He points to the floor. I drop to my knees, take his c**k back into my mouth, and suck properly this time—deep, wet, messy. He lets me set the pace for a while, then takes over, hands fisting in my hair, f*****g my throat in long strokes until my eyes water again. When he comes he holds me down and forces every pulse onto my tongue. I swallow. He stays in my mouth until he’s soft, then pulls free and wipes the head across my lips.
“Floor.”
I lower myself further and lick the small puddle of my own wetness off the tile between his feet. The taste is sharp and humiliating. He watches the entire time.
When I sit back on my heels he reaches down, cups my chin, and tilts my face up.
“Your mother will be home tomorrow evening. Until then you don’t wear clothes in this house unless I tell you
