Chapter 8: Coming to Grips

We fucked twice more in his bed.

The first time was slower only by comparison to the kitchen. He had been feeding me his cum from my pussy, dipping two fingers inside to scoop out the mixture of our bodies secretions and then placing them in my mouth, telling me to suck them clean before repeating the process again and again until there was nothing more to extract. He then pulled me down onto the mattress, rolled me beneath him, and took me with long, grinding strokes that still left me shaking. His mouth never left my skin for long ... neck, collarbone, the soft undersides of my breasts ... while he murmured how good I felt, how tight, how perfect. I came twice before he finished inside me again, the first was short and fast and the second orgasm rolling through me in deep, pulsing waves that left my thighs trembling against his hips.

The second time was lazier, almost dreamlike. I rode him while he lay back against the pillows, hands guiding my hips, thumbs stroking the bruises he had already left on my ass. He watched my face the entire time, eyes dark, telling me to look at him, to never take my eyes off his and to be sure they were locked on his when I came. I did and the intensity of our connection was unmatched. I felt joined to him at that moment in a terrifying way that completely erased everything else.

When it was close to midnight my head lay cradled in the crook of his arm, cheek against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart while he dozed. The room smelled of sex and clean sweat and the faint remaining trace of his earlier shower. I knew it was past time for me to leave. Mike would already be wondering why I had not checked in. The longer I stayed the harder it would be to walk out the door with any of the story I had planned still intact.

I decided to give him one last thing before I went.

I lowered myself carefully, kissing a slow path down the center of his abdomen, tasting salt and skin. His cock was soft when I reached it. I nuzzled it first, then began to kiss along the length, soft presses of my lips from base to tip. I licked him next ... long, deliberate strokes of my tongue that mapped every ridge and vein as he gradually thickened against my mouth. It did not take long. Within a minute he was hard as steel, heavy and hot on my tongue.

I took the head between my lips and sucked gently, then released it to kiss lower. He stirred, a low sound of approval in his chest.

“Suck on my balls,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Nice and slow.”

I obeyed. I cupped them carefully, lifted them, and took one into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue while my hand stroked his shaft in long, gentle pulls. The other followed. He hummed in pleasure, one hand drifting to rest lightly in my hair. I returned to his cock, taking him deeper this time, and used my free hand to massage his balls in the same rhythm. My other hand slid up his torso, palm flattening over the hard plane of his stomach, then higher to rest against his chest so I could feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

He talked the entire time, voice low and warm.

“That’s it. You a good little slut. Look at you, taking care of me so well. Your mouth feels incredible. Keep going just like that.”

His praise combined with the dirty talk turned me on. I was not used this type of talk during sex and I found it fresh and exciting in its newness. What I did not realize at the time, was that he never used my name while we had sex, I was always “Slut ... Whore ... My dirty girl” and any other combination of “pet” names for me, but each one was always demeaning, a combination of demeaning and praise. As time went on the names became more dehumanizing and degrading, “stupid cunt ... worthless whore”. I didn’t realize that even then on our second time together that he had already begun to turn me into an object and an object does not have feelings, an object does not say yes or no when told to perform its function, an object just “is” and “does” what it is designed to do and Tyler had already begun to turn me from a person with passion and desire into what he wanted to mold me into, something that did what it was told, when it was told and an object never complains or refuses to do what is it designed to do. Much like the cannibal fork which purpose he had defined for me earlier in the evening, Tyler was now beginning to build how our relationship would change as he redefined me and my purpose.