69

“Come here. The other way around.”

At first Silke didn’t understand. Then she did. He flopped flat onto the bed—his belly immediately rising like a soft wall—and pulled her over him with both hands. Her face over his cock. Her pussy over his mouth. Sixty-nine.

“There. Get down. And open your mouth.”

His belly was the problem. It lay between her and his cock like an obstacle—warm, damp, unstable. When she leaned forward, the flesh pressed against her chest, against her chin, against the air. She had to spread her knees wide to the sides, arch her back, and hold her neck at an angle that immediately hurt. The smell was worse down here. Stale. Sour. Under the mound, right at the base.

“I can’t really reach it,” she said, her voice muffled, and she hated that she was explaining it at all.

“Lie on your side.” His voice came from beneath her, already between her legs. “You’re dripping on my face. Can you feel that?”

She could feel it. Her own wetness. And then his tongue.

He didn’t lick nicely. He licked broadly, wetly, imprecisely—his tongue too thick, his breath hot against her pussy. Once he missed her clit completely; another time he hit it so hard that Silke flinched and tilted forward. His belly caught her. Soft. Disgusting. Her tits lay flat against it.

“Don’t slip away.” He held her hips tight. “Stay here. I want your pussy on my mouth.”

Silke grabbed his cock. Thick. Warm. A drop at the tip that tasted disgusting. She took the head between her lips and immediately stopped breathing through her nose. It didn’t taste good. Salt. Sweat. Something dull and unwashed that lodged between her teeth. No foreskin drama from a porn movie. Just a cock that had been stuck in damp pants for too long.

She pulled her head back briefly.

“What?”

“It doesn’t taste good,” she said, honestly—too honestly—and immediately regretted it.

Down below, he laughed against her pussy. The sound vibrated. “Not my problem. Just lick it clean.”

She took it anyway.

The head first, then as much shaft as the angle allowed. His belly pressed against her cheek as soon as she went deeper. No room. Her nose in the grease. Hard to breathe. Saliva that wasn’t just hers. She sucked flatly, reluctantly, and he still thrust a bit upward, into her mouth, as if she’d said yes to more.

Below, he kept working. His tongue now smaller, more precise, as if he’d noticed where she was twitching. Both hands spread her ass, pulled her labia apart, licked through them, thrust his tongue just inside her, then back to her clitoris. Silke made a sound around his cock, muffled, wet. The cock slid deeper; the bad taste settled in.

“You like this,” he murmured against her. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it anyway.”

“…yes.”

The “yes” slipped out because his tongue wouldn’t stop and her throat was full. Mira in the closet heard both: the “no” and the “yes.”

Silke tried to keep the rhythm but was thwarted by her belly. Every time she tried to take his cock all the way into her mouth, her belly got in the way. She had to hold it to the side, angle it, suck on the head, jerk off the shaft with her hand, clear her nose. Saliva ran down her fingers onto his fat. It smacked up and down.

“Shit,” she whispered—not to him. Because of the angle. Because of the taste. Because of the fact that it was getting tighter between her legs anyway.

“What a pain.”

“Your belly. I can’t breathe.”

“Then breathe through your nose and keep sucking.” He pulled her deeper onto his face. “I’ll stop when you come. Not before.”

That was the sentence that froze her in place.

She kept sucking. Reluctantly. The bad taste in her throat, the glans heavy on her tongue, a hint of foreskin, a trace of piss from earlier, lots of sweat. Down below, he was now licking her steadily—her clit between his lips and tongue, a finger sliding in, thick, rough, deep enough. Her stomach beneath her breasts jiggled whenever he moved his head. Her knees slid across the sheet.

“So wet,” he said, his mouth full of her.

He laughed again and licked harder.

Silke came like that.

Not loudly at first. A tugging in her belly, then a hard, embarrassing spasm around his tongue, her pussy pressed against his face, his cock still in her mouth, a moan that pushed him deeper until her eyes watered. She came on his tongue, over his stinking belly, with the bad taste on her lips, her hips uncontrolled, wet, unmistakable.

He didn’t pull his mouth away.

“Yes. Just like that. Do that again. I can feel it.”

“Stop—”

“No.”

She kept jerking him off, her head turned to the side, catching her breath, a thread of saliva between her lip and the tip of his cock, and came again—a smaller, nastier orgasm, a second twitch—while he took her clit between his lips and sucked. Her belly slapped against her chin as she tilted forward. The cock slapped against her cheek. It still didn’t taste good.

Only then did he let her lift up a bit.

Her chin wet with her own juices. The cell phone back in his hand at some point; she noticed the angle.

“Stay like that. Put your mouth back on it. I want to see that.”

Silke breathed. Her throat was full. Her pussy throbbed over his mouth. The disgust was real. So was the orgasm.

She leaned over his stomach again, searched for the cock amid the fat and light, and took it back into her mouth.