They were both half-naked, but he wanted him completely undressed. Good thing Chris didn’t retort with witty remarks and did what he was told. The words he’d blurted before had pressed buttons they shouldn’t have, unleashing the beast Marc usually kept inside. A creature that wasn’t in the mood to deal with a brat. Not tonight. Not without making him regret disobeying.
As his boxers hit the floor, the bassist admired the stunning masterpiece of tight muscle and ink standing in front of him.
Chris was nervous. It was easy to see. But not in a scared way, more like anxious, eager for what was about to come. Here, in this room illuminated only by the night lamp and the streetlights outside, with his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths and a throbbing cock, he couldn’t hide.
“Kneel,” the bassist growled, pulling his jeans and trunks low enough on his hips to get his own dick out.
And once again, without an ounce of hesitation, Chris bowed to his command.
Marc stepped closer to him and fisted his hair, using his free hand to angle himself with his friend’s mouth before he thrust forward. With his head tossed back, he exhaled, focusing solely on Chris’s lips wrapped around his shaft for several seconds. He was gagging. The bassist could feel him struggling as he clawed at his ass, clinging to the false illusion that he had some sort of control over this, but he didn’t fight it.
When he withdrew, leaving the swollen tip inside to allow him to breathe, Marc looked down and realized that the guitarist was already slobbering. A shiver ran down his spine. He loved a messy blow job. Then, without warning, he drove himself to the back of his throat again.
The guitarist had said to do what he wanted; had even given him the green light to break him if he fancied. Tonight, Chris was his to fuck and discipline.
Back and forth, Marc furiously thrusted into Chris’s mouth, fucking his face with no mercy. Ravishing every thought he could have ever had about how degrading this act was. Sure, he looked breakable right now, but this wouldn’t be happening if he hadn’t allowed it.
Sex could be anything people wanted it to be; sweet, sensual, brutal. But in the end, no matter if you were the lightest flavor of vanilla or the most sadistic dom, it all came down to the same: consent and trust.
“Look at me,” Marc gritted, gripping the guitarist’s jaw while his other hand remained entangled in his hair.
It took a few seconds of nostrils flaring and fingers tightening their grasp on his asscheeks, but when Chris glanced up, it was as if Heaven and Hell collided. His eyes were brimmed with tears and, even though the light was faint, the blush covering his face didn’t go unnoticed. It was so hot; the wet, slurping sounds, their groans synchronized, the remnants of shyness being annihilated as they stared at each other.
“Fuck, baby.” Marc kept driving in and out of his mouth. “You look fucking sexy on your knees with my cock deep down your throat.”
This was probably one of the most mind-shattering things a person could do, especially someone that was beating himself to exhaustion to heal and accept who he really was. And Chris looked so defenseless… Marc shivered at the idea of physically hurting him to see how much he could take.
“I think I’m gonna fuck you tonight,” he rasped, intent gaze never leaving his, waiting for a flash of hesitation. He wanted to unravel and make him scream until his vocal cords were so sore he couldn’t speak.
Chris didn’t blink away and his nails dug deeper into Marc’s flesh, which he took as a positive response, but he still needed to hear him say it. Though that wasn’t possible right now. Not when his mouth was so full of cock, saliva, and pre-cum.
Ah… So fucking beautiful.
The first thing Chris did when Marc reluctantly pulled out was to take a deep breath. His eyes fluttered, and he shuddered.
“You good?” the bassist asked, letting go of his friend’s hair and jaw, his tone still authoritative and hoarse.
Chris simply nodded, wheezing as he sat on his heels, using the back of his hand to wipe the mess dribbling down his chin.
“You sure you’re okay? We can stop,” Marc said, slightly disappointed that this could be his limit.
“Who the fuck do you think I am?” The guitarist glared up at him. “I just need a fucking minute. Dizzy… as fuck.” He panted. “In case you didn’t realize… I couldn’t breathe before.”
Marc had noticed and loved it. Blow jobs always interrupted the airflow, making it difficult to get oxygen into your system. Deep-throating made it almost impossible.
“Aw,” he mocked as he crouched down in front of him, resting his elbows on his knees. His senses were so heightened that even his hair tickled his thighs when it cascaded down. “Was I too rough?”
Chris’s eyes darted up to his. “Asshole. Shut up.”
“You were taking it like a pro, though.” The bassist put two fingers under his chin to raise his head and grinned. “Didn’t think a baby-queer could suck so good.”
“Baby—what? Fuck you, Zimmer.” Chris slapped him away.
Completely immersed in his element, blended with the flames licking his skin, Marc grabbed his throat. “I’m being nice and letting you take a break,” he said, deep and slow, “but it doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that. Behave if you don’t want me to actually hurt you.”
Chris swallowed, pupils dilating so much the sky-blue disappeared.
Fuck this man.He was a brat, a fighter, and an alpha, but he definitely got turned on when Marc bossed him around.
