“I’m so embarrassed… I think I’m gonna come untouched just from how much it hurts. Fuck, Slade, that’s so humiliating. Please don’t make me come like this. I don’t want to…”
Slade groans deep in his chest, the sound raw and gravelly as he keeps driving into me with those hard, punishing strokes. “Yeah? You better not,” he growls, hips snapping forward sharply. “You don’t deserve it, Drew. Not after the shit you pulled tonight.”
His words only make everything worse, or better. Every thrust nails that spot inside me again and again, the stretch and burn mixing with the relentless friction against my prostate until I can’t hold it back anymore. My cock is trapped in my shoved-down jeans and boxers, rubbing against the fabric with every brutal snap ofSlade’s hips, and the pressure builds so fast it blindsides me.
I try to keep up the act, voice cracking. “I’m definitely not…fuck, I’m not about to come. It hurts too much. I swear I’m not…!”
But then it hits me. The orgasm crashes through me without warning, sudden and devastating. My whole body locks up as I finally let out a loud, broken moan… raw, shameless, and way too loud. It’s the most intense, forbidden, thrilling thing I’ve ever felt, pleasure ripping through me so hard my vision whites out for a second. I come untouched in my pants, pulsing hot and messy inside the fabric while Slade keeps fucking me through it, his cock dragging relentlessly over that spot and dragging the high out longer than I can handle.
Slade reacts instantly to the sound of my moan. His rhythm stutters, then turns savage. “That’s it,” he growls, voice thick and dangerous. “Take your fucking punishment, Drew. Take every inch while you come like a desperate little slut from the pain.”
He slams into me harder, deeper, chasing his own release with rough, animalistic thrusts. A few seconds later he buries himself to the hilt and finishes with a low, guttural groan, hips grinding against my ass as he pulses hot and deep inside me. His grip on my cuffed wrists is bruising while he rides it out, breathing ragged.
Then, just like that… it’s over. Slade stays still for a long moment, catching his breath. I’m still trembling, head spinning, come cooling sticky in my ruined boxers. I don’t know what I was expecting… more yelling, more roughness, maybe even something softer… but it definitely wasn’t this…
He clears his throat; the sound is so ordinary it feels surreal. Without a word, he reaches down, unlocks the cuffs with the key, and lets them fall open. The metal clinks softly as he pulls them off my wrists and tosses them onto the bed beside me.
“Take a shower,” he says, voice back to that familiar, gruff tone like nothing insane just happened. “We’re having baked ziti for dinner. It’ll be ready in an hour and a half.”
Then he straightens up, pulls out of me in one smooth motion, tucks himself away, and walks out of my room like it’s any other night.
I stay here for a second, dazed, before slowly pushing myself up onto my elbows. The cuffs slide off the edge of the bed and hit the floor with a quiet clatter. I sit fully upright, jeans still shoved down around my thighs, ass sore and leaking, chest heaving as I stare at the empty doorway.
Oh. So, Slade’s really gonna act like that didn’t just happen… and go make pasta?
The smell of him is still all over me. My come is drying in my boxers. My hole is still fluttering from being so thoroughly used. And he’s downstairs probably already preheating the oven like we’re just a normal stepdad and stepson again.
I drag a shaky hand down my face, wincing when I brush the cut on my cheek, and let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.What the fuck just happened?
Chapter Three
Andrew
The adrenaline that had been flooding my veins finally crashes out, leaving me hollow and shaky as I sit here on the edge of the bed, jeans still bunched around my thighs, come cooling sticky in my boxers. My body aches in places I didn’t even know could ache, but it’s not the soreness that hits me hardest. It’s the sudden, crushing weight of how right Slade is.
I drag myself up on unsteady legs, kick off the ruined jeans and boxers, and head straight for the bathroom like he told me to.
…
The shower water is scalding, but I let it pound against my skin anyway, scrubbing hard like I can wash away the evidence of what just happened. My mind won’t stop replaying his words on a loop… every single one of them cutting deeper now that the heat of the moment is gone.
He’s right… I’ve become an ungrateful little shit, and I never used to be like this. I remember being twelve, thirteen, back when Mom was still here… quiet, trying to make him smile, helping with the dishes without being asked, actually saying thank you when he bought me new sneakers because mine had holes. Somewhere after she left, that version of me disappeared. I turned into someone who took and tookand took, like the world owed me something for the hole she left behind. Fighting, stealing, and getting arrested like it was a game. Letting Slade bail me out over and over while I gave him nothing but attitude and messes to clean up.
Guilt simmers low in my stomach as the water runs over my face, stinging the cut on my cheek. He didn’t have to stick around. He could’ve kicked me out the day Mom packed her bags and never looked back. I wasn’t his kid… but he let me stay. He paid for everything… clothes, food, the stupid phone I use, every single bail fee that’s probably dented his savings more times than I want to count. He gave me time to breathe after she left, never forced me to get a job or go to college or “figure my shit out” like others would’ve. He just… stayed. And I took advantage of it; I threw it back in his face every single time.
By the time I step out of the shower, towel off, and pull on the soft grey pyjamas… the long-sleeve top and matching pants that cover every inch of me like armour… the self-disappointment has settled deep in my bones. It’s heavy, quiet, and different from the usual anger I carry around. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like fighting the world. I feel like I want to be better. Not just to stay out of jail or avoid another lecture, but because I actually want to make Slade proud. I want to repay him somehow… for the bail money, for the roof over my head, for not abandoning me when everyone else did. The thought is new and fragile, but it sits here in my chest like something that might actually stick this time.
I run my fingers through my damp hair, leaving it messy and sticking up in places, and sink down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under me, still rumpled from earlier, and I stare hard at the floor, tracing the familiar grain of the hardwood with my eyes. My heart is beating a little too fast, nerves twisting in my gut. I wonder if it’s going to be awkward as hell when I finally go downstairs.
…
The faint metallic scrape of the oven door opening downstairs pulls me out of the heavy fog I’ve been sitting in. I stand up slowly, wipe my damp palms on my pyjama pants, and head down the stairs before I can talk myself out of it. My bare feet are quiet on the hardwood, heart thudding unevenly the whole way.
I step into the kitchen just as Slade is scooping generous portions of the bubbling baked ziti into two bowls. The rich smell of tomato sauce, melted cheese, and herbs hits me hard, warm and familiar. I don’t want to just stand here useless like I usually do, so even though it feels weird… because I never help… I reach for the garlic baguette cooling on the counter. I grab a knife and start slicing it into thick pieces, the bread still hot to the touch, crust crackling under the blade, steam rising in soft curls.
In my peripheral vision I see Slade pause mid-scoop, his broad shoulders going still. He’s probably staring, thinkingwhat the fuck is Andrew doing?I don’t look up. I just keep cutting, then quietly slide an extra slice onto his bowl. A silent little sorry. A tiny start.
I take my own bowl and the garlic bread, but when Slade carries his through to the living room… heading for the same worn armchair and the same show he always watches… I don’t follow. Normally, when I’m in a decent mood, we’d sit together, laughing at the dumb plot twists or shouting at the screen like idiots. It almost felt normal. Tonight, though, I purposefully stay behind in the quiet kitchen and sit alone at the table.
