Forgotten Gods' Rough Spitroast

The dust clung to Rebecca's ankles like a penitent that refused to let go. At twenty-eight, the prophet had walked farther than most towns remembered their own names, mouth dry, robe stiff with the road, and still the forgotten gods stayed silent in the places that used to feed them. Rebecca did not mind the silence as much as the doctrine claimed they should. The message could wait until the body stopped aching. It always had. They liked the order of things reversed: hunger first, sermon after, the divine plan fitted around whatever itch needed scratching before nightfall.

The road bent through a stand of gray scrub, and that was where they saw him. Quentin looked thirty-two and built like a man who slept on stone and did not complain about it. Broad shoulders under a sun-bleached shirt, dust in the creases of his hands, a traveler's pack riding one hip. He slowed when he caught sight of the prophet, polite the way strangers were polite when they had not yet decided whether the figure ahead was holy or merely strange.

Rebecca let the robe fall open at the throat. The heat made the gesture honest. They stepped into his path and smiled with their whole mouth, not the small pious version they used on doorsteps.

"You look like a man who has not been touched in too many miles," they said. Their voice came low, almost amused. "I am Rebecca. I carry word of gods the world has mislaid. I also carry a cunt that has been empty since the last crossroads, and I would rather fill that before I fill your ears."

Quentin's eyes dropped, then came back up, darker than they had been a breath ago. He was not shocked. He was measuring. "You say that to every traveler?"

"Only the ones I want to fuck until my knees give out." They closed the last of the distance and let their knuckles brush the front of his pants, light enough to be a question. "I am twenty-eight. I know what I am asking. If you want it rough, say so. If you do not, walk on and I will preach at the next village instead of coming on your cock."

His breath left him in a short laugh that had no humor left in it. "I want it. I have wanted something exactly like you since the last dry well. I am Quentin. Thirty-two. And if you keep looking at me like that, I am going to put you on the ground."

"Then put me on the ground." They turned off the road without waiting, hips loose, the robe shifting against bare thighs. The scrub opened into a small clearing where the dust lay pale and the wind could not quite reach. Behind them, Quentin followed. Rebecca heard the change in his step, heavier, already decided. Their own pulse sat high in their throat, greedy and bright. The gods could have the sermon later. Right now the prophet wanted to be used, and the man behind them was already hard enough that the shape of it showed through his pants when they glanced back.

They stopped in the middle of the clearing and faced him. Dust rose around their ankles. Rebecca dragged two fingers down the open edge of the robe, slow, until the cloth gaped and the curve of one breast showed, nipple tight from the walk and the wanting. They did not cover it.

"I do not want gentle," they said. "I want to be held down and fucked like a hole that exists for that. I want a cock in my cunt and another down my throat if the road is kind enough to send one. I want my hair in a fist and my ass slapped red and my voice gone because someone is using my mouth too hard to let me preach. That is what I came off the road for. Tell me you can do it, or tell me you cannot."

Quentin's jaw worked. He stepped in and caught the robe at both shoulders, bunching the cloth in his fists. "I can do it. I have been walking with my cock half hard since I saw your mouth. I want to claim that cunt. I want to hear you take it and not ask me to slow down." He yanked the robe open the rest of the way. Rebecca stood bare underneath, twenty-eight and unashamed, hips wide, the dark thatch between their thighs already damp. They arched into his hands when he palmed their breasts, rough, thumbs scraping nipples until they hissed.

"Yes," they said. "Like that. Harder."

He kissed them the way a man kisses when talking is finished, teeth at their lower lip, one hand sliding down to cup their cunt and find it slick. Two fingers pushed in without ceremony. Rebecca rocked onto them, grinding, the wet sound obscene in the quiet clearing. They tore at his shirt, buttons skittering into the dust, and got their hand around his cock through the open pants. Thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. They squeezed until he grunted.

"On your knees is where I want you," he said against their mouth. "But I want this first." He spun them, bent them at the waist, and slapped their ass hard enough to sting. Rebecca moaned, open and filthy, pushing back. He shoved his pants down. The head of his cock nudged their entrance, not inside yet, just threatening. "Say you want it."

"I want it. Fuck me. Use me. I—"

The air changed.

