Page 16 of The Last Feast
This time, I don’t remove my lips as I plead, “Take the paint off. Allow me to kiss each point of your face.”
Without moving her head, she looks at me, eyes full of fear. I try to ease her as I gently coax, “I’m bare for you, exposed and incapable of hiding even if I wanted to. Show me all of you, baby.”
“I’m not a baby.” The deflection makes me smile, because she isn’t formidable. Her strength doesn’t mean she’s free of weaknesses. She simply exists in spite of them.
“You’re right—you’re not a baby. You’re a woman who has me on my knees when I’ve just met you, so let me have a face to put to my God.”
I slowly lean into her, my gaze fixed on her lips, but she shuffles down. Hiding under my chest isn’t enough. She keeps moving down until my dick brushes her chin, and I lose thought of everything, including my own name, as she lightly runs her tongue over the swollen head.
“Baby, please.” I grind my hips, searching for her mouth despite the fear shaking my limbs.
And when she softly kisses the engorged vein, I nearly come on her face. But she stops me as she stretches up, twisting my nipple between two fingers. The sting of pain chases away my fear, leaving behind the deep need for her to continue toying with me.
Barely there touches. A hint of her tongue. Her soft lips brushing my length. Yet it all has me on edge when I’ve already been hard for fucking hours.
“I—” My head drops to the floor on a deep groan as she wraps her lips around me, slowly teasing my slit with her tongue, lapping at my pre-cum as she hums. The vibrations travel through my length, settling into my balls begging for relief.
She pays them attention, just not the release they’re begging for as she licks down with the flat of her tongue then softly sucks on my balls.
“Baby…” My voice comes out strained. “Please, stop.”
Hana doesn’t. She keeps fucking toying with me as the shame builds like grimy water circling a drain, pulling parts of me with it. I can’t get the shame off me. I should. It’s been years—twenty, to be exact. But I can’t prevent it clinging to me, clawing at my insides as the loathsome discontent of being in my own body returns.
She crawls out from between my legs, only to trace a line from my balls up to my ass. Swirling her tongue on the sensitive nerves, she wraps her fingers around the belt to force my head up, forcing me to witness those bright eyes in the mirror as she kneels behind me, easing her tongue into me while choking me with the belt around my neck. My cheeks are red and so are my lips, and I hate how alive my eyes are. The casing around the electrical wires have warmed with my body heat and softened, so I can drop my shoulder enough to keep her eyes in view instead of my own.
“You’re a scared little whore.” She spits down, making me flinch at the temperature difference. “Do you want me to send your videos?”
“No,” I say weakly.
“So don’t say stop again. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” I say even weaker.
The word stop is wrong in every dictionary. It’s one that never really applies. People even blow through stop lights, yet that is at least punished with a fine. When the word stop is used in relation to a body, it’s met with even less regard. There are no flashing lights, fines, or embarrassment for those who barrel through those stop signs. They revel in it, addtheirshame to the person they violate, because humanity is doomed to give a voice to inanimate objects, and breaking those rules requires justice. Yet, breaking the human spirit isn’t really a crime—it’s an ego boost, and there’s no justice for the person whose voice is stolen.
Which is why I’m fucked up.
Why I will never be normal.
Why I will never have a relationship or someone I come home to at the end of every day. There will always be a moment they do the same—driving through the stops with a smile on their face. Their journey is more important than my boundaries.
And Hana proves that as she disregards my fears.
Despite all her obvious violence, she doesn’t force her fingers into my ass. She uses her tongue to slowly stretch me, getting me ready as she pulls my cheeks apart.
A fucked-up part of my brain comes alive as I watch her through the mirror. I’m glad I forgot to eat so she isn’t disgusted by me. Her teeth dig into the delicate skin where my thigh and ass meet. I tense when she moves further up, biting me harder so I can envision the way her teeth indents curve over my ass like a path. But when she traces the indents with her tongue, a moan slips out, and I see her eyes light up in the mirror. The bridgeof her nose and above are all I can see as she kneels behind me, forcing me to see how fucking weak I am.
Yet I don’t mind it with her.
Not when she bites me harder.
Or when she pulls my ass cheeks apart and shifts up on her knees so I can see more of her face as she pushes her tongue out. I can only see her top lip, the hint of her tongue, and then I can feel it. A lifetime of caring about other people’s opinions make me clench and suck in, but she bites me again, and her eyes harden. I instantly relax, allowing her to circle my ass with the tip of her tongue, bringing back the glee to her features.
Leaning back, she slaps my ass. “Good boy.” She spanks me again as she stands to thread the belt up from my neck to rest across my chin like a muzzle strap. Then, she ruffles my fucking hair.
Out of everything—fucking everything that she has done—it’s ruffling my hair that makes me snap. “I am not a dog.”
“Hmm, really?” She cocks her head to the side. “You licked me, you liked it when I tickled your belly, and I have this.” Quickly lifting the belt, she whips it down, catching between my shoulder blades so sharply the air whistles.
