He looked into my eyes and smiled again. “I know.”
Damn him and his mouth.
I folded over, taking his cock in my mouth so fast he didn’t have time to prepare or think or recoil. I felt his body arch as I drank him in, my tongue sliding up and down, then swirling around his head when my lips reached his end. My slurping was so loud I thought the monks in other temples might hear, but neither of us cared. Saliva dribbled everywhere—until I sucked it back in.
Yoshi’s fingers dug into scalp, tearing my topknot apart, burying themselves into my hair. He yanked my head up and then shoved it back down, demanding I take him roughly, tip to root, until his groans grew louder than my own.
“Kaneko, fuck . . . I’m . . .”“No, the hells, you’re not.” I pulled free. “It’s been too fucking long for you to pop off like a bad firework.”
His barked laugh killed the moment—exactly what I intended. I really did want this to last. I wanted all of him, and not a moment before ithadto end.
His hands reached up, gripping my shoulders, and the skinny little shit somehow flipped me onto my back and straddled my hips. He couldn’t have carried two thirds of my weight. How had he—?
All conscious thought fled as his own slurping ensued.
My hands drifted above my head, gripped the edge of the mat, muscles pulling tight, abs clenching, ass puckering, as Yoshi gripped my balls in one hand and sucked me with the force of a typhoon coming ashore.
I’d been trained to give pleasure to others, but no one had taught me to receive any of my own, not even Sakurai, despite his best efforts. Those sessions had always been part of my service, my work, an element of my captivity.
This was different.
This was freely given—andveryfreely received.
And damn everything in the Empire if Yoshi wasn’t good at giving.
Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me, each in time with his head rising and falling, his hand squeezing and releasing, his tongue—gods, his tongue . . .
Then I felt his fingers slip between my cheeks, and my whole body clenched, as though my cheeks themselves became a vise, trapping his hand between them, locking his fingers in place.
I swear, his lips curled into a smile around my cock.
The fucker.
Then his fingers wormed past my defenses; one—already slickened—found my entrance and pressed against it.
“Yoshi, fucking fuck, I love you so damn much.”
He slipped inside me.
“Oh, shit, I hate you, you fucking horse’s ass.”
My cock flew out of his mouth as he choked on a laugh, but his finger kept moving deeper inside me.
“You love me . . . and you love my finger. Just admit it.”
He wiggled, hitting parts of my innards that no man had ever hit. How had Sakurai never done this? In all our times together, I had been the one to perform such acts. I had been the “man” when we’d lain together. He had never even hinted at how this could feel, how he felt when I—
“Yoshi, damnation, I can’t breathe—”
He slipped a second finger in.
I gasped and yanked at the mat’s edge. My whole body clenched as I gripped so tight I thought I might tear the mat apart.
Then he slid out, just a bit, and the torturous pleasure subsided. I gulped in air.
And the fucker slid into me again.
“Oh, gods, that feels . . .”
