Page 8

8

TELL HIM Pt 2

Janelle

My throat was raw from screamin’ his name. My chest rose and fell fast as hell, sweat glistenin’ all over my body. But Fontaine? He wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He flipped me like I weighed nothin’, layin’ me flat on my stomach. His hand slid up the arch of my back, down to my ass, grippin’ it hard while his dick dragged against my soaked folds.

“You hear that?” he growled low in my ear. “That sound right there? That’s phat ma so soaked for me, baby.”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound of our bodies smackin’ together echoed through the room like porn on full blast. It was filthy. Loud. Shameful.

And I couldn’t stop beggin’ for more.

“F-Fontaine please…”

He grabbed a handful of my hair, yankin’ my head back gently, but firm. “Please what, baby? Speak the fuck up, can’t hear you.”

“M-make me cum…”

“Yeah?” he leaned down, voice deep and dark as sin. “With pleasure, with fucking pleasure…”

His hips picked up speed, and I swear I saw stars. I clawed at the sheets, ass bouncin’ with every hard stroke. I couldn’t hold in the moans. They came from my soul. Loud. Desperate. Broken.

“Damn you sound so pretty moanin’ on this dick,” he growled, hand movin’ from my hair to the front of my throat. He pulled me up by it, my back pressed to his chest while he kept stroke after stroke goin’ deep.

“You think he ever touched you like this?” he asked, starin’ me in the mirror across the room.

My eyes met his in the reflection, then slid to the side—

My husband.

Still tied.

Still watchin’.

Tears in his eyes.

“Answer me, Janelle,” Fontaine barked, squeezin’ my throat just enough to steal my breath but give it back in his rhythm. “He ever make you cream like this? Ever had you speakin’ in tongues on his dick?”

“N-no!” I cried out, body convulsin’ as another orgasm rushed through me, violent and unholy.

“Say it.”

“Only you!”

He pulled out, flippin’ me over onto my back again. His lips crashed into mine—tongue, teeth, all hunger. Then he slid back in slow. Deep. Possessive.

He fucked me like I was already his wife.

Missionary, with my knees damn near on my shoulders, his chest pressin’ down against mine.

“I’m gone marry you,” he whispered in my ear, stroke never losin’ rhythm. “And I’mma fuck you just like this on our weddin’ night, with a brand new ring on your finger and my name on your soul.”

I cried again—not from sadness, but from the rawness of what he was doin’ to me.

He lifted my leg over his shoulder, goin’ even deeper. “You hear that, nigga?” he barked toward the door. “That’s the sound of yo’ wife now gettin’ fucked in by a real nigga.” He taunted

My husband whimpered.

Fontaine laughed, kissin’ my neck. “Shut up, nigga. She chose me.”

I should’ve felt shame.

Guilt.

Rage.

But all I felt was full.

Full of Fontaine.

Full of sin.

Full of every twisted thing I swore I’d never let happen again.

My nails dug into his back, body archin’ into his as that final climax hit me like a truck.

And this time…

I screamed his name loud enough for the whole damn world to hear.

My legs felt like jelly. I was breathin’ heavy, my body still hummin’ from every orgasm he ripped outta me.

But Fontaine wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

He stood up over me, chest glistening, muscles flexin’, veins bulgin’. That deep, demonic voice rolled from his lips smooth as whiskey, but heavy with command.

“Get on them knees, baby.”

My body moved before my mind caught up. I slid off the bed and dropped, the carpet burnin’ my knees, heart poundin’. I looked up at him, my lips still swollen, thighs slick with everything he’d done to me.

He gripped that big, dark dick in his hand, stroke slow—eyes locked on mine like he was lookin’ through me.

“Look at me, baby,” he whispered. “With them pretty, pretty eyes.”

My lips parted. My heart? Slammin’ against my chest. He took a step closer, slid his free hand to the back of my head, and guided it just how he wanted.

“I know you can take it. Make that shit nasty for me, Ok?”

He fed it to me. Inch by inch. My lips stretched around his thickness, tears prickin’ my eyes from the weight of him alone. He groaned deep—smokin’ blunt growl—thumb wipin’ my cheek.

“Yesss. Just like that, baby… there you go.”

I gagged.

He moaned.

I looked up, eyes waterin’ as I choked on every inch of him—and he loved that shit. His head fell back, jaw tight, chest risin’ fast.

Then—

He looked over at my husband.

Still tied to the chair. Still watchin’.

“This my mouth, nigga,” Fontaine said low and dangerous. “Mine now. You ain’t never gettin’ her back.”

I whimpered, embarrassed and aroused all at once. But that shit made him twitch in my mouth. He picked up pace, usin’ my throat.

His fingers tangled in my hair, guidin’ my rhythm until he pulled back. His dick glistened, throbbin’ against his hand as he stroked it fast.

“Stick that tongue out.”

I obeyed.

He grunted, jaw clenchin’ as his sweet tastin’ nut painted my lips, my chin, my cheek.

Tap. Tap.

He slapped the head of it against my face, spreadin’ it around with his hand as I sat there like a fuckin’ mess. A pretty one.

“You like that?” he asked, voice damn near a growl.

I nodded slowly. “Y-yeah.”

His lips curved into that dangerous smirk, the one that made my stomach flip.

He kneeled in front of me, slid his fingers down between my legs, and pressed two inside me deep.

My eyes damn near rolled back.

He leaned close, nose brushin’ mine, and whispered against my lips, “This pussy mine. Say it, baby.”

“It’s yours,” I breathed, clenchin’ ‘round his fingers.

He slid ‘em out, held ‘em up to my mouth, and I opened willingly. Sucked him clean while he moaned again.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered.

I was spiralin’. Mind blank. Heart shatterin’. But still, I needed more of him.

Then he stood.

Turned toward my husband.

The same one who’d been cryin’, twistin’ in that chair, beggin’ with his eyes.

Fontaine reached behind him.

Pulled out a gun.

The click echoed.

The air shifted.

He walked up real slow and cut the rope around his wrists. My husband shot up, eyes wide, shakin’. I stood frozen.

Fontaine just looked at him cold.

“Leave.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he reached for me—outta instinct, like I was still his to protect.

Fontaine stepped between us fast, that gun raisin’ to his face without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t,” he said calm. Too calm. “Touch her again and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

My husband’s hands went up. “A-alright… alright…”

“Good. Walk, nigga.”

He did.

Out that room, stumblin’, humiliated and broken.

Fontaine turned back to me. Calm. Smirkin’.

But that craziness was still in his eyes.

“You okay, baby?” His eyes held some type of gentleness.

I nodded, “Fine.”