He can hear Sebastian‘s heart beating, pounding, as he works himself to orgasm. His skin is hot and sweaty, the T-shirt Peter is pressed against is damp, and the scent of aroused male in his prime sits heavily between them. It’s around Peter, and he forces his fingers deeper into the dirt so he doesn’t touch and disobey.
Sebastian comes, standing just enough so that each stripe of come lands on Peter’s face. Peter closes his eyes, can feel each pulse, hot and marking, as it lands on the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.
“Fuck,” Sebastian gasps.
And then it’s on his lips. Sebastian hasn’t told him to lick or open his mouth, and Sebastian won’t be pleased with him if he takes the initiative and does it on his own. He’s been instructed to stay still, and he just wants to be good and obedient. It’s difficult, though, but that’s likely part of what Sebastian wants.
“Fuck, that felt good. And look how pretty you are covered in come.”
Peter trembles, his own cock hard and aching, untouched and heavy between his legs. Is Sebastian going to let him come? What if… what if he doesn’t? What if Sebastian is that selfish and just leaves him to burn, dirty and come-covered in the dirt?
And then they’ll go in to take a shower, and Sebastian will probably take his ass, and what if he doesn’t come then either? That makes him throb, makes the ache worse. He might be denied. He might not come. Peter could just have to sit with all of this arousal and frustrated desire and hope that Sebastian takes pity on him sooner rather than later.
He loves the denial because it’s terrible. It’s so mean and casually cruel. It requires nothing of Sebastian, and yet it means that Peter will hurt and want. Sebastian becomes even more important, more attractive, everything magnified because he is unattainable.
They haven’t talked much about Peter’s love of denial because Sebastian does like him to come. And so often it seems like Peter’s orgasm is a check-in or proof that the misery and hurt he causes Peter isn’t too much because he can come from it.
And if he tells Sebastian that he wants to be denied and left to burn, that it would be a way to show his devotion, then isn’tit selfish? If what Sebastian wants is for him to come, then Peter saying he doesn’t want to puts Peter’s needs first.
And so he says nothing. Though he can’t help but hope that this time Sebastian won’t return the favor. He might just walk away and leave Peter covered in come, needing and unfulfilled. And Peter would crawl after him like a lonely dog, desperate for relief and affection.
God, maybe he should just ask.
Sebastian reaches down, pats roughly between Peter’s legs, finding the hard shape of his erection.
Peter opens his eyes to see Sebastian‘s face, wants to see that pleased smile he gets when he discovers Peter hard after he’s done something selfish. And that’s why he doesn’t say anything. Sebastian licks at a stripe of come on Peter’s jaw and presses it into Peter’s mouth with his tongue.
Peter moans quietly, bitter salt of come and sweat in his mouth. He knows how this goes. He does his part, licking and sucking Sebastian’s come in small kisses as Sebastian cleans his face, murmuring little endearments about how Peter is come-soaked and lovely.
His sweet slut.
Peter swallows and waits for more, wishes he could touch Sebastian, run his hands all over Sebastian’s chest and caress his cock. He fantasizes about Sebastian doing this to him, feeding Peter his come or their come, and the primal satisfaction he can hear in Sebastian’s voice as he obeys and takes it all down.
“You’re so fucking good for me. How are you so goddamn good?”
Peter smiles, pleased at the praise.
“It’s for your birthday,” Sebastian says, and Peter has no idea what he’s talking about. He knows Sebastian is waiting for a response, but Peter still can’t figure out what his birthday has to do with anything. His birthday is weeks away.
“What?” he finally asks. And then there’s one last come-filled kiss before Sebastian stops, gets properly to his feet, and offers his cock to Peter so that he can give it a final lick clean.
“I want the money for your birthday.”
Peter blinks up at him. “How the hell are you going to spend three thousand on my birthday?”
“Well, you’ll just have to see, won’t you?”
“If we’re going somewhere, tell me the dates so I can make sure it’s not a problem.”
“You’ll need to keep some time free. My plan involves the weekend.”
The whole weekend? “Good. But how are you going to spend three thousand? Can’t you give me a hint?”
“You just get to wonder. Isn’t it exciting? So many possibilities!”
“Are there?” Peter asks, genuinely curious. “We don’t have to do something big. Honestly, even if it’s just us here and we do nothing, it’ll still be one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. We should just donate the money to charity or something.”
“That’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. And you know what? I believe you. But you deserve an amazing birthday, and I am going to make it happen. But what I want to have happen for your birthday is not cheap and since you have a lot of money and don’t particularly care”—he shrugs, his smile predatory—“I’ll just spend it for you.”
