "Contract and all." She found her shoes by the chair and stepped into them one at a time, holding the wall for balance. "I was married thirty-one years. You learn a thing or two about a man who's been claimed." She crossed back to the bed and stood over him, and she reached down and took a fistful of his hair and lifted his head just enough to look at her. "You did good, boy. I'll tell her."

She let go and walked to the door, and she didn't look back, just pulled it open and stepped out into the hallway light. The door clicked shut behind her. He lay there in the quiet, his jaw aching, his cock soft and wet against his thigh, and from somewhere down the hall he heard her voice, low and graveled, saying something he couldn't make out, and then Denise's laugh, short and pleased.

He'd barely got his breath back when the door opened again, and this one came in like she was doing the room a favor. Thirties, pretty in a hard, maintained way — long dark hair, a sleeveless white top cut low over high small tits that sat up on her chest like they'd been installed, a short denim skirt, tan legs, a gold anklet. She looked at him sprawled on the wrecked sheets and her mouth did something that wasn't a smile.

"So you're the little girl cock Denise has been passing around all day." She shut the door with her hip and crossed to the bed, arms folded under her tits. "I'm Madonna."

He didn't say anything. She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting, and when he still didn't answer she laughed — short, sharp, mean. "What, you don't believe me? Doesn't matter. You'll be screaming it by the end anyway."

She climbed onto the mattress without asking and sat back on her heels, and her hand came down and took his cock without preamble — no warm-up, no spit, nothing. Just her fist closed around him dry and she started to work it, fast and rough, dragging the skin up and down the shaft like she was trying to start a fire.

"Ow —" His hips jerked off the bed and she pressed him back down with her free hand flat on his stomach. "Please — not so hard —"

"Begging already." She didn't slow down. Her grip stayed tight and dry and she worked him with short, brutal strokes, thumb scraping over the head on every pass, and he felt the skin go raw under her hand and his eyes start to water. "That's what you are, isn't it. A little slut who begs. Look at it — you're getting hard for me anyway. Pathetic."

"Please," he got out. "Please be gentle —"

"Gentle." She said the word like it tasted bad. She worked him harder, faster, and he was fully hard now and it hurt, the friction of her palm on the shaft burning, and she watched his face the whole time with her lip curled. "Say it again. Say 'please be gentle, Madonna.'"

He said it. His voice came out cracked and small and she laughed and kept going until he was shaking under her hand, and then she let go all at once and sat back, wiping her palm on the sheet beside his hip like she'd touched something dirty. "There. Now you're warmed up." She swung her leg over his chest and settled her knees on either side of his head, nd pushed her cunt down toward his face. "Kneel up. Get under me. And don't you dare use your hands."

He pushed himself up onto his knees, his back bent awkwardly under her, and she shifted forward until her cunt was over his mouth her skirt pulled up and she had no panties on — trimmed dark hair, the lips already wet and open, and she smelled of soap and something sharp and chemical, perfume gone stale. He put his tongue out and licked her, and she grabbed a fistful of his pink-tipped hair and ground down hard, mashing his face into her. " Lick it like you mean it, whore." He flattened his tongue and dragged it up her slit, and she rode his mouth with quick impatient grinds, her clit dragging over his nose, her thighs clamping his ears. She tasted clean and bitter, and she was wet enough that it ran down his chin within a minute, and every time he slowed she yanked his hair and told him to keep going. He kept going. His jaw was already aching and it ached worse now, and she ground down on him until her breath went short and her thighs went tight, and then she pulled off his face with a wet sound and shoved him back down onto the mattress with a hand on his chest.

"On your stomach," she said. "Over my lap. Now."

He rolled over and she shifted and took his hips and hauled him across her thighs — his chest down on the sheets, his ass up over her knee, his sore cheeks already burning where they touched her denim skirt. She put one hand flat on the small of his back and the other came down on his ass without warning, hard, right across the welts, and the sound was flat and loud in the room and he shouted into the mattress.

"Those are from Dana," she said, and hit him again, same place. "And Patty. I can see the edges." Another one, and another, a steady rhythm, her palm landing wherever it wanted, He got his hands into the sheets and by the eighth he was crying — real crying, tears running sideways off his nose into the mattress, his voice coming out in open-mouthed sobs he couldn't stop. "There it is. Cry for me, slut." She didn't slow. She worked down one cheek and then the other, methodical, and when he tried to twist away she put her forearm across his back and pinned him and kept going, and by the end his whole ass was one band of fire and he was sobbing outright into the pillow, saying please over and over, and she hit him two more times just to hear it and then stopped.

"Up. Off me." He slid off her lap onto the floor and she stood and stripped — the top over her head, small high tits with wide pink nipples, the skirt unzipped and stepped out of, no underwear, and she tossed it all on the chair and climbed back onto the bed and lay down on her back with her legs spread. "Get up here. On your knees between my legs. And use that mouth again, and this time do it perfectly or I'll put you back over my knee."

He climbed onto the mattress and knelt between her thighs and put his face down into her, and she was wetter now, and she reached down and held his head there with both hands and rode his mouth at her own pace, slow and grinding, taking her time. He licked her slit and her clit and pushed his tongue into her cunt and she made small impatient sounds and pulled his hair when he wasn't where she wanted. "There. Right there. you useless slut." She ground her clit against his tongue until her thighs started to shake, and she held him there through it, and then she came with a sharp, contained shudder and let go of his head and shoved him back. "Fine. That'll do."

