She gets cleaned up

Ben let out a low, dismissive scoff, stepping back and looking down at her with a critical, appraising eye. He reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a crumpled, half-used tissue from beside his gaming controller, and tossed it into her lap.

"Wipe your face," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "You look like a fucking wreck. Get the spit off your chin and fix your hair. Tom’s going to be here in fifteen minutes, and if you walk out of this room looking like a used-up little slut, he’s going to ask questions I don't feel like answering."

Emma scrambled to obey, her trembling hands bringing the rough tissue to her mouth. She wiped away the thick, sticky strands of saliva and the remnants of his cum, her cheeks burning with a mix of shame and thrilling anticipation. She frantically smoothed down her messy hair, adjusted her rumpled skirt, and took a deep, shaky breath, trying to compose her flushed, tear-streaked face into something resembling her usual, pristine self.

But before she could fully retreat into the role of the dutiful girlfriend, Ben stepped into her personal space again. He reached out, his rough, calloused fingers gripping her chin and forcing her to look up into his dark eyes.

"Don't think for a second that you're off the hook just because he's coming home," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent a shiver straight down her spine. He leaned in close, his sweaty, musky scent enveloping her. "This isn't over, Emma. Not by a long shot."

He gave her chin a slight, condescending squeeze before letting go. "Next time, I expect you to be better. Flawless. No gagging, no hesitation, no pathetic little tears unless I tell you to cry. You're going to take my cock exactly how I want it, when I want it, and you're going to love every second of it. Your lips belong to me now. Understand?"

"Yes, Ben," Emma whispered, her voice trembling but utterly sincere, was this really her, she tought? The absolute authority in his voice short-circuited any remaining guilt. She didn't just understand; she craved it. The idea that she was now his permanent, submissive plaything sent a fresh, wet pulse of arousal between her thighs, soaking her panties all over again.

"Good girl," he smirked, stepping back and casually adjusting his sweatpants, completely unfazed by the chaos he’d just wrought. "Now get in the bathroom and wash your mouth out. Act normal. But remember who you really are."

Emma nodded mutely, grabbing her phone and hurrying toward the hallway bathroom. As she closed the door, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were swollen and red, her eyes were bright and glassy, and there was a wild, **** look in her gaze that she had never seen before. She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face, scrubbing her tongue, and trying to erase the evidence of her degradation.

But as she heard the faint sound of him turning the TV volume back up in the living room, she knew the cold water couldn't wash away the truth. She was his now. And the terrifying, exhilarating thought of what he would demand "next time" made her knees weak.

A few minutes later, the sound of a key turning in the front door lock echoed through the apartment.

"Babe, I'm back!" Tom's cheerful voice called out from the entryway.

She took one last deep breath, pasted a bright, fake smile onto her face, and stepped out of the bathroom to greet her oblivious boyfriend, her heart hammering a frantic, guilty rhythm against her ribs.