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“I’ll be damned if I ever felt a tighter cunt than yours, sweetness.”
Coyle’s voice is like gravel in your ear, fuzzy from the constricting grasp his fingers have on your throat. It makes it hard to breathe, your windpipe pressed together just enough to make your vision spotty. You can’t feel anything other than the strain in your back and Coyle’s hips slamming into you from behind, the light headedness dulling any other senses but tingling pleasure.
Blood drips from your split lip — caused by your earlier scuffle, in his haste when he’d slammed you against the metal fence by your hair, eager to dip his hands into your panties and roughly stroke through the wetness there.
You know a bit of blood riles him up. He’d already twisted your head around when he’d took those fingers and shoved them inside of you, his tobacco coated tongue licking into your mouth, teeth grazing the wound just to make it bleed more. When you’d moaned, hips bucking to try and grind your throbbing clit against his palm, he’d dragged his tongue under your chin, collecting the blood with a groan, and shoved your face back into the fence with enough force to make your temple explode and stars creep into your vision.
You don’t know what the other Reagents are doing, where they are lingering in the grimy police station, but you’re too fucked out to care. Your eyes keep rolling to the back of your head, toes curling in your shoes the harder Coyle’s cock hits your insides.
When he leans back, finally losing the clutch on your throat, you erupt into wheezing coughs. It’s hard to catch your breath when you’re being bounced against the fence with every thrust, feeling Coyle’s hand crack against the plump of your ass.
You squeal, the sting resonating in the flesh.
“You go on an keep them whore hips movin’. Work for it,” he commands, and even though you can tell his voice is laced with a smug grin, you know it wasn’t merely a suggestion.
Your trembling fingers scramble for stronger purchase against the fence, fingers twisting into the wiry metal. He’s stopped fucking you in favour of lighting up a new cigarette, his previous one discarded the moment he found something better to do with his mouth.
A low sound escapes your lips, something akin to a whine. You can’t tell yourself, rocking your hips back against his cock as he languidly watches behind the black tinted sunglasses.
The pit in your stomach thrums, trying to find any semblance of rhythm that matched his own.
Your fingers dig harder into the metal until they go white, thighs already aching from exertion.
Coyle doesn’t seem to care, rough hand squeezing your ass, roaming over the flesh as he puffs aggressively at his newly lit cig.
“Good lord,” he growls, palm smacking with enough force to leave a bruise. He groans at the feeling of you tightening around his cock, lips twitching into a deeper smirk. “Some fine fuckin’ work, honey.”
Just as your hips stutter, panting through the exhaustion, he finally ruts back into you harder. His free hand snakes around, closing around your jaw, forcing your head back until you let out a pained squeak. He shoves two fingers into your mouth, rubbing intrusively over your tongue.
Your lips part, moaning around them, his beard scratching against the nape of your nape as he pants against the skin, the heat of the cig making you wince.
His hips are slamming so hard into yours it’s jarring, barely able to catch a breath as his fingers continue to plunge mercilessly across your tongue.
“W-Wait,” you can barely squeak out, but that just earns you an even harder thrust that steals the air from your lungs. Coyle stuffs his fingers to the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes stinging with new tears.
“You got no fuckin’ manners or what?” Coyle growls, fucking into you again with enough force to rattle the fence. “Ain’t nobody teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”
A muffled apology around his fingers barely escapes you. You can only focus on his cock driving in and out of you, plunging through your walls like jelly; his fingers stroke patterns along your tongue, saliva pooling along your lips. When he removes them, he twists your head towards his, sealing his rough lips over yours.
Smoke floods down your throat. It’s bitter and acidic, burning the inside of your mouth like fire.
His teeth sink into the flesh of your bottom lip to reopen the wound along the way, leaving you coughing and spluttering and gasping for breath when he pulls away. His hand creeps from your jaw to your face, fingers spreading a mix of saliva and blood around your mouth until you look like a humiliating mess.
“That’s right, sweetness,” he murmurs, leaning back to press your face back into the fence. “Bet you ain’t never been fucked by a real man before, huh? Been saving this pussy for a man of the law? Don’t you worry, I’ll keep fuckin’ you good.”
Your body bounces against the fence, the metal clanking, and you feel your orgasm blossom. Coyle’s hips slam once, then twice, and you can feel his warmth spill into you, your pussy clenching hard around his cock as your own climax slams into you.
Your head rocks forward, whining, the apex of your thighs giving an involuntary shake, cunt quivering from the aftershocks.
You pant, still gasping for breath, saliva and blood smeared around your mouth.
“Fuckin’ whore,” Coyle sneers, pressing the hot blunt of his cigarette into your spine, just above the cleft of your ass. You give a pained cry, forehead hitting the fence, a few extra tears leaking down your face. You can feel his thumb tracing your folds, right where his cock meets, a wry chuckle rumbling in his throat.
“But I don’t mind bein’ the one to teach you to respect the law.”
He shoves you off him, and your knees instantly buckle, hitting the floor with a thud. You bite back a whimper, swallowing it with the taste of ash. Through your hair, you glance up at him, as if expecting some sort of blow or other unsavoury favour.
But Coyle just loops his belt back, flashing his teeth. “I say you been rehabilitated, sweetness.”