The Cuck Call

I’m still flushed from my orgasm — the deep kind that leaves my thighs trembling long after it’s over. My skin is damp, my pulse slow but heavy.

The heat of Arakawa’s cum is cooling against my lower back, thick trails running down toward the curve of my ass. It’s sticky, decadent, claiming.

And there he is.

On his knees again.

Exactly where I keep him.

Exactly where he belongs.

⸻

I turn my head, just enough to catch him in my peripheral vision. His eyes are wide but low, fixed on me like he’s afraid to break the spell. I give him that lazy, post-climax gaze — the one that says you’re here for my convenience, not your pleasure.

“Use your tongue.”

My voice is quiet, but it leaves no room for negotiation.

I see the breath leave him before he moves — slow, deliberate, like gravity’s pulling him toward me. His hands grip my thighs, not possessive but careful, reverent.

The first touch of his mouth is almost hesitant, but the moment the taste hits him, I feel his grip tighten.

It’s all there.

Salty.

Thick.

Him and me, mixed and still warm.

I feel his groan before I hear it.

⸻

His tongue drags up my spine from the small of my back, slow enough that I can feel every ripple. I imagine him cataloguing it all — every drop, every streak — committing the humiliation to memory.

He moans into me, and I hum in approval.

“Good boy.”

I make sure it’s the tone you use when rewarding a pet, not a man.

When he reaches the top of my ass, I feel him hesitate — just for a fraction of a second — before he starts licking into the crease, collecting what’s pooled there.

The small tremor in his breath gives him away.

“You like tasting him, don’t you?”

He freezes. That’s when I fist his hair and pull his head back, forcing his eyes up to mine. I watch his mouth part, watch his pride hesitate.

“Don’t lie.”

He nods.

“Say it.”

His voice is low, wrecked. “I like tasting his cum on you.”

I release him.

“Then finish it.”

⸻

Now his hands are firm — spreading me, opening me completely. My pussy is still red, swollen, and dripping from being used. I know he sees the twitch, the aftershocks still rolling through me.

There’s a string of slickness down my thigh. He takes it with his mouth without hesitation.

When his tongue slides between my lips, it’s slow at first, deliberate — like he’s reacquainting himself with a territory he doesn’t own anymore. He pushes deeper, tasting the places Arakawa just filled, inhaling me.

He’s not just licking. He’s devouring.

His mouth is greedy, moving from clit to folds to inner thigh. His spit joins the mess, his jaw working until I know it must ache. I can feel his body shifting — knees grinding against the carpet — but he doesn’t stop.

“You clean me better than my towels ever could,” I murmur, lifting my hips into his face. “Maybe I should stop washing off at all. Just make you kneel every time a man finishes inside me.”

The groan he gives me is guttural, almost desperate. It makes me laugh.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes,” he breathes against me. The vibration of the word makes my clit twitch.

I press back against his face.

“Then make me cum again. With your mouth. No fingers. No breaks.”

⸻

I’m ruthless with my demands.

I grind against him, riding his tongue like it belongs to me. My hands clutch the sheets, my moans coming faster now.

“Faster,” I hiss.

“Deeper.”

“Fucking take it.”

He buries his face harder into me, flicking and circling, his nose pressed tight between my cheeks. I’m drenched, my scent heavy in the air, coating his chin, his lips, his whole mouth.

My spine arches, my body clenching around nothing but his tongue.

“Don’t you fucking stop—”

The orgasm tears through me. It’s sharp, violent, leaving my vision white-edged. My cry is raw, shameless, and I keep my hips moving through it, milking every ounce.

Even after I push at his head, gasping “Enough,” he lingers — licking me in softer strokes, collecting the last of it like it’s precious.

⸻

When I finally roll onto my side, I see him.

Hard. Aching. His cock shiny from his own pre-cum, his face flushed, wet with me.

“Put your cock in your hand.”

He obeys instantly.

“Edge.”

I watch him stroke — slow, measured — his chest rising faster despite his control.

“I’ll tell you when.”

⸻

Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. I’m in a robe now, sipping water like nothing happened.

He’s still kneeling in front of me, stroking himself, sweating, trembling. Every so often his hips jerk forward before he catches himself.

I glance at him once. “Not yet.”

⸻

By the time I decide, his eyes are glazed, his breath hitching, his body almost shaking apart.

I lean forward, let my mouth come close to his ear so only he hears it:

“Cum for the man who used me.”

The sound he makes isn’t human — it’s a release, a surrender. His cock spurts hard, messy, covering his stomach, his thighs, the floor.

He collapses forward onto his hands, panting like he’s run for miles.

I sip my water.

Then I smirk.

“Clean that up too.”