It was not wind. It was weight, a pressure behind the teeth, the old taste of altars. A man stood at the edge of the clearing who had not been on the road a moment before. Thirty-five, if the body he wore was telling the truth, tall, dark-haired, eyes the color of banked coals. He was bare-chested, pants slung low, and the cock hanging heavy between his thighs was already thickening as he looked at the prophet bent over with another man's hands on their hips.

Rebecca knew him the way a throat knows thirst. One of the forgotten ones, walking in a man's shape because the world no longer built doors wide enough for the rest of him. Theo, the name settled into their mind without being spoken aloud, a god who had decided the sermon could wait as well.

"You called for more than one," Theo said. His voice was human and not. "I heard you. I want your mouth while he takes your cunt. I will not touch you unless you ask me to. Say it plainly."

Rebecca's knees nearly buckled. Quentin had gone still, cock pressed to their wet folds, staring. They looked back at the god in the man's skin and felt their cunt clench around nothing, desperate.

"I want you both," they said, clear, hungry, no tremble they did not choose. "Quentin in my cunt. You in my throat. Hard. Rough. Do not be careful with me. I am asking. I am twenty-eight and I know exactly what a spitroast is, and I want to be the meat in the middle until I cannot stand."

Quentin's hand tightened on their hip. "You sure?"

"I am sure. Fuck me. Let him have my mouth. I want to be used by both of you until I squirt and choke on it."

Theo crossed the dust in three strides. He took Rebecca's chin in one broad hand, tilted their face up, and let them see the size of what he intended to feed them. "Open."

They opened.

Quentin did not wait for poetry. He drove into Rebecca's cunt in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the root, and the prophet's cry broke around the head of Theo's cock as it pushed past their lips. The stretch was immediate and mean. Quentin was thick enough to burn, the angle from behind driving the head up against the front wall, and he did not give them a moment to adjust. He hauled their hips back and started to fuck, deep slamming strokes that knocked the breath out of them in wet little sounds. Each impact slapped skin to skin, loud in the clearing, his balls swinging up to strike their clit on the harder thrusts.

Theo filled their mouth at the same pace. He was thicker than Quentin, the shaft heavy on their tongue, salt and heat and something older underneath. He gathered their hair in one fist and fed them inch by inch until the head nudged the back of their throat. Rebecca gagged, eyes watering, spit spilling down their chin. They did not pull away. They pushed forward, greedy, and Theo took the invitation. He held their skull and began to piston, short ruthless strokes that fucked their throat open, then longer ones that made them choke and swallow around him.

They were suspended between the two men, feet barely finding the dust, Quentin's hands locked on their hips, Theo's grip iron in their hair. Every time Quentin slammed in, Rebecca was driven forward onto Theo's cock. Every time Theo pulled their head down, their cunt swallowed Quentin to the base. The rhythm locked. Slap. Gag. Slap. A string of spit swung from their lower lip and broke against their chest.

"Look at this hole," Quentin said, voice shredded. He spanked their ass again, harder, the print of his hand blooming hot. "Dripping down my cock. You wanted to be used. Take it." He changed the angle, grinding deep, and Rebecca's vision went white at the edges. Their cunt fluttered, soaked, the wet sounds getting louder, obscene, a slick squelch every time he bottomed out.

Theo pulled out just far enough for them to drag in a ragged breath, then shoved back in until their nose pressed his stomach. "Good throat," he said, almost fond, almost cruel. "Prophet of forgotten gods, and all you are right now is a wet mouth and a cunt getting ruined. Swallow. I want to feel it."

They swallowed. The convulsion of their throat dragged a groan out of him. He fucked their face harder, hips snapping, the thick vein along his shaft dragging over their tongue. Spit ran in sheets. Rebecca's jaw ached. They loved the ache. They reached back blindly and clawed at Quentin's thigh, not to stop him, to pull him deeper.

"Harder," they managed when Theo let them breathe again, the word broken and wet. "Both of you. Do not stop. Fuck me like I am nothing but holes."

Quentin snarled and obeyed. He folded over their back, one arm banded under their ribs, and pounded them with short savage thrusts that knocked their whole body forward. The head of his cock battered the same deep spot again and again. Rebecca's thighs shook. Pressure built low and vicious, the kind that did not ask permission. They came with a raw sound around Theo's shaft, cunt clamping down, and then they squirted, a hot rush that soaked Quentin's cock and splattered the dust between their feet. He did not slow. He fucked them through it, the slap of his hips wetter now, filthy, his grip bruising on their waist.

