Deep

And she definitely hated the way her body responded.

Because this—this act, this pace, this helplessness—wasn’t just something happening to her anymore.

It was something inside her. Something old. Something she'd tried to bury.

Her cheeks were wet now—not from tears, not yet—but from spit, smeared and dripping down her chin as Martin’s cock drove into her mouth again, hips steady, rhythm now unmistakably his. Her throat clenched each time he pushed too deep, every gag reflex twitch sparking a humiliating jolt of heat through her core.

And that was what made it worse.

She knew this feeling.

Knew the shame-curled thrill of surrender.

Knew what it meant to kneel and **** and be held in place, used, while a man praised her for how good she took it.

Because it wasn’t new.

She’d felt this once before—years ago, back in college. A brief, electric, dangerous affair with a professor whose lectures were dry but whose eyes were not. He’d seen something in her too—something eager to obey, eager to please, beneath the smart-mouth answers and overachiever polish. And he’d pulled it out of her inch by inch, just like this, until she was on her knees behind his office desk, lips swollen, mascara smudged, breathless from the way he’d held her head down and whispered praise like poison.

It had burned her. Hard. Fast. And she told herself afterward it wasn’t real. That it had been just rebellion, confusion, too much wine and not enough boundaries.

She’d sworn never again.

She married Jason—reliable, soft-voiced, emotionally available Jason—for a reason. He didn’t take. He didn’t control. He made love with the lights off and always asked if she’d finished.

But Martin wasn’t asking.

Martin was taking.

And her body—God help her—was grateful for it.

Each thrust now **** wet, gagging moans from her throat, her cheeks hollowed, her jaw screaming from the stretch. But her core was dripping. Her nipples flushed red and aching, her breath ragged not just from exertion, but from arousal.

She hated that it felt good.

She hated that it felt familiar.

And she despised how fast she was falling back into it—into that role, that craving, that filthy memory of being nothing but a mouth for someone else’s pleasure.

And yet still—her mouth stayed open. Her body stayed kneeling.

Because even through the hate, her hips were twitching. Her pulse was pounding.

And that old part of her—the one she thought she’d buried with her diploma—was back.

Wide-eyed.

Breathless.

Starving.

Martin’s rhythm shifted.

The thrusts grew shorter. Sharper. His grip in her hair turned possessive, the kind of hold that wasn’t just control—it was claiming. His cock plunged deeper with every push now, forcing her lips wide around him, her throat convulsing each time the head hit too far back. Her eyes watered, saliva smeared slick down her chin, strands clinging to her cheeks.

And still she took it.

Still she knelt, mouth open, body flushed, heat pouring from her in waves.

He was groaning now. Low. Raw. His breath coming faster, louder.

“God, fuck, Em… gonna—” His hips bucked forward suddenly, burying himself deep—too deep—and she gagged around him, choked, but didn’t pull away in time.

He came hard.

Hot pulses filled her throat, thick and shocking, and she tried to breathe through it but there was no time—he was coming already, deep inside her mouth, cock twitching, hips jerking against her face as her lips sealed instinctively around him.

She swallowed—reflex, ****—and the taste hit her at once: salty, bitter, unmistakable. Her throat worked around it, the motion only making him groan louder.

But he didn’t stay inside her.

Martin’s cock dragged out of her lips with a wet pop, strands of spit clinging between them—and then—

Spatter.

A hot stripe across her cheek. Another across her jaw, her lips. His cum painted her flushed face in messy, glistening streaks, still warm, still pulsing slightly from the **** of release.

Emily stayed perfectly still.

Kneeling. Bare. Marked.

His breathing thundered above her, ragged and uneven, but she didn’t move—didn’t wipe her face, didn’t look away. The wetness on her skin made her pulse pound harder. The smell of it filled her nose. And something deep in her, too deep to be thought and too fast to be controlled, responded with instinct.

An old instinct.

Trained into her, long ago.

Her lips parted again, slowly. Not to speak.

She opened her mouth.

Wide.

Let him see it.

The last of his release still coated her tongue in streaks, viscous and hot. She lifted her chin. Met his eyes.

And then—swallowed.

Deliberate. Clean. Her throat worked visibly. She never looked away.

And then—again—she opened her mouth.

Wider this time. Holding.

Empty.

Clean.

Nothing left.

She showed him.

Her face still streaked with his cum, her breasts flushed and rising with breath, but her mouth—obedient, used—was clear. She stared up at him with that same controlled, polished stillness she had once perfected in an academic office, kneeling between a professor’s knees. She knew exactly what it meant. What it did to them.

And Martin did too.

His gaze darkened, his lips parted—but no words came.

Because this wasn’t just about submission anymore.

It was ritual.

It was a signal.

And now they both knew she was his.