She sat up and pushed him flat onto his back and climbed over him, and her hand found his cock — still hard, had been hard the whole time, and she gave it a rough squeeze at the base that made him gasp. "Look at this. You cried like a little girl and you're still standing up for me. What a whore." She straddled his hips and reached back and lined him up and sat down on him in one hard drop, taking him to the root, and she was tight and hot and she started to move immediately — fast, slamming grinds, no rhythm to it, just using him. Her nails dug into his chest and she leaned down and caught one of his nipples between her thumb and forefinger and twisted, hard, and he yelped and she twisted the other one and rode him harder. "You don't come," she said, breathless, slapping her hips down on his thighs so his sore ass lit up with every stroke. "You don't come, you don't come, not for me, not ever — you're not allowed." He wasn't close. His cock was sore and raw from her hand and his ass was on fire and his nipples were throbbing where she'd twisted them, and there was nothing gathering anywhere, just pain and the wet slap of her cunt and her voice going on and on above him. She rode him through her own orgasm with her head thrown back and her nails in his chest, and then she climbed off him and stood, and looked down at his red face and his sore cock and laughed.

She stood over him with her hands on her hips and her small high tits still moving with her breath, and she watched him lie there with his chest heaving and his raw cock twitching against his belly. "Look at you," she said. "Flat on your back with your legs open like a two-dollar whore, and you don't even get to finish. That's the whole point of you." She bent and picked her skirt up off the chair and stepped into it, working it up over her hips without bothering with the zipper, and then she pulled the white top down over her head and smoothed it flat across her chest.

She crossed to the door and pulled it open, and the hallway light came in flat and yellow across the wrecked sheets. "He's all yours," she called out, not looking back. "Sloppy. But he's got a mouth on him."

Then she was gone, and the door clicked, and for a moment there was only the sound of his own breathing and the wet cooling mess on his belly. He got one hand up to his face and wiped his mouth with the back of it, and his palm came away smelling of her — soap and something sharp and chemical, gone stale — and he lay there with his arm across his eyes and his ass throbbing against the sheet and thought, for one stupid second, that maybe that was the last of them.

The door opened again. This one didn't knock either. She came in already talking, like the room was hers and the boy on the bed was furniture. "So you're the one. Denise's little project." She was middle aged small and neat — a tight black skirt, a cream blouse buttoned to the throat, dark hair in a low twist, no jewelry except a thin watch. She looked like a woman who had come from somewhere with a reception desk. She looked at him the way you'd look at a stain you hadn't made. "You've been busy."

"I—" His voice came out wrecked. "Yes."

"Good. Don't talk." She set her purse on the chair, and she didn't bother to undress — she just sat down on the edge of the mattress and reached over and took his cock in her hand, and her grip was dry and cool and she started to work it straightaway, short hard strokes, thumb dragging over the head. He sucked air through his teeth and his hips came off the bed and she pressed him back down with her other hand flat on his stomach and kept going.

"Please—" he got out. "Please, it's sore—"

"It's sore because you earned it." She didn't slow. Her wrist turned the way a woman turns a key that's stuck. "You're a whore who's been passed around all day, and now you're going to take what you're given." Her face stayed perfectly calm. That was the worst of it — the calm. "Say it."

"Say—"

"Say please be gentle."

He said it. His voice cracked on the second word and she made a small sound in her throat, almost pleased, and kept working him until he was shaking and raw and hard in spite of himself, and then she let go all at once and sat back and looked at her palm and wiped it on the sheet beside his hip like she'd touched something wet on a bus seat. "There. Now time to get me off pretty boy." She stood and unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it and folded it over the chair — folded it, like she was at home — and got up onto the bed on her knees and straddled his chest and pushed her cunt down toward his mouth. "Kneel up. Under me. And keep your hands at your sides or I'll put you over my knee ."

He got his knees under him, hands locked at his sides the way she'd told him, and put his mouth back on her. She was already slick and she took his head in both hands and set the pace herself — slow, dragging grinds, her clit sliding over his tongue, her breath going long and even above him like she was doing a stretch. He kept his tongue flat and worked it up and down her slit the way she wanted, and when he pushed it into her cunt she made a low sound and tightened her grip in his hair andcame with a sob and said, "That's it. Stay in there." So he stayed, tongue-fucking her slow and steady, his jaw screaming, his arms trembling with the effort of keeping his hands down, and she rolled her hips against his face and came the second time with her heels dug into his back and her cunt clenching around his tongue, and then she shoved his head away and sat back on her heels and looked at him kneeling there with his mouth wet and his face red.

"Lie down," she said. "On your back. Legs up." He didn't move fast enough and she caught him by the hair and pulled him over onto the sheets herself, and then she was on him — knees planted on either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, and she reached back and took his cock and guided it in and dropped her weight down onto it in one slow, grinding push that buried him to the hilt. She stayed there a second, just sitting on him, letting him feel how tight she was, and then she started to ride — long, hard strokes from the base to the tip, her ass slapping down on his thighs every time, and his sore cheeks lit up with each one. "You feel that," she said. "That's what a real woman's cunt feels like. ." Her nails raked down his chest and she caught his left nipple and twisted it hard enough that he cried out, and then she did the right one, and then she leaned forward and put her mouth on his neck and bit down while she kept riding him, fast and punishing, her tits bouncing against his chest. "Don't you come," she said against his throat. "Don't you fucking dare.." He wasn't close — his cock was raw from her hand and his ass was on fire and every slap of her hips sent a fresh spike through the welts — and she rode him through her own third orgasm with her head back and her nails dug into his shoulders, and then she climbed off him and stood at the side of the bed and looked down at him lying there with his soft cock and his wrecked face, and she smiled at last, a real one, cold as a coin. "There," she said. "Now you've had the last one." She picked her skirt up off the chair and stepped into it and pulled her blouse straight, and she was already at the door with her purse on her shoulder when she turned back. "Tell Denise her new toy has done well" Then the door clicked, and the hallway light went out from under it, and he lay on the ruined sheets with his legs still open and his body ringing, listening to her heels go down the hall toward the sound of women's voices and ice in glasses.

