“What’s happening! I’m moving!” Kris yelled. Then quieter, “Oh, it’s nice. Like floating on a lake on a blow-up thing like you use in a pool, kinda.”
He continued to stroke Kris, down his face, neck, torso, along his arms, his flanks, his legs, no part was left untouched. Kris finally fell silent under his gentle ministrations, his only sound now an occasional random, soft whimper. Ishmael shifted his weight, his cock now achingly hard in his trousers. Crichton knelt before him, his face beseeching.
“Sir, may I?”
Ishmael lifted one of his hands from where it was petting Kris, resting it on Crichton’s bald head. “Yes. Go ahead, Crichton, please me.”
The man needed no further encouragement. His powerful body surged forward in service to the smaller man, his hands unfastening Ishmael’s belt with practised ease, his teeth making short work of undoing the button and zip keeping him from his prize. He looked up at Ishmael as he reached into his silk boxer briefs to free the engorged and weeping cock within. He looked up at him in adoration.
“Thank you, sir,” he said before flicking his tongue out and licking a bead of precum from the purpled head.
Ishmael did not reply aloud; instead, he used his hand to caress the man’s head before sliding it down to cradle the base of his neck, urging him to move things along. Crichton needed no further urging. He opened wide and slid Ishmael’s length into his mouth, moving his head back and forth as he took more of it in, then eased back off, until at last, it bumped the back of his throat. Ishmael thrust forward, breaching Crichton’s throat. He swallowed him down relaxing his muscles for what he knew was to come next. Ishmael did not disappoint him. He removed his hand from a now oblivious Kris, who was now adrift in subspace, his whimpers now gone, replaced with whispers about colours and shapes that grew ever more punctuated with silence.
Ishmael beheld the beauty of it and surged forward once more, grasping the back of Crichton’s head in a punishing grip as he began to violently face fuck him. Crichton took it, drool running from the corners of his mouth, down his chin, wetting them both. The wetness of the spit and the precum dribbling from his own cock made obscene sounds as he thrust in and out of Crichton’s mouth.
“Such a good cock sucker,” Ishmael panted. “I’ll give that part of his training over to you. Watch on the monitor… as you teach him…to take that big, fat, battering…ram…of a cock…down his throat…” He huffed, punching his hips forward. The last mental image undid him, the thought of Kris, tears running down his face, as Crichton fisted his hair and fucked his throat raw, educating him on how to take Ishmael’s cock in order to give him the utmost of pleasure. He arched his back, thrust forward one last time, and bellowed his release as his head flew back, the cords of his neck straining. Crichton took it all and as Ishmael’s cock softened, pulled his head back and licked Ishmael’s cock clean before tucking it back into his pants, pulling his trousers back up, and refastening them.
“Show me,” Ishmael said hoarsely. Crichton reached down, freeing his own cock. It was red and swollen, begging for its own release. “Do it, make yourself come for me.”
Crichton spat into his palm and began to stroke his cock in long pulls, giving his hand a twist of the wrist as he reached the head. It only took a few strokes before long, pearly ropes shot out, painting his shirt and the floor.
“Beautiful,” Ishmael said. “Thank you, Crichton. Now, clean yourself and this up.”
Crichton knew that wipes would not suffice if he were to satisfy Ishmael’s demand for a high level of cleanliness. He inclined his head and went out of the room, making his way to the cloakroom off of the kitchen area. There, he sponged off his shirt and washed his hands, then went into the kitchen and took out a cleaning cloth and bottle of Flash spray. Returning the study, he made quick work of spraying down the area of floor he’d soiled and wiping it dry with the microfibre cloth. The chemical scent of artificial lemon hung int he air even as he opened the door, leaving to put the fabric into the hamper in the cloakroom.
Ishmael watched Kris sway, his movement now dictated by the random twitching of his arms, hands, legs, and head. He turned his attention back to Crichton when he returned, his hands freshly washed, and towel dried.
“I’ll leave you to watch over him,” Ishmael said. “I still have my dessert to eat.” He strode to the door. “And I think I’ll have a vanilla hazelnut coconut milk latte to go with it.”
He strode over to his coffee machine, opening a vacuum sealed bag next to it and measured out a portion of the beans within. He added them to the machine’s grinder and switched it on after placing his cup below the spout, humming happily as he thought of his pet in the other room. As it made the espresso, he opened the refrigerator and took out his carton of coconut milk. Once it was warm and frothy, he set aside, taking his cup of espresso and adding a shot each of vanilla and hazelnut syrup before topping it with the foamy milk. He took a sip, closing his eyes in satisfaction. Mouth watering at the sight of the dessert Michel had left for him, he reached for a fork and carried his desert and coffee over to the table and sat down. The first forkful of the dessert was as heavenly as anticipated. He settled down to relax and enjoy the burst of flavours that danced across his tongue as he enjoyed his meal of Swedish apple cake and coffee.
Yes, tonight has been an evening filled with delicious delights, and there is yet more to come.
Ishmael smiled, remembering the sight of Kris’ cock. It had gone hard by the time he’d left. Life was good.
