He took my wrists in his, thumbs tracing the bones, and for a second I thought he might kiss them. Instead, he closed his grip and pulled me to my feet.
“Nervous?” he murmured.
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
He steered me toward the bathroom, steps sure and silent. The air changed—colder, a faint chemical bite from the cleaner, tile cool under my feet. The world became a map of temperature gradients and echoes: the hiss of pipes, the bass drum thud of my heart, the creak as he guided my hands up and pressed them against the wall.
He reached above me, a rustle and a clink, then the soft whine of metal. My right wrist was cuffed, then the left, both arms stretched overhead and spread just enough that I could brace, but not pull free. The cuffs were lined, padded, but the way they clicked shut made me shiver.
He ran a palm down the length of my back, then kneaded the muscle at the base of my neck.
“You okay?” he asked, voice a lot softer now.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He stepped away, and for a second I panicked, thinking he might leave me like this. But then the shower sputtered to life, spraying cold water onto the tile. He let it run until the pipes stopped groaning, then cranked the temperature. The steam hit first, then the heat.
Jo pressed his body up behind me—his chest against my shoulder blades, cock hard and hot against my ass. He kissed the back of my neck, then my ear, then bit down, gentle but definite.
I groaned, rolled my hips back against him. He laughed, the vibration running through his chest into my bones. My cock was already leaking, throbbing with every heartbeat.
The water wasn’t aimed at me yet, but I could feel the mist gathering, tiny beads clinging to my skin. Jo put one hand on my hip to steady me, the other splayed flat on my chest, fingers finding a nipple and rolling it until I gasped.
“Outside your head now?” he said, lips right at my ear.
“Yeah.”
He tweaked the nipple harder, then let his hand wander lower, gliding down my stomach, skimming my abs, ghosting over the head of my cock before moving away.
I jerked, straining to follow his touch, but the cuffs held me in place.
He clicked his tongue, like scolding a dog. “Patience.”
His hand was gone, and I was left straining, aching, desperate for more. The only things I could feel were the pulse at my wrists and the buzz between my legs.
Then his hand was back, cupping my balls, heavy and warm. He squeezed, then rolled them in his palm, then let go. Each time, the anticipation was worse than the actual touch.
“Not gonna let you come,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Not until I say.”
My knees buckled. I had to fight to stay upright.
He let me stew in it. I heard him step away, maybe rinsing off his hands, maybe just standing there, watching me twitch. Then he returned, knelt behind me, and spread my ass with both hands.
I shivered. The first contact was his tongue—hot, wet, and immediate, lapping at my hole. I yelped, half in shock, half in mortification, but then his grip tightened and he went to work, licking me open with slow, determined circles.
The tile was cold under my toes, but everywhere else I burned.
He didn’t talk, didn’t say a word. He let the noises he pulled from me do the work—soft moans, panting, the stutter of breath every time he flicked his tongue just right.
He stood, pressed his cock between my cheeks, and rubbed up and down, just to show me how ready he was. I tried to rock back, to get him inside, but the angle was wrong and the cuffs held me firm.
“Not yet,” he growled.
His hand stroked down my back again, then lower, then his fingers—two, slick with spit—slid into me, working slow, steady, stretching me out. It hurt, but not much, and after a minute it started to feel good, then urgent, then necessary.
He worked me open, scissoring his fingers, then curling them forward. He found my prostate and pressed, light at first, then harder. My vision went white behind the blindfold.