He didn't get to close his eyes. The door was already swinging and Rosa came through it with a glass of wine in one hand and her track pants already untied at the waist, and she looked at him laid out flat and wrecked and shining on the sheets and laughed the way she laughed at everything — loud, warm, and entirely at his expense.

"Look at you. They've been passing you around like a plate of sandwiches." She set the wine on the dresser and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the pants, and shoved them down her legs without ceremony. No underwear underneath. The tank top came next, peeled up over her head and dropped on the floor, and then she stood at the foot of the bed in nothing — full hips, the soft roll at her waist, tits heavy and low with the nipples already standing up in the cold of the room. She reached down and took his ankle and dragged him down the mattress toward her, and he slid on the wet sheets like something being pulled out of a drawer.

"Off. On the floor. On your back." He got down onto the floorboards and stretched out, and the wood was cold along his spine and his ass was still one band of fire from Madonna's palm, and then Rosa stepped over him and settled down on his chest, her knees on either side of his ribs, and leaned forward and let the whole weight of one breast drop onto his face. "Lick it. Slow. I want to feel your tongue on it before you get anything else." He got his tongue under the soft hang of it, into the crease where it met her ribs, and dragged up slow, and she hummed low in her chest and pushed the nipple into his mouth. He sucked it soft and worked it with his tongue until it stood up wet and dark, then moved to the other and did it the same way, and she rocked her weight from knee to knee and let him work for a long time, her hand light on the top of his head, not guiding, just there.

She let him work until both nipples were stiff and shining, then she sat up and shifted back onto his stomach, and her hand went down between her own legs and she watched his face while she touched herself, slow circles with two fingers, spreading herself open for him to see. "You want it," she said. "Say it."

"I want it."

"Say it like you mean it."

"Please. Let me taste you."

She moved up his body and settled over his face, and this time she didn't make him beg for the angle — she came down with her knees spread wide and her cunt right over his mouth, wet and open and hot, and she took his hair in both hands and pulled his face up into her. "There. Lick it. Not soft — like you're starving." He got his tongue up into her slit and dragged it from the bottom to the top, over her clit, and she ground down on him and made a sound deep in her chest. She tasted of wine and salt and something thicker underneath, and she was so wet it ran down his chin and into the hollow of his throat within the first minute. He worked her clit with the flat of his tongue and then with the tip, and she rocked her hips in a slow rhythm and let him find it, and every time he got it right she pulled his hair tighter and told him so — "there, right there, don't stop" — and every time he slowed she ground down harder to remind him.

His jaw was screaming but he kept going because stopping wasn't on the table. She took one hand off his head and reached back and her fingers found his cock where it lay against his belly, and she wrapped them around it and started to work it while she rode his mouth — slow, loose strokes, just enough to keep him hard and aching, not enough to take him anywhere. "You feel that," she said. "That's me being nice. You don't get to come from it." He groaned into her cunt and she laughed and rode his face harder, and her strokes on his cock got faster and tighter until he was thrusting up into her fist without meaning to, and then she stopped, pulled her hand away, and put it back on his head. "No. Mouth only. Finish what you started."

He finished it. He got his tongue into her and licked her the way she wanted, steady and deep, and her thighs started to shake against his ears and her breath went ragged above him, and she came with her hips grinding down hard on his face and her cunt clenching against his tongue, and she held him there through the whole thing, riding it out, until the last shudder went through her and she let go of his hair and sat back on his chest, breathing hard. She looked down at him — his mouth wet, his chin shining, his eyes half-shut — and she smiled that wide warm smile that never meant anything good for him.

"Good boy. Now stay down." She lifted off his chest and turned around and straddled his hips, and she reached back and took his cock in her hand and guided it up between her legs and sat down on it in one slow, wet slide, taking him all the way in. She was slick and hot from her own orgasm and she stayed still a second, just holding him inside her, letting him feel the squeeze of her cunt around every inch of him. "You feel how wet that is. That's what you did." Then she started to move — long, rolling strokes, her ass slapping down on his thighs, and every one of them landed on the welts and lit his whole backside up. He cried out and she rode harder. "That's it. Take it. You're not coming, remember."

She rode him slow and then fast and then slow again, working him the way she wanted, her tits swinging over his chest and her hands braced on his ribs, and she came a second time on top of him with her head thrown back and her nails digging in, and she didn't stop — she kept grinding down on him through it, milking herself on his cock, and he was close now, so close his balls had drawn up tight and his thighs were trembling, and he said it out loud without meaning to. "Please. Please, Rosa, I'm going to—"

Rosa laughed and lifted off him, and his cock slapped wet against his belly, hard and aching and denied. "Not yet." She knelt up over his chest and looked down at him with her tits hanging heavy and low, nipples dark and stiff from the cold and the wine. "You want to come, you come on my terms. Hands on my ribs. Don't move them." He put his palms flat on the soft roll of her waist and she leaned forward and took his face between her breasts, pressing them together around his nose and mouth, and he was buried in the warm salt weight of her, the crease between them slick with her own sweat, and she held him there with a hand on the back of his head. "Breathe," she said. "That's all. Just breathe."

