A Taste of My Own Ass

Philoctetes motions with a jerk of his chin. "Kneel." My movements clumsy and pained, I sink back to the gritty floor, my gaze level with his softening, filthy cock. He grips himself, and without ceremony, drags the broad, slick head across my cheekbone. The scent is immediate and overwhelming, a musky, animal odor layered with the earthy tang of my own shit and the salty, intimate proof of his possession.

It is the smell of my degradation, thick and undeniable on my skin. He paints my lips with it, the taste bitter and primal. "Remember this," he growls, his eyes holding mine. "Remember what you are, half-breed." My lips part under the insistent pressure, a final, humbling act of submission.

I press a kiss to the still-thick flesh, the taste of salt and violation sharp on my tongue. He lets out a soft, approving grunt. "Clean it," he orders, his voice devoid of warmth. I obey, extending my tongue to trace the length of him, lapping away the evidence of our joining. The act is intimate and debasing, a servant's duty performed upon the very instrument of my own breaking.

I work slowly, methodically, until his skin is damp only from my mouth. He watches, his heavy-lidded gaze inscrutable, the thick, soiled length is presented before my face. The scent is foul, unmistakable. My stomach clenches. "Pig, beg for the privilege of sucking your own shit off my cock."

The command hangs in the air, a final, exquisite degradation. I look at the foul evidence of my own butthole smeared on his skin, then up at his impassive face. The words are ashes and bile on my tongue. "Please," I whisper, the sound tearing from a raw throat. "Let me clean you." The words die in my throat, a choked knot of pure revulsion.

Philoctetes waits, unsatisfied, expression one of detached curiosity, as if observing a fascinating insect. The obscenity of the demand coils in the air between us. I **** my gaze back to the vile smear, to the proof of how deeply he has claimed me. A tremor runs through my entire frame. "Please," I manage, the word a broken thing. "Let me suck my own shit off of your cock. Let me taste myself on you. I beg you."

The lie tastes fouler in my mouth than the rectal juices on his cock, but it is the key he demands. He gives a slow, deliberate nod, a king granting a repulsive boon. I lean forward, closing my eyes in a **** attempt to distance some small part of my mind from the act. My lips part, and I take him into my mouth, the foul, earthy taste blooming across my tongue.

I work with a grim, mechanical determination, my cheeks hollowing as I suck the filth from his skin. The act is profoundly, unspeakably intimate, a cycle of degradation that completes itself within the wet heat of my mouth. He watches, his hand coming to rest on the back of my head, guiding and acknowledging. When I finally pull away, gasping for clean air, he looks down, inspecting himself.

"Again," he murmurs, his voice a low thrum of command that brooks no hesitation. The taste still coats my tongue, a lingering stain of my submission. I obey, taking his rapidly hardening length back into my mouth, my jaw already aching in protest. I suck with a hollow-cheeked urgency, the rhythm not of pleasure, but of penance.

His fingers tighten in my hair. "Deeper." I **** myself to relax my throat, to take him in until my nose presses against the coarse thatch of hair at his base, until I feel him nudging the very back of my throat. I hold there, my eyes watering, my body utterly still, a living sheath for his renewed virility. A low groan escapes him, a sound of pure, selfish gratification.

His grip in my hair becomes a vise. He uses it to guide me, setting a brutal, shallow rhythm that denies me air or respite. My throat convulses around each invading thrust, a raw, gagging reflex I cannot suppress. Tears stream freely down my cheeks, mingling with the saliva that slicks his pounding flesh.

Philoctetes fucks my face with the same detached, instructional cruelty he used on my body, reducing me to a single, wet function. The sounds are ugly, choked, and wet. My world narrows to the slap of his hips against my face, the burn in my lungs, and the dark, approving glint in his eyes as he watches himself disappear again and again into the ruin of my mouth.

His rhythm stutters, then shatters into a series of short, sharp jerks. With a final, guttural roar, he pulls himself from the clenching wetness of my throat just as the first hot jet erupts across my cheek. The rest follows in thick, possessive stripes, painting my closed eyelids, my nose, my slack and swollen lips.

The warmth is startling, the scent musky and potent. He empties himself over my features with a thoroughness that feels like a branding, marking his territory in the most primal way. I kneel, motionless, as the last pulses land, feeling the viscous trails begin their slow, sticky slide down my skin. He steps back, breathing heavily, and looks upon his work with a sculptor's critical eye.

The taste he leaves behind is a living thing, thick with the scent of sex and shame. I do not move from my knees, the cold concrete biting into my skin, as the wetness on my thigh cools and the ache of my ruined rectum deepens into a dull, constant throb. The humiliation does not fade; it simmers, a low heat beneath my skin, seeping into the spaces between my thoughts.

Every breath I draw tastes of his seed, of my own ass, of what I have done done. I am a crime scene of my own making, and the evidence is written in the tremble of my hands and the hollow, gaping emptiness he carved inside me. This is the first lesson, and it is not in strength, but in the absolute, quiet knowledge of my own surrender. This was my choice.