CHAPTER 10: MORNING CRAVINGS
The morning sun slices through the hotel room curtains, casting harsh lines across the wreckage of the night before. The bed's a disaster—sheets twisted and stained, pillows scattered, the air heavy with the lingering stench of sweat and sex from your marathon with Mr. Jameson. You're sprawled on your stomach, half-covered by a rumpled sheet, every inch of your body aching from the relentless pounding pussy. Your thighs throb, your wrists bear faint red marks, and your core feels raw, but you're alone now—Jameson gone, leaving you to recover in the chaos he left behind.
A sharp knock jolts you from the haze of exhaustion. "Room service," a voice calls, muffled but familiar, and your stomach tightens. The door creaks open before you can respond, and in steps the attendant from yesterday—the young, blue-eyed guy who'd smirked at your disheveled state, sniffed your clothes, and counted the condoms. He's carrying a cleaning cart, but his eyes lock onto you instantly, widening as he takes in the scene: you, barely covered, the bed a testament to debauchery, and the musky residue of last night still thick in the air.
"Morning, ma'am," he says, his voice low and edged with something hungry as he shuts the door behind him. He doesn't move to clean yet—just stands there, drinking you in, his gaze sliding over the curve of your ass peeking from the sheet, the swell of your breasts pressed against the mattress. "Looks like you had quite a night again. Need me to… tidy up?"
You shift slightly, wincing at the soreness, and pull the sheet tighter around you, meeting his stare with a guarded one of your own. "Just do your job," you mutter, voice hoarse from screaming hours ago, but there's a flicker of defiance in it. He smirks, a slow, crooked grin, and nods, rolling the cart closer. "Sure thing. Won't take long."
He starts with the floor, picking up the scattered trash—used condoms, crumpled tissues, an empty wine bottle—his movements deliberate, almost performative. Every so often, his eyes dart back to you, lingering longer each time, like he's mapping out every inch of exposed skin. The vacuum hums as he works, but the tension builds, thick and unspoken, as he edges closer to the bed.
The attendant moves methodically around the room, his eyes flicking to you between tasks like a hunter tracking prey. He strips the bed near you, yanking the stained sheets free with quick, practiced tugs, his knuckles brushing the mattress inches from your hip. You tense, clutching the thin sheet tighter over your chest, but don't move—your body's too sore to scramble away, and part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
"Rough night, huh?" he says, breaking the hum of the vacuum as he tosses the sheets into a pile. His voice is casual, but there's a smirk in it, a knowing edge as he glances at the dark bruises blooming on your wrists. "Whoever you were with, they didn't go easy. Seven condoms last time, and this mess? You're a goddamn machine."
You glare at him, jaw tight, but don't respond. He doesn't need encouragement—he's already too comfortable, too bold. He grabs a rag and starts wiping down the nightstand, his arm stretching across your line of sight, close enough that you catch the faint scent of sweat and cheap cologne on him. The rag swipes over the wood, but his focus isn't on the task anymore—it's on you, on the way the sheet dips over the curve of your spine, the hint of cleavage where it's slipping.
"Almost done," he mutters, finishing the nightstand and stepping back to survey the room. It's tidier now, the evidence of last night swept away, but the air's still heavy, charged with something darker. He ditches the rag on the cart and turns fully toward you, hands on his hips, his blue eyes narrowing as he takes a slow step closer. "You know, I've been thinking about you since yesterday. Couldn't get that body outta my head—38F, right? Those curves…" He licks his lips, a quick, hungry flick of his tongue. "Bet they feel even better than they look."
You sit up slightly, the sheet slipping to your waist, exposing the tops of your breasts before you catch it and yank it back up. "Back off," you snap, voice low and rough, but he just grins wider, undeterred, and takes another step until he's at the edge of the bed.
