The scar at his mouth twitches. Approval. He peels the button open—slow. Deliberate. The metallic pop feels louder than my heartbeat.
“Good boy.”
I whimper, hips jerking up before I can stop myself. His palm slams flat against me, pinning me back to the sheets. “Stay down.”
“Yes, sir.” The words crack out of me, pathetic and wrecked.
He drags the zipper slow. Each tooth splitting apart feels like it’s carving me open. My cock jerks under the denim, leaking, aching, and he still doesn’t rush. Just eases the fabric down inch by inch, watching me squirm, watching me beg without words.
“Beg louder,” he says.
“Please, sir,” I gasp. “I need you to touch me, I—I’ll be good—”
“Will you?” His hand tugs sharp until my head tips back. “You’ve had an attitude all week. Mouthy. Reckless. Why should I reward that?”
“Because I’m yours!” The words rip out of me, raw, desperate. “I’ll take anything, I swear—I’ll bleed for you, I’ll fight for you, just—please, Captain—”
His smirk sharpens. His hand leaves my hair, slides back down, and finally—finally—he drags my jeans open wide. The fabric peels off my hips, slow, merciless, until I’m bare under him.
My cock slaps against my stomach, leaking, and I sob sharp from the relief of it.
“Better,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over me like he owns every inch. His thumb presses into my bruised rib again, harder this time. “Keep begging, pup. You’re not done yet.”
His hand hovers just above my cock—close enough that the heat makes me flinch, not close enough to give me anything. My whole body arches off the sheets, desperate, but his palm never lands.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is calm, low, lethal. Like he isn’t watching me shake apart under him.
“I—I want you to touch me, sir—”
“Too vague.” His thumb brushes the air just above my length, the ghost of contact that makes me choke. “Say it right.”
My throat works, shame clawing hot through me, but I can’t stop. “I want your hand on my cock, sir.”
His scar curves with a cruel smirk. “Better. But you’re not done.”
His hand shifts lower, knuckles grazing the inside of my thigh instead of where I need him. My hips buck sharp, useless, begging for friction.
“Say it,” he murmurs. “Every filthy thing you want. Or I don’t give you shit.”
“Fuck—” My voice cracks, high and raw. “Please stroke me, sir. Please jerk me until I come—I need it, I’ll beg, I’ll do anything—”
He hums, thumb dragging slow circles on my thigh instead of my cock. “And after I’ve wrung you dry? Then what?”
My face flames scarlet, words choking in my throat, but his grip in my curls yanks hard enough that I can’t bite them back. “Then—fuck—then I want your cock in me, Captain. I want you to fuck me until I can’t breathe—until I forget my name—”
His smirk sharpens, lethal. “Good boy.”
Finally—finally—his palm presses flat against my cock. Not stroking. Just weight. Heavy. Claiming. Enough to make me moan high into the quiet.
“Keep talking,” he orders. “The filthier, the better. Or I stop.”
My eyes fly wide. “S-sir—”
His palm leaves me completely. Gone. Empty.
A broken whine rips out of me, high and cracked. My cock protests, aching, leaking across my stomach, and still he doesn’t give me anything.
“You think I’m going to reward whispers?” His eyes cut into me like knives. “You want to come? You earn it. Say it loud.”
