“That’s it, pup,” I growl, chest rumbling. “You love this. Don’t you?”
His muffled voice vibrates around me, desperate and shameless. His lashes flutter, but he nods as best he can.
“Say it,” I order, yanking him off just enough to hear him.
His lips are red, spit slick down his chin, chest heaving. “I—I love it, sir. Love—love worshipping you—”
My cock twitches hard in his grip. My hand locks back into his hair and I shove him down again, deeper this time, until he gags around me. His throat squeezes tight, eyes flooding, but he doesn’t fight. He clutches my thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“Good boy,” I rasp, low and sharp. “That’s how you beg. Not with whining. Not with backtalk. On your knees, with your mouth full of me, thanking me for every second I let you breathe.”
He chokes again, tears streaking hot down his face, and it’s perfect. He’s perfect.
I hold him there, let him break against me, until his whole body’s shuddering, desperate, shaking with devotion.
And only then do I let him up for air.
He’s gagging around me, tears streaking hot down his face, eyes wide and wild when they flick up to mine. I hold him steady, hips grinding just enough to keep him ruined, and I let my voice drop into his bones.
“That’s it. Take it all, pup. You’re perfect like this. My gorgeous boy. My good mouth.”
He moans—actually moans—around me, the sound muffled, filthy, vibrating through my cock until my vision whites out. His throat works, desperate, worshipful, choking with every breath he doesn’t get.
“Fuck—yes,” I snarl, my chest rumbling, every word rasping against the heat of the room. “That’s mine. You hear me? Every breath, every sound—you’re mine.”
Another whimper, high and cracked, and then I lose it.
Release tears through me hard, violent. I bury myself in him, grind deep, groaning low as he swallows every drop like it’s prayer. His nails dig into my thighs, his lashes flutter, his whole body shudders like he’s coming undone from nothing but the sound of my voice praising him.
“Good pup,” I rasp, holding him steady in my grip, riding it out against his mouth. “So fucking good for me. Perfect.”
He moans again, shameless, tears spilling over as he milks me through it, worship written all over his face even as spit and heat slick down his chin.
When I finally let go of his hair, he collapses against my thigh, breathing hard, trembling from the wreckage.
I let the silence stretch. Let him drown in the sound of his own ragged gasps.
Then I fist a hand into the back of his hoodie, tugging him upright until he’s kneeling again, lips swollen, eyes glazed.
“Strip,” I say.
His breath stutters, chest jerking once, but he scrambles for the hem of his hoodie without hesitation.
“And go to the kitchen.”
His eyes flash up, desperate, confused, but the grin tugs at his lips again. “Yes, sir.”
His hoodie hits the floor, shirt dragging with it, sweatpants shoved down in a clumsy scramble until he’s bare in the dim light of my entryway. He trembles as he steps out of them, skin flushed red, bruises blooming across his ribs.
Then he walks.
Naked. Shaking.
Straight into my kitchen.
I’m vibrating.
Not just buzzing, not just twitching—full-on feral. Every nerve in me is sparking, every muscle wound so tight I feel like I might split apart just from standing here. Naked. In his kitchen.
