Dear Diary 1977 : Homecoming - Vol 2
Copyright© 2026 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 14
Fiction Story: Chapter 14 - My eyes watered, tears mixing with the drool, streaming down my face as I was face fucked into oblivion, the sound of my gagging and screaming the only music in the dark room. The assault was so intense, so overwhelming, that my body began to rebel. It was not just saliva. It was a physical expulsion of fluids triggered by the sheer thickness of the intrusion. I gagged, a convulsive heave that had no escape route, and it came out in a thick, clear stream of mucus.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Incest Father Daughter BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture White Male White Female Anal Sex Oral Sex Voyeurism
Her mouth sealed tightly around the woman’s vagina, creating a perfect, airtight seal. She remembered the feeling of the woman’s flesh against her lips, the soft, pliable skin that seemed to mold to her own mouth. She began to tongue the woman with a rough, relentless rhythm. It was not a gentle, teasing exploration. It was a voracious, almost frantic consumption. Her tongue moved with a will of its own, a hard, demanding muscle that sought to devour. She remembered the way her own jaw ached with the effort, the way her neck muscles strained as she drove her tongue deeper, harder, seeking to taste every part of the woman’s interior.
The memory of the bite was the most shocking. She remembered the feeling of the woman’s soft, delicate folds between her teeth. She remembered the way she bit down, not gently, but with a deliberate, calculated pressure. She remembered the woman’s fear. She remembered the way the woman’s body arched, a silent scream on her lips as Jennifer’s teeth sank into her most sensitive flesh. The memory of the woman’s pain was a palpable thing, a wave of agony that washed over Jennifer, but it was not a deterrent. The woman’s pain acted as an accelerant.
The other woman began to scream. It was not a sound of pleasure, but a raw, ragged cry of pure, unadulterated pain. The sound was music to Jennifer’s ears in the dream, a symphony of suffering that fueled her own dark desires. She remembered the way the woman’s body bucked and thrashed, a desperate, futile attempt to escape the relentless assault. Jennifer’s grip tightened, her fingers digging into the woman’s thighs, holding her in place as she continued her brutal feast.
Her attention turned to the woman’s clit. It was a small, straining knot of flesh, a beacon of sensitivity that beckoned to her. She remembered the feeling of it against her tongue, the hard, pebbled texture that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She began to lash it with her tongue, a series of sharp, stinging strokes that sent jolts of electricity through the woman’s body. She remembered the way the woman’s screams intensified, a higher, more desperate pitch that spoke of a breaking point. She remembered the way she took the clit between her teeth, nibbling on it with a pressure that was just shy of drawing blood, a delicate, torturous dance between pleasure and pain.
The deep tongue movements returned, a relentless, piston-like rhythm that drove the woman to the brink of insanity. Jennifer remembered the feeling of her own nose buried in the woman’s wet, matted pubic hair, the smell of her arousal and fear. It was an aromatic perfume. She remembered the way the woman’s muscles clenched and spasmed around her tongue, a series of violent, involuntary contractions that spoke of a pleasure so intense it was indistinguishable from agony. The woman’s body was a battleground, a canvas of pain and ecstasy, and Jennifer was the artist, painting her masterpiece with her tongue and teeth.
The memory of the woman’s final, shattering scream was the most vivid of all. It was a sound that seemed to tear the very fabric of the dream, a primal cry of release and surrender. Jennifer remembered the way the woman’s body went rigid, a taut bow of muscle and bone, before collapsing in a heap of trembling, sated flesh. She remembered the feeling of the woman’s juices flooding her mouth, a warm, salty wave that she drank down greedily, a final, triumphant act of possession. The memory was so real, so visceral, that Jennifer could feel her own body responding, a deep, resonant ache building between her thighs, a dark, unwelcome echo of the dream’s brutal ecstasy.