Page 34 of Filthy Little Fix
I yank back, needing to take in the sight of his face in this raw state: his lips are swollen, smeared with a mess of saliva. His mouth gapes wide, his tongue lolling over his bottom lip, and the sheer obscenity of that expression. His face is flushed, his eyes well up—a delicious sight—, and a thin stream of bright red blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the saliva on his chin.
Blood.
My stomach churns. Blood fromwhere? The thought is fleeting, replaced by the certainty that I will make his reward apunishment. My rage, my disgust, my control, forced into his mouth, bloody or not.
I grab his hair again, pushing his head forward. He opens his mouth even wider, his lips rubbing against my member, licking my erection.
I push him back and forth without giving him breaks to breathe. I push him until I feel the fucking back of his throat, until I hear him gag, until the tears accumulated in his eyes fall. I force my entire dick into his mouth, and hold it there, listening to a choked, gasping moan. I feel his nails gripping my thighs, scratching the fabric of my pants.
I drive my hips forward, making him swallow every inch, showing him zero mercy—faster, deeper. He's powerless. I make that clear to him with every thrust.
His face is red. Sweat beads along his forehead. But he doesn't shake or recoil. He forces himself to endure it, even as the blood from his mouth gets everywhere—on my cock, on his chin, running thin red lines down his neck. The mixture of saliva and blood drips onto the floor in disgusting drops.
I let go of his hair for one disgusting moment to watch him steady himself, see him struggle not to cough or vomit. He keeps his hands on my thighs, gripping tighter, as if to anchor himself. Then I take his jaw in my hand, and I fuck his mouth harder—shorter, crueler strokes, making him take it, all of it. The sight makes me want to humiliate him more.
He tries to moan, attempts a noise, but my cock blocks the sound in his throat, turning them into nothing but a vibrating whimper and a hot, wet pressure against the shaft. The deeper I go, the more I feel his tongue try to please me—not just resigned to the abuse, but moving,eager, desperate for anything I might give him. He must love this. It would make me sick if I wasn't so close to breaking myself.
Every time I pull back, he gasps a breath, then opens his mouth as wide as he can for me, flicking his tongue as if he can't wait for the next assault.
I clench his jaw even harder, holding him in place. He doesn't resist. He submits, utterly, and it burns me that I want this as much as he does. I stare down at him, at his wasted, beautiful,bleeding face. My hips jerk, and my vision blurs. I'm not sure if it's rage, or lust, or both, but I pump hard into his mouth, using him as nothing more than a hole, and he lets me. He wants it.
I can feel the orgasm building. I want to ruin his throat with it. I want to scar him so he never forgets whose he is.
"You like this?" I growl, and he moans around my cock, the vibration going straight through me, almost enough to make me come.
I only hold back so I can see his face when I let go.
For a second, I think about shoving him away, about not giving him what he wants. But the sight of him, the tears and sweat and blood, the way he keeps his mouth wide and tongue out, waiting and worshipful, destroys my last hesitation.
I want to see him swallow every drop.
I fuck his mouth, I grip his hair, jerk his head so he has no escape, and force him to take me.
He doesn't flinch. He moans, closing his eyes and shivering as I fill him.
I drag it out. I keep thrusting, shallow and slow, making sure nothing spills. I stand with my cock still buried in his mouth, breathing heavy, looking down at the mess I've made of him.
As soon as I pull out, I watch him struggle. He doubles over, puts his hands on the floor and coughs, choking. His chin drips cum, blood and saliva, and a mixture of everything spreads across the floor.
It's disgusting. I can't look away.
He kneels there, panting, with his head down.
"Is that what you wanted?" I ask.
He nods. His voice is a broken rasp. "Yes, sir."
I don't let up. He expects cruelty, so I deliver: I yank his head by the hair, forcing him to look up at me, and I slap his cheek. The blood spatter, his head whips to the side.
He closes his legs and moans, with the slightest pressure of his own thighs against his erection.
I crouch, grabbing him by the chin, forcing his blood-streaked face up to mine.
"If you ever cross me," I say, slow and deliberate, "I will rip your fucking throat out for real, understood?"
He nods, eager,ecstatic.
I push him away. "Clean yourself up," I order. I can clearly see a wet stain in his pants now.