"Relax, ma'am," he says, his tone mocking the formality as he leans down, resting one knee on the mattress. His hand reaches out, hovering near your shoulder, fingers twitching like he's itching to touch. "I'm just being friendly. You're alone now, right? No big guy to keep me away this time. Thought maybe you'd want some… company." His gaze drops to your chest again, blatant and shameless, then back to your face. "You liked it last night, didn't you? All that noise you made—I heard it through the walls. Why not let me give you a taste?"
His hand lands on your shoulder, light at first, testing, then slides down your arm, fingers curling around your elbow. The touch is warm, insistent, and your skin prickles—half from revulsion, half from the raw nerve endings still buzzing from Mr. Jameson's assault. He leans closer, his breath hot against your cheek, voice dropping to a husky whisper. "C'mon, Anum. Let me see what's under that sheet. Bet it's fuckin' gorgeous."
Your heart kicks up, a mix of anger and adrenaline surging through the exhaustion. He's pushing, crossing lines, and you can feel the weight of his intent pressing down like a physical force. His other hand moves to the sheet, tugging at it gently, teasingly, daring you to stop him.
His fingers tighten around your elbow, rough calluses scraping your skin as he tugs the sheet lower with his other hand, peeling it down inch by inch. The fabric catches on the swell of your breasts, then slips free, baring your 38F chest to the cool air and his ravenous stare. Your nipples—still tender from Mr. Jameson's relentless sucking and biting last night—harden instantly, dark and peaked against your olive skin, and his breath hitches, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, eyes wide and glassy with lust as he drinks in the sight. "Look at those tits. Perfect, fat, and begging for it." He lets go of your arm and lunges forward, both hands shooting out to grab your breasts, palms hot and greedy as he squeezes hard. His thumbs rake over your nipples, flicking them back and forth, and a sharp jolt of pain-pleasure shoots through you, making you gasp despite yourself. Your body's still wired from last night, every nerve raw and oversensitive, and his rough touch ignites a sick heat you can't fully suppress.
"Get off me," you snarl, shoving at his chest with shaky hands, but your arms feel like lead, weak from exhaustion, and he barely budges. He laughs—a low, dirty chuckle—and presses his knee deeper into the mattress, pinning your thigh under his weight as he kneads your breasts harder, fingers digging into the soft flesh until red marks bloom under his grip.
"Relax, babe," he says, voice thick and smug as he leans in, his lips brushing your ear. "You're soaked in cum and sweat—you loved whatever that guy did to you last night. I heard you screaming through the goddamn walls, moaning like a slut. Don't act shy now." His tongue flicks out, wet and hot, tracing the shell of your ear before he bites the lobe, sharp enough to sting. You jerk your head away, but he just grins, one hand sliding down your stomach, nails scraping your skin as he aims for the sheet still bunched around your hips.
You twist under him, the sheet tangling around your legs as you try to kick free, but he's faster—his hand yanks it off in one rough pull, exposing your naked lower half. Your thighs are slick with dried sweat and traces of Mr. Jameson's release, the dark curls between your legs matted and glistening, and he groans loud, a filthy, guttural sound. "Shit, look at that pussy," he breathes, his free hand diving between your legs before you can clamp them shut. His fingers—thick and blunt—shove against your folds, spreading them open, and you cry out, a mix of shock and soreness as he probes the tender, swollen flesh.
"Still wet, huh?" he taunts, two fingers plunging inside you without warning, stretching your abused walls. The intrusion burns—your cunt's raw from Jameson's massive cock tearing into you all night—and you hiss, arching involuntarily as your body clenches around him. He pumps them fast, knuckles slamming against your entrance, the wet squelch of your arousal loud in the quiet room. "Fuck, you're tight. Even after all that dick last night, you're gripping me like a vice."
"Stop it," you choke out, voice cracking as you grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but he just twists his hand deeper, curling his fingers to scrape that spot inside that makes your vision blur. Your hips buck against your will, a traitorous spasm of pleasure cutting through the pain, and he catches it—his smirk widening as he adds a third finger, stretching you wider, his thumb mashing your clit in sloppy, brutal circles.
