I still said nothing. Just took another long sip of my beer, feeling the cold liquid slide down my throat, and watched her pull my cock out. It sprang free, thick and hard and ready, the head already glistening with pre-cum that caught the dim neon lights flickering above the bar. Eight and a half inches of dick that had made more than a few women tap out before they could take it all.
My pride felt cheap, tainted.
Serena stared at it for a moment, her eyes locking on it as if she were sizing up a challenge she wasn’t entirely sure she could handle, then she looked up at me with those big doe eyes framed by smudged mascara. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby.” Her words were a promise, but they landed like a confession.
Good how?And would it be good for me, or good for her to prove something to herself?
The thought made me sick.
“Then stop talking and start sucking,” I said, my voice low and rough, edged with impatience. It was a command I didn’t truly want to give, a push to make this sordid transaction move along, to get it over with so I could confront the sour taste it would leave behind.
She didn’t need to be told twice. The act began, and as I felt her lips close around me, a wave of intense physical sensation washed over me. But beneath it, the conflict raged. The cheap thrill was undeniable, but so was the profound sense of regret that was already beginning to set in, a cold weight settling inmy chest. I had made my choice, and I knew, with a sickening certainty, that I would pay for it long after she was gone.
The club whore slid off her stool with fluid grace and dropped to her knees between my legs, positioning herself right there for the entire clubhouse to watch the show. The floor was sticky with spilled beer and God knows what else. It probably hadn’t been properly cleaned in weeks, but she didn’t seem to care one bit. Her hands wrapped around the base of my cock, both of them, fingers barely meeting around the girth, and she leaned in close, her breath hot against my skin. Her tongue darted out to lick the pre-cum from the tip, that first teasing taste, and she hummed with satisfaction.
The first touch of her tongue sent a jolt through me. Warm. Wet. She swirled it around the head, teasing the sensitive underside, and I felt my jaw tighten. I kept my expression neutral, but my body was already responding.This is wrong,a voice screamed in my head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like my mother’s.You know this is wrong. You’re better than this. But the primal hum that vibrated through my gut, the desperate tightening of my muscles, was a betrayal of every ideal I’d ever held. I was raised to be honorable, someone who treated women with respect, not a man who allowed himself to be debased in front of a crowd.
She looked up at me as she opened her mouth and took me in.
Inch by inch, her lips stretched around my girth, and she moaned as if she was tasting the best thing she’d ever had. The vibration traveled up my shaft, and I had to fight the urge to grab her head and fuck her face. But the raw, animalistic need warring with my conscience was a suffocating tide. I wanted to lash out, to assert some kind of control, but that control was slipping away with every slow, deliberate stroke of her mouth.
Not yet.
She worked me slowly at first, taking me deeper with each bob of her head. Her lipstick smeared along my cock, leaving dark red streaks, and her spit dripped down to my balls. She gagged when I hit the back of her throat, but she didn’t pull off. Just relaxed and pushed herself further, taking me until her nose was pressed against my pelvis.
“Fuck,” I muttered, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
It was an involuntary groan, a plea and a curse all at once.
She pulled back, gasping for air, strings of saliva connecting her lips to my cock. Her eyes were watering, mascara running, and she looked fucking beautiful like that—ruined and desperate. A part of me, the part that reveled in the raw power of it, felt a surge of perverse satisfaction. But another part recoiled, disgusted by my own reaction.You’re a monster, it hissed.You’re enjoying this degradation.
“You like that?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Keep going.” My words felt like ash in my mouth. There was no other option now, was there? The moment of decision had passed, and I had chosen the path of least resistance, the path that would lead to immediate relief but also, I suspected, to a profound and lingering regret.
She dove back in, this time with more urgency, more determination. Her head bobbed faster, more rhythmically, her hand stroking what she couldn’t fit in her mouth with practiced precision. The wet, obscene sounds of her sucking filled the surrounding space, mixing with the chaos of the clubhouse—the clatter of pool balls, the rumble of laughter, the thump of bass from the jukebox. Each bob of her head was a hammer blow against my resolve, each wet sound a testament to my failing control. I was a prisoner in my own body, a spectator to my own downfall. And the worst part was, I knew with a sickeningcertainty that I would never be able to fully wash away the stain of this night.
I glanced around, taking in the scene. A few brothers had noticed what was happening. Wanderer was watching with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face, raising his beer in a mock salute as if he were toasting to my good fortune. Morpheus had finished with the blonde he fucked raw. She had wandered off somewhere, probably to the bathroom, leaving Morpheus, who was now leaning against the pool table, smoking a cigarette and watching the club whore work my cock with an expression of vague interest.
I didn’t give a fuck.
Her other hand moved to my balls, cupping them carefully, rolling them gently between her fingers as she sucked me harder, deeper. Her tongue worked absolute magic, swirling and flicking against the sensitive underside, and I could feel the pressure building in my spine, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. She was good. Really fucking good. The kind of good that came from practice and enthusiasm, and a desire to please. A desire I’d always exploited, never reciprocated. A bitter taste, distinct from the pleasure, flooded my mouth.
I set my beer down on the bar with a heavythunk. The clatter seemed too loud, too disruptive in this charged silence. And finally, I let myself touch her. My hand slid into her hair, gripping it tight at the roots, and I felt her moan around my cock; the vibration sent a jolt through me.
She liked it rough.
Good. So did I.
We were on the same page. Or were we? This was the lie I told myself, the narrative that kept me from confronting the hollowness inside. She liked it rough, and I enjoyed seeing them cry, but there was a part of me, a quiet, insistent voice, that recoiled from the brutality, the sheer disregard for her well-being. This wasn’t about shared desire; it was about asserting dominance, and for the first time, the thought of what I was doing, the sheer ugliness of it, was gnawing at me.
I held her head still and thrust up into her mouth, testing her limits. She gagged immediately, her throat constricting around me in reflex, but I didn’t let up. I fucked her face with slow, deliberate strokes, watching her eyes water and mascara run, watching her hands claw at my thighs for purchase or balance, or maybe just because she needed something to hold on to. And with every thrust, a fresh wave of self-loathing washed over me. I saw the desperation in her eyes, the forced compliance, and a chilling realization dawned: I wasn’t just testing her limits; I was breaking something within her, something that mirrored the breaking within myself.
I growled, my voice rough and low. “Take it. Take all of it, cunt.” My words, meant to be a declaration of power, felt like a confession of weakness, a desperate attempt to drown out the growing chorus of my own conscience.
She tried to nod, tried to show me she could handle it, but all she could do was gag and drool and let me use her mouth like a toy. Her lipstick was completely gone now, smeared all over my cock and her chin. Spit dripped down her neck, soaking into her tank top. And as I watched her, a profound sense of regret settled in my gut, heavy and cold. This wasn’t a triumph; it was a cheap, vulgar victory that left me feeling utterly, disgustingly hollow. I had made her a plaything, and in doing so, I had debased myself even further. I had wanted to feel powerful, but all I felt was sick.
I pulled her off suddenly, and she gasped, coughing and sucking in air. Her face was a mess: tears, spit, smudged makeup as she looked up at me with glazed, desperate eyes. A flicker of something—pity? revulsion?—twisted in my gut.