He couldn't breathe. He breathed her instead — skin and wine and the deeper musk of her cunt still on his chin, and his hips came up off the floorboards on their own, cock straining at nothing, and she felt it against her stomach and laughed again. "There he is. That's what I like." She held him in the crease and rocked her chest against his face, slow, dragging her nipples over his cheeks and his jaw, and he made a sound into her skin that wasn't a word. "Say it. Say what you need."

"Please," he got out, muffled. "Please let me come."

"Say it right."

"Please, Rosa. Please let me come."

She sat back and looked at him, and her eyes were dark and pleased. "Good boy." She turned around and straddled his hips and reached back and took his cock in her fist and lined it up and sank down onto it in one slow, wet slide, taking him to the root, and she sat there a moment with her hands flat on his chest, letting him feel the whole grip of her. Then she started to ride — long, rolling strokes, her ass slapping down on his thighs and lighting up the welts every time, and he cried out and she rode harder. "You feel that. That's what you were begging for." Her cunt clenched around him on every pass, wet and hot and gripping, and he was so close already it hurt, the orgasm gathered tight and low and burning at the base of his spine, and she saw it on his face and ground down on him, slow and deep, working him in long deliberate strokes. . Then the sound caught in her throat and broke — a raw, keening thing that tore out of her as the second orgasm slammed through her, her whole body seizing and shaking on top of him, her inner walls clenching down so hard she felt him pulse inside her. She rode the wave with her eyes squeezed shut, hips grinding in frantic circles, chasing the last sparks of it while her breath came in ragged gasps. When she opened her eyes, they were dark and wet and fixed on his. "Now," she said, the word coming out thick and broken, "Come now." And she bore down on him, hard, demanding, her body still trembling with the aftershocks, and there was nothing soft in the way she said it — it was an order, a command, her cunt already clenching around him in rhythm, pulling, drawing him over the edge with her.

He came with a sound that started somewhere under his ribs and broke apart on the way out — no word in it, just the long shudder of a man who'd been used too many times in one day. His hips jerked up off the floorboards and Rosa rode it out, grinding down slow and deep, her cunt milking every pulse out of him while his hands stayed locked on her ribs the way she'd told him. She watched his face the whole time, that pleased dark look, and when the last of it was done and his cock was twitching and oversensitive inside her, she stayed seated, letting him feel himself soften in the wet grip of her.

"There," she said. "That's a good boy." She lifted off him slow, and when his cock slipped free aand she looked at it and then at him and laughed low. "Look what you did." She swung a leg over and knelt up over his chest again, and this time she didn't press his face between her breasts — she brought her tits down onto his face from above, smearing the wet of her skin across his mouth and nose and cheeks, and she took his hair in one hand and held him there. "lick them." He got his tongue out and licked the salt and sweat off her skin, the underside of one breast and then the other, and she made him work the nipples too, sucking them until they stood up dark and wet again. She tasted of wine and sex and her own sweat, and he licked every inch she offered him, and when she finally pulled his head back by the hair his face was shining and his mouth was open and he was breathing like he'd run somewhere.

"Good," she said. "Now get it up again."

"Rosa—" His voice came out thin. "I can't. It's—"

"I didn't ask what you can do." She reached back and took his soft cock in her fist and started to pump it, dry and fast, the way Madonna had, and he hissed through his teeth because the head was still raw from coming and every stroke dragged. "You're going to get hard for me. That's what you're for." She worked him with short hard jerks of her wrist, thumb dragging over the head each pass, and it hurt, and it worked anyway — his body answered her hand the way it always did, blood coming back into him against his own will, and she felt it thicken in her grip and made a satisfied sound. "There he is. See? You're a good little girl after all." She pumped him until he was hard and aching and slick with his own leftover cum, and then she turned around again and straddled his hips and reached back and guided him in and sat down on him in one long, grinding drop.

He cried out — it was too much, too soon, his cock still ringing from his orgasm — and she rode him anyway, hard and fast from the first stroke, her ass slapping down on his thighs and lighting up the welts every single time, and she leaned forward with her hands braced on his chest and her tits swinging over his face and worked him like she had something to prove. "You feel that," she said. "That's your sore little cock in a real woman's cunt. Take it." Her nails raked down his chest and she caught one nipple and twisted, and he arched up under her and she rode him harder, grinding her clit against his pubic bone on every downstroke, chasing her own pleasure off his body. "You don't come till I do. You hear me? but then you come because I am telling to to. youa re coming for me not for you."

"Yes—" he got out. "Yes, Rosa."

"Say my name again."

"Rosa. Rosa, please—"

"That's it." Her breath was going ragged now and her rhythm was breaking up, faster and less controlled, and she sat back and put both hands on his chest and rode him down into the floorboards with her head tipped back and her mouth open, and he watched her tits bounce. For long, dragging minutes she worked herself on him, climbing toward her own peak, and as the time crawled past he felt his spent excitement stirring again despite himself and then she clenched around him and came — a hard, shuddering one, her cunt gripping and releasing around his cock in waves, her nails digging crescents into his chest — and she rode it out on him, grinding down slow and deep through the whole thing, and only when the last shiver went through her did she look down at him and say, "Now. Come for me."

He came the second time like something being torn out of him. His hips bucked up into her and his hands finally broke from her ribs and grabbed her hips and she let him, and he emptied into her with a sound that came out as her name, over and over, while she sat on him and took all of it and watched his face come apart under her. When it was done she stayed there a moment, both of them breathing hard, and then she lifted off and stood up and looked down at him lying wrecked on the floorboards with his cock wet and softening against his belly and his chest marked with her nails.