"Stop? Nah, you don't mean that," he says, leaning over you now, his chest pressing against yours, flattening your breasts under his weight. His breath reeks of coffee and cigarettes, hot and sour against your face as he licks a stripe up your neck, tasting the salt of your skin. "Your pussy's sucking me in, Anum. You're fuckin' dripping for this." He pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, holding them up to show you—glistening with your slick—and then shoves them into his mouth, sucking them clean with a loud, obscene slurp. "Tastes like you're ready for more."
He shifts, yanking his shirt over his head in one quick motion, revealing a lean, muscled torso—pale skin stretched tight over hard lines, a scattering of dark hair trailing down to his waistband. His jeans are next, the zipper rasping as he shoves them down, kicking them off along with his boots. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, not as long as Jameson's monstrous twelve inches but girthy, the head already leaking precum that smears against his thigh. He strokes it slow, eyes locked on your spread legs, his other hand pinning your hip to the bed.
"Gonna fuck you so good," he mutters, climbing fully onto the mattress now, straddling your thighs. He grabs your knees, forcing them apart wider, and you feel the ache in your hips scream as he exposes you completely. "Bet you're dying for it after last night. That guy stretched you out, but I'll fill you up just right." He spits into his palm, slicking his cock with it, the wet sound mingling with his heavy breathing as he lines himself up, the blunt tip nudging your entrance.
You thrash under him, panic spiking through the haze of exhaustion, but he's too heavy, too determined—his weight crushes you into the mattress, his free hand clamping over your mouth to muffle your protests. "Shh, just take it," he growls, and thrusts forward, hard and fast, burying half his length in one brutal push. Your scream's trapped behind his hand, a raw, ragged sound as your walls stretch around him, burning from the fresh invasion. He groans, head tipping back, sweat beading on his brow as he pulls out an inch, then slams back in, deeper this time, forcing your body to take him.
"Fuck, yeah," he pants, hips snapping forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. His cock drags against your raw insides, every thrust a mix of agony and unwanted heat, your clit throbbing under the onslaught despite your mind screaming no. His hand slips from your mouth to your throat, fingers wrapping tight—not choking, just controlling—as he pounds into you, the bed creaking wildly beneath you. "Scream all you want now, babe. I know you love it."
Your hands claw at his shoulders, nails raking red lines down his skin, but he just laughs, fucking you harder, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. The room's a blur—his grunts, your gasps, the wet smack of flesh on flesh—and your body betrays you again, a coil tightening low in your belly, threatening to snap under his relentless pace.
His cock slams into you again, a thick, punishing rod splitting your raw cunt open with every thrust, and the bedframe bangs against the wall, a frantic tattoo matching his grunts. Sweat drips from his brow, splattering onto your chest, mixing with the sheen already coating your skin. His hand on your throat tightens, fingers pressing into the bruises Mr. Jameson left, and the pain flares bright, a sharp counterpoint to the wet heat pulsing between your legs. You choke out a ragged "No," but it's weak, drowned by the slap of his hips against your ass, the obscene squelch of your slick walls stretched around him.
"Fuck, you're tight as shit," he groans, voice ragged and thick with lust, his eyes half-lidded as he watches his cock disappear into you. The girth stretches you wider than you're ready for, every inch scraping your tender flesh, and you feel the burn deep inside, a raw ache that makes your thighs tremble. He shifts his weight, planting one hand beside your head, the mattress dipping under his fist as he angles deeper, the head of his dick battering that spot inside that sends sparks up your spine. Your body jerks, a traitor to your will, hips twitching up to meet him even as you claw at his arm, nails drawing blood that smears red across his pale skin.
