The Cleanup Ritual

It had become our unspoken ceremony. Every time they left—Jamal and Dre, or whoever else we invited into our bed—the room would still smell of sex: sweat, cum, her perfume mixed with their musk. Lila would lie there on the rumpled sheets, legs still trembling, body glistening, her pussy swollen and gaping, leaking thick white trails down her inner thighs. Her face would be flushed, lips puffy from sucking cock, sometimes streaked with drying cum across her cheeks or chin.
She never said the words out loud at first. She just looked at me with those soft, hazy eyes—half exhausted, half wicked—and spread her thighs a little wider.
That was the signal.
I’d crawl between her legs without being told. My heart would pound so hard I could hear it in my ears. The sight of her used cunt always hit me like a drug: lips puffy and red, stretched wide from the thick black cocks that had just ruined her, creamy ropes of their seed slowly oozing out. Sometimes it was still warm. Sometimes it had started to cool and cling in sticky strands.
I’d lower my face and breathe her in first—the sharp, salty tang of cum mixed with her own sweetness, the faint soap-and-sweat smell of the men who’d claimed her. My cock would twitch painfully in my cage (she’d started locking me up for these nights, the key dangling between her perfect tits while they fucked her).
Then I’d start.
Soft licks at first—cleaning the outside of her thighs where it had dripped. Long, slow strokes of my tongue gathering the mess. I’d taste them on her skin: thick, bitter, heavy with their potency. She’d sigh, fingers sliding into my hair, guiding me gently.
“Get it all, baby,” she’d whisper. “Don’t miss a drop. They filled me so full for you.”
I’d press my mouth to her entrance. The first taste always made me moan—salty, musky, overwhelming. Their cum would coat my tongue as I pushed inside her, lapping at the creamy mess still clinging to her walls. She’d clench around my tongue when I swirled it deep, pushing more out into my mouth. I’d swallow it down greedily, the humiliation burning hot in my chest while my locked cock throbbed uselessly.
Sometimes she’d talk me through it, voice soft and sleepy:
“You love how they taste, don’t you? So much thicker than yours… so much more…”
“Swallow every bit they left in your wife’s pussy. That’s your place now.”
“Look at me while you do it. See how satisfied I am?”
I’d obey. Eyes locked on hers as I sucked and licked, cleaning every fold, every crease. When her pussy was mostly empty I’d move lower—tongue tracing her perineum, then her asshole if they’d taken her there too. The taste was earthier, more forbidden, but I never hesitated. I’d rim her clean, pushing my tongue inside, tasting whatever they’d left behind.
If they’d finished on her face or tits, she’d scoop it with her fingers and feed it to me—three fingers at a time, making me suck them clean while she watched with that small, satisfied smile.
When I was done—when her body was spotless, glistening only with my spit—she’d finally unlock me.
But not always to fuck her.
Most nights she’d just stroke me while I knelt between her legs, my face still smeared with their drying cum. She’d whisper how good I was, how much she loved her devoted little cleanup boy, how my tongue felt better than any cock for this part. I’d cum in under a minute—weak, desperate spurts onto the sheets—while she kissed my forehead and called me hers.
Afterward she’d pull me up, curl into my arms, still smelling faintly of them. I’d hold her tight, heart racing, completely owned.
And we both knew: next time they came over, the ritual would happen again.
Exactly the same way.
Because that was our love now—raw, filthy, and perfect.