Page 8 of The Last Feast

SQUIRT. . .?

AUGUSTE

She tastes like perfection, like that elusive thing I’ve spent my entire life searching for, knowing I was missing a part of myself.

I suck her clit, soothing the sting of my teeth.

Then, I bite again so she pulls my hair harder, adding that beautiful pain to my scalp as she grinds against my face.

Twisting my head, I push my tongue into her tight fucking cunt.

She clenches, trying to keep me inside as I tease her.

I manage to gain enough space to beg, “Turn around, baby. Let me eat this blessed cunt properly.” She doesn’t move, so I softly add, “Please, baby. There’s still blood I can’t reach like this. ”

Hana hesitantly turns and places her hands flat against the mirror as she widens her thighs.

“Your cunt is perfect,” I moan at the sight of her opened up for me.

She looks to the side, staring at me through the mirror. So, I do the same as I clean the blood from her skin. I turn my head to make sure she can see as I circle her clit with the tip of my tongue.

“Blessed be Hana.” Starting from her soaked cunt, I mark a line to her clit.

“In the sacrament of her body.” Then, I move back to the middle of the two points before marking a parallel line between each of her lips, forming the symbol man has forced me to hate.

I suck the last smear of blood off her inner thigh before I say, “And blood.”

The very thing I have always been afraid of has come true. My faith was tested as a child—

that’s what the diocese called it anyway. Now, it’s being tested as I’ve revolted from the way men teach their hypocritical beliefs. Despite the satisfaction of sullying the words—the symbols, everything I was taught to believe—there’s still this deep shame attached to it.

But Hana isn’t patient or selfless. She’s not an all-loving God who accepts people’s wrongs as long as they keep the beads on their rosaries moving with their lying lips. No, she’s just. She punishes for misdeeds as she pushes her hips back. “This is what you begged for.”

“I’m sorry,” I say with conviction, more meaning than I’ve ever heard uttered.

My tongue continues passing the apology into her skin as I kiss the back of her thighs, sucking the skin between my teeth until there are small pink marks left behind.

She moans at the feeling, rocking back as her cunt drips for me.

My bites are more forceful, needing bigger marks, darker than pink, darker than red. I don’t stop until a deep purple mark blooms, glistening in my spit. I move to her other thigh to do the same, but she pushes her bloody hand between her thighs to call me forward.

I reverently lap at her crimson fingers as my dick twitches, weeping pre-cum, angry at being denied the heaven in front of me. Yet, I can’t beg for that—it’s too momentous a hurdle for me to overcome without associating the feelings of the past with the hellish woman bent over for me.

I can focus on her, however. I can feel her blood clinging to my lips as I reach her palm.

I can hear her soft moans fogging the mirror as my nose brushes her clit.

She’s so needy, like she’s been edged for years and no amount of touch will be enough.

But I tell myself it’s me. It’s not a need for any faceless person to be between her thighs.

No. She sought me out, chased me, because it’s only me who can make her feel this way.

That way, there’s nothing broken inside me if I can have such a visceral impact on another person who is most likely more broken than I am.

I tease her cunt, alternating between sucking at the wound on her hand, painting her lips in blood, to dipping my tongue inside her like I can gorge myself on as much of her DNA as possible to reduce the emptiness I’ve always felt.

Each act garners a moan. Softly at first, then slowly increasing her need as my hands turn numb, my knees aching from biting into the hard ground, but I can’t stop.

More drops hit my back. The warmed liquid slowly runs down as I fervently eat Hana’s sweet cunt. I’m not starved, wildly fucking her with my tongue. No, I take my time, savoring each flavor that makes her between the salty iron of her blood to the sweet taste of her arousal.

She tenses when I move further up, but she doesn’t push me away or scold me when I slowly trace a circle around her puckered hole. She’s too still, as though she’s trying to determine if she likes it, so I don’t push my tongue inside her like I want to.

As I wait for her to relax, she reaches behind her to gently stroke my hair. Her moans are softer too, so I take that as the green flag to push inside her tight ass.

“Jamie,” she moans, making me fucking hate that I gave her a false name.

But as I look in the mirror, I see her fingers work between her thighs.

Blood stains her clit from the cut on her palm as she buries two fingers inside her cunt.

I push my tongue down, trying to feel them through the thin barrier, but it’s not enough.

The position takes her deathly features away, so I bite the back of her thigh.

“Turn around.” Another bite, another beg. “Show me how you fuck yourself, baby.”

Hana turns, pushing me away, only to flatten her back against the mirror and plant her foot on my shoulder. She welcomes me back with urgency. I meet her with the same need as I bite her calf and watch her cunt stretch around her fingers as she adds a third.

“Filthy rich boy,” she moans. “What would your friends think if they knew you had your tongue in my ass?”

I don’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion of me right now, no one other than Hana.

My hips move, fucking the air as I soothe the sting of my teeth with my tongue.

She sinks her fingers deeper as she grinds the heel of her bloody palm on her clit.

I chase it, craving more of this woman as I kiss up her thigh.

She obliges me by angling her hand so her blood seeps down to my open mouth, and I fucking moan. Like a pathetic fool, I moan.

“Come for me,” I beg. “I want to see.”

She massages up her body, bringing the black dress up to reveal her bare, beautiful tits as the wires are stretched, allowing my arms to drop half an inch.

I can’t focus on the static-like feeling of my blood rushing back into my hands, because she moans and squeezes her tits with one hand.

My hands I can barely feel are jealous of her, envious of the knowledge of what it’s like to feel her heart speed up as she bites her lip, trapping the moan my heart is slowly beating in rhythm to.

I fuck the air harder, my hips moving faster, needing more, needing her to keep me suspended in this place that feels like tomorrow and yesterday don’t exist.