"Yeah, that's it," he snarls, catching your reaction, his free hand sliding under your ass to lift you higher, spreading you wider. His fingers dig into your cheek, bruising the soft flesh as he slams in harder, the force driving your head back into the pillow. "Fuckin' take it, Anum. You're built for this—big tits, fat ass, tight little pussy just begging to be wrecked." He spits on your chest, a hot glob landing between your breasts, and smears it with his palm, rubbing it over your nipples until they gleam wet and slick. The sensation's filthy, degrading, and your nipples throb under his rough fingers, sending jolts straight to your core.
You bite your lip hard, tasting blood, trying to stifle the moans clawing up your throat, but he pries your mouth open with his thumb, shoving it inside to press down on your tongue. "Don't hold back," he growls, thrusting faster, the bed rocking wildly beneath you. "Scream for me, you little slut. Let the whole hotel hear how much you love this dick." His thumb hooks your jaw, forcing it wide, and a raw, broken cry spills out as he rams in deep, the head of his cock slamming against your cervix with a dull, aching thud.
Your vision blurs, tears stinging your eyes as the coil in your belly tightens, a sick, unstoppable pressure building despite the pain. He feels it—your walls fluttering around him—and his grin turns feral, teeth bared as he pulls out suddenly, leaving you gaping and empty. Before you can catch your breath, he flips you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so your ass juts into the air. Your face smashes into the mattress, the sheet reeking of sweat and sex, and his hands spread your cheeks wide, exposing your puckered hole, still sore from Jameson's brutal assault last night.
"Fuck, look at that," he mutters, spitting again—this time right onto your asshole, the warm wetness trickling down to mix with the slick leaking from your cunt. He rubs it in with his thumb, pressing hard against the tight ring until it gives, popping inside with a sharp sting that makes you yelp. "Tight back here too. Bet you took it good last night, huh?" He pumps his thumb in and out, stretching you, while his other hand grips his cock, stroking it fast, the wet slap of his fist loud in your ears.
"Stop—please," you gasp, voice muffled against the bed, but it's a lie your body doesn't believe—your hips rock back, chasing the intrusion even as your mind reels. He laughs, dark and cruel, and pulls his thumb out, replacing it with the blunt tip of his cock. "Not stopping 'til I've had all of you," he says, and thrusts forward, forcing his way into your ass with a single, savage push. The pain's blinding—a white-hot tear through your core—and you scream, loud and raw, fingers scrabbling at the sheets as he buries himself balls-deep.
"Fuck, yes," he roars, hips snapping forward, fucking your ass with short, brutal strokes that jolt your whole body. The stretch burns, your hole clenching tight around him, and he groans, one hand slapping your ass hard, the crack echoing in the room. Red blooms across your skin, a stinging welt rising under his palm, and he does it again, harder, timing each smack with a thrust. "Look at that ass bounce—fuckin' perfect."
Your scream fades into a whimper, tears soaking the sheet as he pounds into you, relentless, the friction searing your insides. His other hand snakes around, fingers finding your clit and pinching it hard, rolling it between his knuckles until your body betrays you again—a violent shudder ripping through you as the pressure snaps. You come undone, a guttural cry tearing from your throat, your cunt spasming empty while your ass milks his cock, waves of unwanted pleasure crashing over you like a tide.
"Shit, yeah, squeeze me," he grunts, feeling it, his thrusts turning erratic, sloppy, as he chases his own edge. He yanks your hair, pulling your head back so your neck arches painfully, and slams into you one last time, burying himself deep as he comes. His cock pulses, hot and thick, flooding your ass with his release, and he groans long and loud, hips jerking with each spurt until he's spent. He collapses over you, chest heaving against your back, his weight crushing you into the mattress as his cum leaks out, dripping down your thighs in sticky rivulets.
For a moment, there's just panting—his harsh breaths in your ear, your ragged gasps against the sheets—then he rolls off, sprawling beside you, cock still half-hard and glistening with your mingled fluids. "Fuck, that was good," he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He smirks at you, blue eyes glinting with smug triumph as he props himself up on one elbow. "Told you I'd make it worth it. You're a goddamn mess now—my mess."