"Good boy," she said, and stepped over him toward the dresser where her wine was waiting, and picked it up and drank the last of it standing there naked with her back to him, and didn't look at him again.

Rosa was still standing at the dresser with her back to him, the wine glass tilted to catch the last drop, when the door swung open and Carol came through it laughing. Not a small laugh — a full, open, delighted one that filled the room and bounced off the walls. She was in the same red lipstick she'd worn at the bar, the same dark bob, and she had a tumbler of something amber in her hand and she stopped two steps in just to look at him.

"Oh, honey," she said, and laughed again, harder, one hand pressed flat to her chest. "Oh, look at you. They've had you a lot haven't they. You're shining like a glazed ham." She came over and stood above him where he lay spread and broken, and she tipped her head and took in the whole of him — the pink-tipped hair stuck to his forehead, the nail marks down his chest, the wet smear on his belly, the cock lying soft and raw against his thigh. "You poor, pretty thing. You're a wreck."

She set the tumbler on the dresser beside Rosa's empty glass and reached behind her back for the zipper of her dress. It was a plain navy thing, nothing special, and it came off her shoulders and down her hips and she stepped out of it and kicked it aside without looking where it landed. She wore a black bra and matching briefs, and she unhooked the bra with one practiced twist and let it drop, and her tits came out heavy and full and low, the nipples a wide dark brown against the paler skin, and she hooked her thumbs in the briefs and rolled them down her legs and stepped out of those too. She had a soft, solid body, a belly that had carried children and thighs that had carried her through the years, and she stood there with her hands on her hips and looked down at him the way a woman looks at a dog that's been rolling in something.

"Up," she said. "On your knees. You've been lying around long enough."

He pushed up off onto his knees, and his body complained at every joint — the knees, the small of his back, the raw drag of his cock against his thigh — and he got onto his knees in front of her, hands hanging at his sides because nobody had told him where to put them. She stepped in close and took his head in both hands and pulled his face into the crease between her breasts, and she was warm and soft and smelled of the same jasmine perfume Denise wore and underneath it the salt of her own skin. "There," she said. "Start there. The undersides." He got his tongue under the left breast, into the soft fold where it met her ribs, and dragged up slow, and she hummed and pressed the weight of it against his face. He worked the underside, then the flat of his tongue over the swell, then took the nipple into his mouth and sucked it soft, and she rocked a little on her heels and held him there with one hand at the back of his skull. "That's it. Other one. Don't skimp on me." He moved and did the same — the crease first, the slow drag, then the nipple, sucking until it stood up wet and stiff — and she made a low sound and shifted her weight from foot to foot, and he could smell her cunt already, warm and close, sitting right there under the soft hang of her belly.

"Good," she said. "Now down." She put a hand on the top of his head and pushed him lower, and he went, kissing down her, over the soft roll of her belly, into the crease under it, and she stepped her feet wider apart and braced a hand on the dresser behind her. "On your back. On the floor. I'm not climbing on that bed, it's a crime scene." He lay back down on the boards and she came down over him, one knee then the other on either side of his head, and settled her cunt onto his mouth. She was wet, slick and open and hot, and she tasted of soap and salt and something faintly sweet, and she rocked down onto his face in a slow, easy rhythm, her clit dragging along the bridge of his nose, her thighs soft and heavy against his ears. "Lick it. Slow. I'm in no hurry." He got his tongue up into her and dragged it the length of her slit, and she sighed above him and settled her weight down, and he worked her like that for a long time — flat tongue, steady strokes, up and down her slit, circling her clit, back down and into her cunt, lapping at the wet heat of her while she rode his face at her own pace. She tasted stronger the longer he worked, and she got wetter, and it ran down his chin into the hollow of his throat, and she reached back and rested one hand on his chest and drummed her fingers there, unhurried, like she was waiting for a bus.

"Right there," she said, and her voice had gone lower. "Stay on that spot. Don't you move off it." He stayed, tongue flat on her clit, and she ground down onto him in short, deliberate circles, and her breathing changed above him, going longer and slower, and then she came — not a big one, a slow, rolling one that moved through her hips in waves, her cunt pulsing against his tongue while she rode it out with her head tipped back against the dresser. She held him there through the whole thing and then lifted off and sat back on his chest, breathing through her nose, and looked down at his slick face. "That's the first one," she said.

She shifted down his body and took his cock in her hand, and he was hard — he didn't know when it had happened, somewhere in the middle of her cunt on his mouth his body had decided on its own, and she felt it in her palm and laughed, that same big laugh. "Well, look at that. You've come back up for me. What a good little thing you are." She gave him two slow strokes, feeling the weight of it, and then she straddled his hips and reached back and lined him up and sat down on him in one slow drop. His whole body went rigid. She was hot and tight and wet from her own orgasm, and he slid into her to the root, and every inch of him screamed — his cock was raw from Madonna's dry hand and from coming twice with Rosa, the head oversensitive, the shaft scraped, and the wet grip of her cunt around it was too much, too soon, pleasure and pain braided so tight he couldn't tell them apart. He made a sound through his teeth and his hips tried to pull back and she put both hands flat on his chest and held him down.

"Ah-ah," she said. "You stay put. This is mine." She started to move — long, rolling strokes, taking him from the base to the tip and back down, her ass settling onto his thighs on every pass, and it hurt, it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the welts and everything to do with the raw, overworked flesh of him, and he sobbed — a real one, a wet broken sound that came up out of his chest before he could stop it. "Oh, honey," she said, and rode him harder, and she wasn't being cruel, that was the thing, she was just enjoying herself and he was the thing she was enjoying herself on. "That's it. Cry if you need to. It's good for you."