And she grants me that as she curls her fingers up, riding them at the pace she needs and allowing me to witness it as I kiss her thigh then push my cheek to the inside of her knee.

She pushes her foot harder against my shoulder, but she’ll have to kill me if she doesn’t want me to witness her come.

Her thigh trembles as her eyes widen, and her hand moves in a blur as she fucking washes me in her cum. It hits my face with such a force that my eyes instinctually close. But I suck, filling my mouth with the taste of her—cum and blood, everything I can get.

I need her to continue squirting until she’s depleted of all energy and the paint has fully flaked away from her face to reveal the beauty underneath. So, I fight the restraints burning my skin as the plastic squeaks and try to push my face between her legs.

But she slaps at my forehead like I’m the one in control. “Too much.”

I don’t stop. I keep going, trying to get more.

Hana cocks her arm and slaps me across the face so hard, I’m forced away from her. Her face is set in hard lines as she grabs my hair, gritting, “Whores aren’t in control.” Twisting her fingers in the strands, she asks, “What are you?”

“A man.”

“No.” She pulls harder. “A whore. Men take. You don’t get to do that to me.”

She is broken.

She’s just like me, and we have the same scars, specifically the crucifix branded into her side as I fully take in her body. Mine is on my soul, a mark the Father left behind of his pectoral cross hanging above me.

The irony of the situation makes me laugh. I’m yet again on my knees with a cross glaring down at me, but there’s no judgment on the features of the person above. There’s no pain or fear of my parents dying if I don’t obey.

The fear comes when she lets me go and walks away, pulling her dress down. I watch her retreat in the mirror as she steps into the shadows behind the spotlight.

“Where are you going?” I call out over faint murmuring echoing around me. “Hana?”

Fuck. She’s left me here, tied up, her cum and blood staining my chin.

Small drops cling to my lashes like tears, and I watch them race down my cheeks as I blink.

There’s blood on my back too, little dots that have trailed down my spine and a smudged shoe print on my shoulder.

Some of the drops have dried, showing where they originally hit my skin and where they stopped around the middle of my back in my bowing position.

I look up to see where it’s coming from to meet the wide eyes of the woman I forgot about.

Odette hangs on the support beams for the pitched roof, blood dripping from her wrists.

The same wires wrapped around my wrists and ankles secure her to the thick metal poles.

There’s also a sharper wire parting her skin, embedding itself deeper as her body weight pulls her down.

But she’s gagged, so as she tries to scream, it only comes out muffled.

Her eyes widen, and she tries to tell me something.

She’s both too high up and muffled for me to make out what she’s saying when leather wraps around my face.

Hana stands behind me, securing my belt over my lips.

She’s back.

She didn’t leave me.

“Wha—” I try to ask, but she pushes the leather between my lips before buckling it behind my head then sits on my lower back the way a child would when playing horse.

Yanking harder, she forces me to look up at Odette’s terror-stricken face as she says, “Did you fuck her?”

I nod, mumbling, “Once. Years ago.”

I don’t tell her I was drunk or that I don’t remember anything other than waking up naked in Odette’s bed. I barely allow myself to remember that fact most days, because I’d lose the few people I have in my life who know me if I question how I got there or what happened to my clothes.

She trails the tip of her finger on my back, connecting the fresh dips as they fall like a dot-to-dot game. “What feels better: her blood on your back or my cum on your face?”

“You.”

The muffled screams get louder, more fearful.

“Good.” She tugs on the belt. “Watch her bleed while I clean her off you.”

A grunt parts my lips as she gets comfortable on my lower back then swings her legs up and plants her feet on my shoulders so her legs are spread.

I have to strain my eyes to watch her through the mirror as she lifts her dress and uses me like I’m an inanimate object.

With her feet digging into my shoulders, the belt like a rein in her hand, she lifts her hips then presses the heel of her palm to her lower stomach.

She pushes two fingers down in the shape of a V, stretching her cunt open as she erupts again.

But there’s no stimulation.

So it can’t be cum.

If she’s not squirting…?

The clear, scentless liquid runs down to my shoulders, dripping onto the floor.

When the light catches it, I notice the faint yellow tinge.

She’s pissing on me.

And my dick gets harder—painfully so.

I nearly come on the spot when she wraps the belt around her fist and looks up to shout, “He is mine!”

My eyes roll back in my head, and she rocks on my back as I fuck the fucking air. A loud clap makes me still. I can’t work out what it is until I feel the side of my ass heat.

She spanked me.

That’s not a thing men are supposed to like. Neither is being tied up by a woman smaller than them, being bound by said woman, and having their choices taken away from them. But I do. I want more, only if it’s administered by the hand of this random woman who doesn’t judge me.

To her, I’m not weird or hiding my sexuality.

It’s always the same, like the only reason I, a man, wouldn’t be interested in a woman is because of my sexuality.

Then, they analyze my interactions with other men, waiting for some mystery tell that doesn’t exist to reveal why I’m not interested.

The reality is, I’ve never felt safe with anyone.

Yet to Hana, I’m not a freak to be examined and questioned.

With her, it’s not so hard. Maybe the anonymity is what makes it easier.

I have no previous information to gauge her likes or dislikes.

I feel no need to make sure she likes me.

There’s no history or knowledge of who my family is, so the fear I’ve always carried has fallen away.

She’s not hiding her capacity to cause pain, so I’m not trying to anticipate it. I can accept it for what it is.

With Hana and a fake name, I can finally be myself.

So, when she spanks me again, harder this time, I don’t attempt to trap my moan. She does it again, more forceful as she snaps, “Does the desperate little whore need to come?”

“Please,” I muffle around the leather.