You lie there, trembling, every muscle screaming, your body a wreck of pain and forced pleasure. The sheet's tangled around your legs, soaked with sweat and cum, and you can barely move, barely think. He reaches over, dragging a finger through the mess between your thighs, and holds it up, slick and shining. "Want a taste?" he taunts, smearing it across your lips before you can turn away, the salty bitterness coating your tongue.
His finger lingers on your lips, the bitter tang of his cum and your own slick smearing across your mouth as he presses harder, forcing it past your teeth onto your tongue. You gag, twisting your head away, but he grabs your jaw, holding you still with a grip like iron. "Swallow it," he growls, eyes blazing with a sick glee as he watches you choke on the taste. Your throat convulses, and you do—reflexively, shamefully—tears streaking down your face as he laughs, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the room.
"Fuckin' gorgeous," he mutters, releasing your jaw to drag his hand down your neck, smearing the mess further across your skin. He's still sprawled beside you, cock twitching against his thigh, glistening with cum and sweat, but he's not done—his energy's manic, wired, like he's feeding off your wrecked state. He sits up, muscles flexing under his pale skin, and grabs your hips, flipping you onto your back again with a rough yank. The sudden move jolts your sore body, your ass and cunt throbbing from his earlier assault, and you whimper, a weak, broken sound that only makes his grin widen.
"Look at you," he says, voice thick with lust as he spreads your legs wide, knees shoved apart until your hips scream. Your pussy's a mess—swollen, red, leaking his cum and yours, the dark curls matted with fluids—and he groans, running his fingers through it, spreading your folds open to expose the raw, pulsing flesh. "Fucked you so good, and you're still dripping. Bet you can't even walk straight now." He spits again, a fat glob landing right on your clit, and rubs it in with his thumb, fast and rough, making you flinch as the oversensitive nub throbs under his touch.
"Stop—please," you rasp, voice shredded from screaming, but it's barely audible, lost in the wet slap of his hand as he keeps working you. Your hands scrabble at the sheets, clawing for leverage, but he pins one wrist down with his free hand, his weight leaning into you. "Shut up," he snaps, eyes narrowing as he shoves three fingers back into your cunt, pumping them deep and hard, knuckles slamming against your entrance. The stretch burns, your walls clenching around him despite the pain, and he feels it—his cock jerks, hardening fully again as he watches your body betray you.
"See? You want it," he taunts, pulling his fingers out to slap your pussy, a sharp, wet crack that makes you cry out, hips bucking involuntarily. He does it again, harder, the sting radiating through your core, and your clit pulses, a sick heat building low in your belly. "Fuckin' soaked for me. You're a slut for this, Anum—don't pretend." He grabs his cock, stroking it fast, the head purple and leaking as he positions himself between your thighs again, nudging your entrance with a slow, teasing thrust.
You shake your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks, but your body's too weak to fight—muscles trembling, limbs heavy from the night and now this. He thrusts in, full and brutal, his thick shaft splitting you open again, and you scream, a raw, guttural sound that echoes off the walls. He groans, head tipping back as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your ass, and starts fucking you with a vicious rhythm—hard, fast, relentless. The bed shakes, the frame creaking so loud you're sure it'll break, and his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, fingers digging into the bruised flesh until you feel the skin split under his nails.
"Take it, take it," he chants, hips snapping forward, each thrust driving deeper, battering your cervix with a dull, aching thud. His cock drags against your walls, the friction searing your raw insides, and your screams turn to sobs, chest heaving as you gasp for air. He leans down, chest flattening your breasts, nipples scraping against his skin as he bites your shoulder—hard, teeth sinking in until you feel the warm trickle of blood. "Fuck, you're tight," he grunts, licking the bite, tasting the coppery tang as he pounds into you, relentless, unyielding.