He cried. He lay on the floorboards with her weight on his hips and her hands on his chest and her cunt working him slow and deep, and the tears ran sideways into his hair and he sobbed and shook under her, and his cock stayed hard the whole time, answering her the way it always answered, and she watched his face with her lip caught between her teeth and her rhythm never broke. "There he is," she said. "Look at you. Crying and hard at the same time. Denise was right about you." She picked up the pace, grinding down on him, and he could feel her second orgasm building in the way her breath went short and her cunt started to clench in little flutters around him, and she leaned forward with her hands braced on his ribs and her tits swinging heavy over his face and rode him down into the floorboards. "Here it comes," she said, breathless, grinning. "You feel that? You feel me getting there?" He did — he felt every pulse and grip of her, felt her whole body drawing tight around his cock,

She came with a long, powerful shudder that rolled through her from her shoulders to her knees, and when her eyes came open again they found his face and she smiled down at him, wide and warm and bottomless, with her lip caught between her teeth. She didn't lift off. She sat there with his raw cock still buried inside her, still pulsing, still answering her cunt in small involuntary jerks he couldn't stop, and she rolled her hips once, slow, grinding the whole length of him against the wet clench of her, and he made a sound like something tearing.

"There he is," she said. "Still up. Still answering." She planted both hands flat on his chest and started to move again, long rolling strokes from the base to the tip, and every drag of his cock against her walls was sandpaper and honey at once. "You're going to give me one more, sweetheart.

"Good boy." She rode him harder, her ass settling onto his thighs on every downstroke, the welts under her weight flaring fresh, and he sobbed and his hips came up to meet her anyway, his body answering her cunt the way it had answered every hand all day. "Then here's your test. You're tired and you're raw, but you'll give me one more like the good little girl you are. "

She leaned back and braced her hands on his knees behind her, opening herself up over him, and rode him in a rhythm she set and did not vary — long, deep, deliberate, her clit dragging along his pubic bone on every pass, her tits swinging heavy over his chest. He watched her from the floorboards with tears dried stiff on his temples and his mouth open, and the pleasure and the burn were one thing now, inseparable, his cock so raw that every stroke felt like the first and the last at once. "You feel how wet I am," she said. "That's you. That's what you do to a woman who knows how to use you."

"You are a toy for women," she said, and ground down on him slow and deep, taking him all the way in and holding him there, squeezing him inside her in small deliberate pulses. " a thing of beauty for one woman after another to ride and wring dry, to take her pleasure from and then set aside ." She held him like that until his breath went to pieces and his thighs shook under her, and only then did she pick the pace back up, riding him fast and hard, her nails raking down his chest and catching one nipple and twisting, and he arched up into her with a sound that had no words in it at all.

Her own breath went ragged above him and her rhythm broke apart, faster and less controlled, and he felt her cunt start to flutter and clench around his cock in the little warning pulses he'd learned to read by now. "There," she said, breathless, grinning down at him. "There it is. You feel me? Come with me this time, sweetheart — now, now, give it to me now—"

He came and it was torn out of him, thin and wrenching and endless, his hips bucking up off the floorboards while his cock emptied into her in slow dragging pulses and the sob came up out of his chest and broke against her name. She rode him through all of it, grinding down slow and deep, milking every last pulse out of him, watching his face come apart under her with that wide warm bottomless smile, and she didn't stop until his cock had gone soft and twitching inside her and he was crying openly, tears running into his hair, his hands flat on the floorboards at his sides because nobody had told him to move them.

She held him there a moment longer, seated, breathing hard through her nose, and then she lifted off him slow — and the wet sound of it filled the room, his cock slapping back against his belly soft and slick and wrung out. She sat back on her heels over his chest and looked down at him lying wrecked on the floor with his mouth open and his eyes streaming and the mess of himself smeared across his stomach.

"Oh, honey," Carol said, and laughed — that same big, delighted, room-filling laugh — and reached over to the dresser for her tumbler, her thighs still slick and shining in the low light. "You did good. You did real good. now get on the bed” He managed, somehow, to drag himself up and pitch forward onto the bed.

He passed out broken by the woman, and came around sobbing to find Denise naked and pumping his sore cock, which was somehow, stupidly, treacherously erect. The ache of it was a bruise and a fire all at once, every pull of her fist a raw drag over tender meat, and he choked on a sob that turned into a groan he couldn’t stop. She didn’t slow, didn’t soften, just watched him with that flat, knowing gaze as she worked him, and he felt himself cry, shame and sick heat twisting in his gut. His hips jerked without his permission, thrusting up into her hand, and the pain of it bloomed sharp and white behind his eyes, but he couldn’t make himself stop, couldn’t beg her to stop, because the wanting was bigger than the wreck of him. She smiled, thin and cruel, and squeezed harder, and he came with a broken noise, spilling over a few drops over her knuckles while his body convulsed and his mind went white and empty, left gasping and ruined and still so pathetically hard for her.

Denise stood over him with her hands on her hips, her robe hanging open, her body still flushed from the night. She looked down at him where he lay on the wrecked sheets, his chest heaving, his cock still wet from her fist, and she smiled that slow, knowing smile that had started all of this.

"You think you're done," she said. It wasn't a question. "You've served them all day. Every one of them got what they wanted." She reached down and took his chin in her hand, tilting his face up. "But I go last. I always go last. And you're going to serve me proper."

He made a sound that might have been agreement, might have been a sob. She let go of his chin and swung a leg over his chest, settling her weight down onto him, her knees bracketing his ribs. Her cunt was already slick, resting warm against his stomach, and she leaned forward and let the weight of one breast drop onto his face.