"Again," Theo said. He hauled their head up by the hair so they had to look at him, tears and spit shining on their face, and smiled like a man who had waited centuries for a mouth this willing. "You will come again while I use this throat. Quentin, do not be kind."

"Wasn't planning on it." Quentin straightened, spread their ass with both hands, and watched his cock disappear into the shiny, swollen cunt. He spat on the place they joined and drove in to the hilt, grinding, then set a punishing pace that made their breasts swing and their knees buckle. Theo caught their weight by the hair and the shoulder and kept them upright between them, a spit-roasted prophet held off the ground by two cocks and four brutal hands.

The second orgasm hit harder. Rebecca screamed around Theo, the sound muffled and desperate, and squirted again, longer this time, thighs shaking uncontrollably, cunt gushing down Quentin's balls. Their vision narrowed to the burn in their throat and the relentless stretch in their cunt. Theo fucked their mouth through the spasms, praising them in a voice gone rough. "There. That is what you are for. Dripping, gagging, taking both of us like you were built to be split. Look at you. Prophet on a dusty road, and you cannot even hold your own weight."

"Love it," Quentin panted. He slapped their ass, then their thigh, then reached under and rubbed their clit in harsh circles while he pounded them. "Filthy little preacher. Your cunt is sucking me in. You going to take my cum? You going to let me fill this sloppy hole?"

Rebecca nodded as much as Theo's fist allowed, eyes rolling, drool stringing from their chin to the dust. They wanted it. They wanted both. Their hands scrabbled at Theo's thighs, urging him deeper, and they pushed their ass back onto Quentin with what strength they had left, meeting every slam.

The clearing filled with the sounds of it. Skin on skin. Wet choking. Quentin's low curses. Theo's controlled breaths breaking into groans. Rebecca's muffled cries every time a cock hit the back of their throat or the deepest part of their cunt. Dust clung to the sweat on their breasts, to the handprints on their ass, to the slick running down their thighs. They were held open and used without mercy, exactly as they had demanded, and the pleasure sat so high in their body it felt like worship of a meaner kind.

Theo's rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled on their tongue. "I am going to come down your throat," he said, grip tightening until their scalp sang. "You will swallow every drop. Nod if you want it."

They nodded, frantic, and sucked harder, hollowing their cheeks, working their tongue along the underside.

Quentin felt it coming too. His thrusts went ragged, deeper, meaner, the head of his cock kissing their cervix on every stroke. "Fuck. I am going to fill this cunt. Take it. Take all of it."

They came together in a frenzied double climax that tore the air apart. Quentin buried himself and unloaded, thick pulses of cum flooding Rebecca's cunt, so much it leaked out around his shaft and ran down their thighs in hot stripes. At the same instant Theo drove to the back of their throat and came, heavy spurts that Rebecca swallowed in desperate gulps, some of it spilling from the corners of their mouth when he pulsed again and again. They shook between them, a third orgasm ripping through the oversensitive clutch of their cunt, squirting weakly around Quentin's still-jerking cock while they choked and swallowed and took everything they were given.

For a long moment the only sound was breathing.

Theo drew out slowly, a last smear of cum painting Rebecca's lower lip. He looked at them, spent and shining, and something old moved behind his eyes. Then the weight left the air. The man-shape thinned, ember-colored and gone, back into whatever ether had loaned him a body. The clearing held only dust, and Quentin, and the prophet on shaking legs.

Quentin eased out. Cum spilled from Rebecca's swollen cunt in a thick slide. He steadied them with a hand at their waist, breathing hard, and did not pretend it had been anything softer than what it was.

Rebecca wiped their mouth with the back of one wrist, tasting salt and divinity and the ordinary heat of a traveler's spend. Their throat was raw. Their ass burned. Their thighs were a mess. They smiled anyway, small and satisfied, and pulled the robe closed over the evidence without much care.

"Thank you," they said to Quentin, voice hoarse and honest. "That was what I needed. The road is yours if you want the other direction. I have a sermon to give before the light goes."

He nodded, still catching his breath, and watched them turn back toward the track. Rebecca walked, dripping, the taste of a god and a man thick on their tongue, already turning over the words they would use in the next village. The forgotten ones had answered in the only language the prophet trusted today. Their body still hummed with it.

The gods had always preferred a mouth that was already full.