Your body's a live wire, every nerve screaming, and the pressure builds again—unwanted, unstoppable—a coil winding tight in your gut. He feels it, your walls fluttering around him, and shifts, angling his thrusts to hit that spot inside that makes your vision white out. "Come on, you little bitch," he snarls, one hand sliding to your clit, pinching it hard between his fingers and rolling it fast. "Come for me again—let me feel that pussy squeeze my dick."
You can't stop it—the coil snaps, and you shatter, a violent orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clamping down on him as your whole body convulses. You scream, loud and broken, hips bucking wildly under him, and he groans, fucking you through it, prolonging the waves until your sobs turn to whimpers. "Fuck, yes," he pants, thrusts turning sloppy as he chases his own release, his balls tightening against you. He pulls out suddenly, grabbing his cock and jerking it fast, aiming for your chest—hot, thick ropes of cum shoot out, splattering across your breasts, your neck, your face, dripping down in sticky streaks as he milks himself dry.
He collapses beside you again, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and grinning like a bastard. "Goddamn," he mutters, smearing his cum across your tits with his hand, rubbing it in until your skin glistens. "You're a fuckin' mess, Anum. Best pussy I've ever had." He grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him, his blue eyes glinting with smug satisfaction as he wipes a streak of cum off your cheek and shoves it into your mouth again. "Suck it clean," he orders, and you do, too broken to resist, the salty bitterness coating your tongue as he watches, triumphant.
But he's not done—his cock's still half-hard, twitching against his thigh as he catches his breath. He rolls onto his knees, straddling your chest now, pinning your arms under his legs as he grabs your head, tilting it back. "Open that pretty mouth," he says, voice low and dangerous, stroking himself back to full hardness. "Gonna fuck your throat now—see how much you can take." He slaps his cock against your lips, the wet smack loud in the quiet, and pries your jaw open with his fingers, the head nudging past your teeth before you can protest.
He thrusts in, slow at first, the thick shaft stretching your mouth wide, and you gag, throat convulsing around him as he pushes deeper. "Fuck, yeah," he groans, hips rocking forward, forcing it down until your nose presses against his pubic hair, the musky stench of sweat and cum filling your lungs. Tears stream down your face, spit drooling from the corners of your mouth as he fucks your throat, fast and brutal, his balls slapping your chin with every thrust. "Take it, you filthy little cunt," he growls, hands tangled in your hair, pulling tight as he rams in deeper, cutting off your air.
Your hands claw at his thighs, nails digging in, but he just moans, thrusting harder, the wet gagging sounds filling the room. Your throat burns, your chest heaving as you fight for breath, and he feels it—your spasms milking him—and comes again, a hot flood pouring down your throat, choking you as he holds himself there, forcing you to swallow. He pulls out with a wet pop, cum and spit dripping down your chin, and flops back onto the bed, panting, cock finally softening as he wipes it on the sheet.
"Fuckin' hell," he mutters, grinning at you, sprawled and wrecked beside him. "You're a goddamn goldmine, Anum. Could do this all day." He reaches over, smacking your ass one last time, the sting sharp against your bruised skin, and lies there, catching his breath, while you tremble, a mess of cum, sweat, and tears, too broken to move.
Your throat burns raw, a searing ache pulsing where his cock battered it, and the taste of his cum lingers, thick and bitter on your tongue. You cough, spit and tears dripping down your chin, pooling on the sheet beneath you as your chest heaves, fighting for air. The attendant sprawls beside you, one leg still slung over yours, pinning you to the mattress as he catches his breath. His cock lies limp against his thigh now, slick with your saliva and his own release, the head still glistening as it softens. Sweat soaks his pale skin, matting the dark hair on his chest, and he wipes his brow with a shaky hand, grinning at you like he's just won a prize.