"Lick them," she said. "Get me excited. You know how I like it."

He got his tongue under the heavy hang of her breast, into the crease where it met her ribs, and dragged up slow. She tasted of her own skin and the smoke from earlier and something underneath that was just her — the particular taste of Denise that he'd learned to read the way you learn a language. She hummed low in her chest and pressed the weight of it deeper into his face, and he worked his tongue in slow circles around the nipple until it stood up stiff and dark against his lips.

"That's it," she said, her voice going low and rough. "The other one. Don't rush it."

He moved to the right breast and did it the same way — the crease first, dragging his tongue through the soft fold, then up over the swell, then the nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth and working it with the flat of his tongue. She rocked her hips against his stomach, grinding her wet cunt into his skin, and her breath went through her nose in a long, controlled exhale. Her hand came up and threaded into his pink-tipped hair, holding him there, not guiding, just present.

"Good boy," she said. "You're learning. Finally."

She sat up and shifted her weight off his chest, and for a moment he thought she was done with him. But she just turned around, swung her leg over his head, and settled her cunt down over his mouth — facing his feet, her thighs clamping his ears, her weight pressing him into the mattress. She was slick and hot and open, and the taste of her hit him like a memory of the first night at the bar, all that jasmine and smoke and the deeper thing underneath.

"Now," she said, bracing her hands on his knees, "you're going to make me come with your mouth, and then I'm going to ride that sore little cock of yours until I've had what I came for." She ground down on him, slow, dragging her clit along the bridge of his nose. "And you're going to take it. Because that's what you're for."

He worked her with the flat of his tongue in long, dragging strokes that made her hips roll in slow circles against his face, and she tasted of herself and smoke and the particular salt he'd come to know as hers alone. Her thighs flexed around his ears, and he felt her cunt pulse against his mouth in the little warning flutters that meant she was close, but she pulled back from the edge deliberately, grinding her clit along his lips instead of letting him push her over.

She held him there at the edge, her cunt grinding against his mouth in slow, deliberate circles while her thighs flexed around his ears, and he could feel the restraint in her — the way she kept herself just short of the fall, riding the pressure instead of surrendering to it. Her hand tightened in his hair, not guiding, just holding, and her breath came through her nose in a long, controlled stream. "Not yet," she said, low and rough. "You don't get to give it to me. I take it when I'm ready."

He kept his tongue flat and steady under her, working the full length of her slit in long, dragging passes, and she began to move against him with more purpose, her hips finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with his mouth and everything to do with her own wanting. The wet heat of her coated his lips and chin, and he tasted the change in her — the shift from deliberate to desperate, the way her cunt started to clench and flutter around nothing, searching.

He didn't stop. He pressed his tongue deeper, curling it up into her, and she rode his face with her hands braced on his knees, her whole body drawing tight and then releasing in a shudder that rolled through her from her shoulders to her toes. She came with a long, guttural sound that was almost a laugh, grinding her clit against his mouth through the whole of it, and he felt her pulse against his tongue in wave after wave. She held him there until the last tremor faded, and then she lifted off him, slow, her thighs slick and shining.

She lifted off his mouth and turned around on him in one motion, and she reached back and took his cock in her fist. It was sore and raw and still half-hard from everything it had been through, and she worked it twice, rough, and he hissed through his teeth. "Oh, it's tender, is it?" She lined him up and dropped her weight down onto him in one slow, grinding push, and he cried out — a thin, broken sound that came up out of his chest before he could stop it. She sat there at the root, letting him feel the whole wet grip of her around his abused flesh, and she smiled down at him with that flat, knowing look. "That's the point, sweetie. You're mine to hurt and mine to use."

She started to move. Slow at first, long rolling strokes that took him from the base to the tip and back down, and every one of them dragged the raw, overworked skin of his cock against the slick clench of her cunt, and he made a sound that was half moan and half sob. "There it is," she said, and laughed low. "That's the sound I like. You don't make that sound for the others. You make it for me." She rode him harder, her ass slapping down on his thighs, and the welts on his ass lit up fresh with every stroke, and he arched up off the bed with a wail that broke in the middle. "Look at you," she said, breathless and amused. "Crying like a little girl. And you're still hard for me. That's what I own."

He was hard — treacherously, stupidly hard, his body answering her cunt the way it had answered every hand and every mouth all day, and she felt it in the way he pulsed inside her and laughed again. "You can't help it, can you. You hate it and you love it and you'd beg me to stop and beg me not to at the same time." She ground down on him, slow and deep, holding him at the root and squeezing him inside her in small deliberate pulses, and he sobbed and his hips came up to meet her anyway. She picked up the pace, riding him hard and fast, her tits bouncing over his chest, her nails raking down his ribs, and the pain and the pleasure were one thing now, inseparable, his whole body one long nerve of overstimulation and need.

She rode him harder, her thighs slapping against his hips, and each plunge of his raw cock into her slick cunt sent a fresh spike of pain up his spine. He whimpered, his hands clenching into fists on the mattress and she laughed—that low, delighted sound that made his stomach twist. "Oh, that's it," she said, grinding down slow and deep, holding him at the root until he gasped. "You feel that? You feel how sore you are? That's what happens when you're used all day and I still want more."

