Page 182 of Saint Céline
“Open your mouth, Céline. I’m going to show you exactly what that feels like.”
I parted my lips. He pushed in deep on the first thrust, filling my mouth until I gagged. My eyes watered. I pushed at his thighs, struggling for air, but he kept going, slow and deliberate, fucking my throat while my head hung off the table.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Feel how tight your throat gets when you can’t breathe. That’s what you wanted for me. Choking. Gasping. Helpless.”
I made a muffled sound around him. Saliva dripped from the corners of my mouth. My hands scrabbled at his hips. He thrust deeper, holding himself there until my vision blurred at the edges. His cock was lodged completely inside my throat, thick and pulsing, the heavy bulge pressing outward against the soft skin of my neck. His hands slid down, wrapping tight around my throat right over that swollen ridge. He squeezedhard, fingers digging in as he began to stroke his palms and fingers aggressively up and down the length of it, jerking himself roughly through my neck like he was using my throat to fuck his own fist.
“Struggle all you want,” he said, his voice thick. “You tried to kill me at my own table. Now you’re going to take every inch while I teach you what choking really feels like.”
He pulled back just enough for me to gasp a breath, then drove in again, rougher this time. Tears ran down my temples into my hair. My throat convulsed around him. He groaned, low and satisfied.
“Fuck, you look good like this. Mouth full, eyes watering, still fighting me even while you’re dripping for it. You hate me, and you still get so wet when I use you.”
I tried to push him away again. He caught my wrists with one hand and pinned them to the table above my head. His other hand stayed in my hair, controlling the angle so he could go deeper.
“Relax your throat,” he ordered. “Let me in. This is what you wanted me to feel. Helpless. Overwhelmed. Fighting for air while your body betrays you.”
He fucked my mouth harder, hips snapping forward. The wet sounds mixed with my choked gasps and his low, filthy praise.
“Good girl. Take it. Choke on my cock the way you wanted me to choke on my own spit. You feel that? That’s your punishment. Every time you gag, remember what you tried to do to me.”
My lungs burned. My thighs pressed together, aching. Shame and heat twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart. I struggled harder, legs kicking uselessly against the table leg, but he held me there and kept thrusting until my throat was raw and my face was wet with tears and spit.
When he finally pulled out, I gasped for air, coughing, chest heaving. He didn’t give me long. He flipped me onto mystomach, yanked my dress up and pulled my underwear down. He thrust into me from behind in one hard stroke.
I cried out, still struggling, still angry, still so wet it embarrassed me.
“That’s right,” he growled, pounding into me. “Fight me. Hate me. Come anyway. Your pussy doesn’t lie even when your mouth does.”
He reached around and rubbed my clit in tight circles while he fucked me deep and rough. I came with a broken moan, clenching around him, hating how good it felt. He followed a moment later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside me with a low groan. His cock pulsed hard, thick jets flooding me in heavy, endless spurts that I could feel painting my walls and leaking out around his shaft. He kept grinding slow and deep through his orgasm, milking every last drop into me while my pussy fluttered and squeezed him like it never wanted to let go. For long seconds we stayed locked together, his hips flush against my ass, both of us shaking as the last shocks rolled through us.
Only then did the apartment go quiet except for our ragged breathing and the steady drum of rain against the windows. I lay on the table, dress bunched around my waist, body trembling. Vincent stayed buried inside me, one hand still gripping my hip like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.
He finally pulled out slowly, inch by inch, and I felt the hot mess of his cum immediately start to drip from my swollen, used pussy, sliding thick and wet down my thigh. He turned me over gently, almost tenderly, and looked down at me.
“Selena… You tried to kill me. This can’t happen again.”
“And you watched me kill my best friend.”
I laughed once, broken and breathless.
“I may have killed Katherine,” I said, forcing myself to meet his eyes, “but I cannot be with you when you can hold that over my head.”
“No,” he said quietly.
The softness of his voice frightened me more than anger would have.
“What?”
“No, Céline.”
His eyes held mine.
“You didn’t kill Katherine.”
A cold, impossible silence opened between us.
I stared at him.