"Fuck, you're somethin' else," he pants, voice rough and smug as he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His blue eyes rake over you—your sprawled, wrecked body a canvas of his making. Cum streaks your face, your breasts, your thighs, drying in sticky patches across your olive skin. Your nipples are red and swollen, welted from his hands and teeth, and your pussy throbs, leaking a mess of fluids onto the mattress. Bruises bloom dark and angry across your hips, your wrists, your ass—testaments to his brutality—and he drinks it all in, licking his lips like he's savoring the sight.
"Bet you've never been fucked like that," he mutters, reaching out to drag a finger through the cum on your chest, swirling it around your nipple until it hardens again under his touch. You flinch, a weak twitch of your exhausted body, but don't pull away—can't, not with your limbs heavy as lead, every muscle screaming from the hours of abuse. He chuckles, low and dirty, and pinches your nipple hard, twisting it until you gasp, a sharp jolt cutting through the numbness. "Yeah, thought so. You're a goddamn mess now—my mess."
He sits up, the mattress creaking under his weight, and swings his legs off the bed, standing with a stretch that flexes the lean muscles of his back. His jeans are still crumpled on the floor, and he steps into them lazily, not bothering with his shirt as he zips up, his cock tucked away but still bulging against the denim. "Could stay and go again," he says, glancing back at you with a smirk, "but I've got rooms to clean. You've already taken half my shift, you greedy little slut." He grabs his shirt from the pile, slinging it over his shoulder, and kicks his boots closer to the door.
You lie there, trembling, too broken to move, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The sheet's twisted beneath you, soaked with sweat, cum, and spit, clinging to your skin in damp, filthy patches. Your ass stings from his slaps, your throat feels like it's been scraped raw, and your cunt pulses with a dull, aching heat—a wreck of pain and forced pleasure that leaves you hollowed out. He turns back, eyeing you one last time, and steps closer, leaning down to grab your chin again, forcing your face up to meet his gaze.
"Fuckin' gorgeous," he murmurs, thumb brushing your swollen lips, smearing the mess of spit and cum across them. "Next time I clean this room, you better be here, spread out just like this. I'll bring some buddies—give you a real workout." He slaps your cheek lightly, a stinging tap that makes you wince, and straightens up, grabbing his cleaning cart with a casual whistle. "Enjoy the rest of your morning, Anum. You earned it."
He rolls the cart toward the door, the wheels squeaking against the tile, and pauses just long enough to toss a rag onto the bed beside you—a mocking gesture, like you're supposed to clean yourself up with it. The door swings open, letting in a blast of cool hallway air that chills your sweat-soaked skin, and he steps out, not bothering to look back. "See ya 'round," he calls, voice echoing faintly as the door clicks shut behind him, the lock snapping into place with a dull thud.
The room falls silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and your own uneven breathing. You're alone now, sprawled naked on the ruined bed, every inch of you marked and used. Cum dries in crusty streaks across your chest, your face, pooling between your thighs where it leaks from your abused holes. Your hair's a tangled mess, plastered to your forehead with sweat, and your hands tremble as they clutch the sheet, pulling it feebly over your body—not for modesty, but for some shred of warmth against the sudden cold.
The sunlight streams through the curtains, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating the carnage—the blood-flecked sheets, the scattered trash, the faint red welts on your skin. Your throat tightens, a sob choking up, but it doesn't come—there's nothing left, just a hollow ache where tears should be. You roll onto your side, wincing as the movement jostles your bruised hips, and curl into yourself, the sheet barely covering your shivering frame. The attendant's scent lingers—sweat, cum, cheap cologne—mixing with the musk of your own body, a sick reminder of what he's done.
Minutes stretch into an eternity, the clock on the nightstand ticking relentlessly toward noon. Your phone buzzes somewhere in the mess, but you don't move to find it—can't, not yet. The room feels smaller now, suffocating, the walls pressing in with the weight of what's happened. You're a wreck—physically, mentally—and the silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the bathroom sink, a steady, mocking rhythm. You close your eyes, willing your body to stop shaking, but it doesn't—every nerve still buzzes, raw and exposed, as you lie there, abandoned in the aftermath.
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