She lifted off him almost all the way, letting just the head of his cock catch on her rim, and he made a sound like a wounded animal. "Please—" he started, and she dropped her weight back down in one hard, grinding push that drove the breath out of him. "Please what, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice mock-sweet. "Please don't hurt me? Please don't fuck me? You're my toy. You don't get to ask for things." She began to ride him in earnest then, fast and punishing, her cunt gripping him tight on every stroke, and the pain and the pleasure tangled into one unbearable knot in his belly.

She came her nails digging into his chest, her head thrown back, a guttural cry tearing out of her throat as she ground down on him and held him deep inside her. He felt her cunt clench around him in wave after wave, milking him, and he sobbed—half from the agony of his raw, overworked cock, half from the shameful heat building low in his gut. "There," she breathed, her chest heaving. " I'm not done with you yet."

She didn't give him a moment to recover. She started moving again immediately, slower now, deliberate, each stroke a long, dragging slide that made him whimper through his teeth. "You think you get to rest?" she asked, leaning forward to brace her hands on his shoulders, her tits swinging heavy over his face. "You think because I came, you're done? I own you, boy. I own every inch of this sore little cock, and I'll ride it until I've had what I came for." She ground down on him in small, cruel circles, and he arched up off the mattress with a broken cry.

She built herself up again with a rhythm that was all her own—long, deep strokes that dragged the head of his cock against the sweet spot inside her, her clit grinding against his pubic bone on every pass. He felt himself climbing toward something he couldn't stop, his balls drawing up tight, his cock throbbing inside her despite the burn. "No," he gasped, his hands scrabbling at the floorboards. "Please, I can't—I can't come again—"

"You'll come when I say," she said, and her voice was flat and hard. "you belong to me" She slowed to a grinding halt, seating herself fully on him and squeezing him inside her in slow, deliberate pulses, holding him at the edge until his breath came in ragged, hitching gasps and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "Look at you," she said, and laughed softly. "Crying You're pathetic. You're mine, and you're pathetic, and you'll take whatever I give you."

She started moving again, faster and harder, chasing her own pleasure now, her nails raking down his ribs hard enough to leave red lines. He heard himself making sounds he didn't recognize—high, broken whimpers that spilled out of him with every thrust—and she grinned down at him, delighted. "There's my girl," she said. "That's the sound you make for me. Not for the others. For me. Because I own you." She rode him through her second orgasm with a long, shuddering cry, her cunt clamping down on him like a fist sating simply “come”, and he felt himself come with it—helpless, torn out of him, spilling into her in thin, wrenching pulses that left him gasping and wrecked.

She was still seated on him, her cunt clamped around his softening cock, her breath coming in long, satisfied pulls. He lay beneath her, wrecked, the last pulses of his orgasm still twitching through him, and he could feel the wet heat of their bodies. She looked down at him, that flat, knowing gaze, and she didn't move.

"You made a mess," she said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact, like the weather. She lifted off him slow, deliberate, and his cock slipped free with a wet sound, falling back against his belly, slick and spent. She knelt up over his chest, her thighs shining with both of them, and she reached back between her legs and spread herself open with two fingers. She looked at it, then at him.

"Clean it up," she said. "Every drop. You made it, you lap it out of me."

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his arms shaking, his whole body one long ache. She shifted back and turned around on him, swinging her leg over his head, and settled her cunt down over his mouth. She was slick and hot and open, and the first thing he tasted was himself — salt and the particular musk of her, mixed together, coating his lips and tongue. He got his tongue out and dragged it up her slit, slow, from the bottom to the top, and she made a low sound and settled her weight down, her thighs clamping his ears.

"That's it," she said. "Lick it out of me. Don't rush. I want to feel you working."

He lapped at her, long and thorough, dragging his tongue through the wet mess of them, tasting the salt of his own cum and the deeper musk of her cunt underneath it. She was still swollen and sensitive from coming, and every pass of his tongue made her hips roll in small, involuntary circles. He pushed his tongue inside her, curling it up, and she made a sound low in her throat and pressed down harder, grinding her clit against the bridge of his nose while he licked the last of it out of her.

"Good," she breathed. "Right there. Keep going."

He kept going. He licked her clean slow and methodical, working his tongue into every fold, lapping up the mix of them until she was slick with nothing but her own wetness, and still she didn't pull away. She sat on his face with her thighs clamped around his ears and her hand in his hair, and she let him work until suddenly the sound tore out of her — not a moan, not a gasp, but something raw and broken from deep in her chest, a shudder that ripped through her thighs and clenched her around his tongue. Her hips jerked, grinding down hard against his mouth as the wave hit, and she rode it with her fingers twisted in his hair, her breath coming in ragged, stuttering pants. She pulsed against him, slick and hot, and she didn't hold back — let him take all of it, let him feel her come apart on his face, her whole body trembling with it until the last tremor faded and she went slack above him, spent and shaking.

"There," she said finally, and she lifted off him slow, her cunt dragging wet across his lips and chin as she pulled away. She knelt up over his chest and looked down at him — his face slick and shining, his mouth open and red, his cock lying soft and spent against his belly. She reached down and wiped the corner of his mouth with her thumb, slow, the same gesture she'd used a hundred times, and she looked at the shine of herself on his skin.

"Good girl," she said. "That's how you end a day."

She stood, and the mattress dipped as her weight left it. He lay there, his breath still coming in pieces, his jaw aching, his whole body ringing like a struck bell. She found her robe on the floor by the bed and shrugged it on, tying the sash loose, and she didn't look back at him.

"Sleep," she said, from the doorway. "You've earned it."

The door clicked shut behind her, and the room went quiet except for his own breathing and the wet tick of the sheets beneath him. He lay in the dark with the taste of her still on his tongue, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the crack in the ceiling, running out from the light fixture like a fault line.