Tobias
The message went out at dawn. I composed it from Cove’s computer, mimicking his spelling and cadence, and sent it to Mark’s institutional address with a subtle, apologetic subject line: “So Sorry — Hope to See You?” There was a practiced humility to the words, an appeal to Mark’s sense of professional pride.
Cove’s new employer was a bit of a control freak, it explained, but the work was incredibly cool, and Cove was finally allowed to design and run his own systems. The offer was simple. Come up for a private tour, check out the rare specimens, and maybe help Cove with a tricky new quarantine protocol.
Personally, I felt it was a little odd for Mark to be concerned enough with Cove’s perceived absence to call my company twice trying to reach me for insights on Cove’s whereabouts.
Mark and Cove certainly weren’t friends, and the way I saw it, Mark hadn’t really even liked Cove.
Perhaps it was more of a jealously fueled worry? After all, in his eyes, Cove was still wet behind the ears, inexperienced, yet had been chosen over him for a cushy, high-paying job.
I imagined him pacing his office, gnawing his nails, unable to believe that the little American intern—so sensitive, so awkward—had been chosen over him for a position most people in their field would have killed to get. Mark’s “concern” for Cove was nothing less than a festering wound, and I was more than happy to pour salt in it.
There was, of course, the remote possibility that Mark’s interest was motivated by something other than professional jealousy. Perhaps there had been a friendship I had missed, some secret kinship between them, but I doubted it. In the hundreds of hours I’d devoted to studying Cove, I’d never once seen him mention Mark with anything but a stiff politeness, not wanting to talk badly about a superior.
Mark replied in under an hour to the email. He’d love to see Cove’s new setup. He’d be there in three days.
The waiting was exquisite.
I spent more time in Cove’s orbit, shadowing him as he worked, touching him at every excuse. Sometimes he’d tease me, imitating my voice or mannerisms, and I’d let him push the boundaries because he was beautiful when he thought he had the upper hand.
On the second night, around midnight, I brought him into my office.
He wore only a t-shirt; hair still wet from showering. He perched on the edge of my desk, legs swinging, eyeing the little velvet pouch I’d placed between us.
“Are you giving me jewelry?” he asked, voice pitched in a mockery of hopefulness.
“Not exactly,” I said, and tipped the contents onto the desk—a set of surgical steel dilators, polished to a shine.
He stared at them for a long second, then up at me, and in that glance, I saw the challenge and the hunger and the magnitude of his trust.
“Last time, you took the thinnest one. I want to see if you can take the next size up now.”
“Okay,” he breathed.
I guided him to the couch, worked him out of his shirt, and kissed him until he sank against the cushions.
“I want to know everything,” I whispered, “how you feel, what you think, when it’s too much.”
He nodded, a little breathless.
I started by pressing my mouth to his neck, his collarbone, and the hollow of his chest, savoring the salt and warmth of his skin. He arched when I rolled his nipple between my fingers, so I did it again, and again. And when he was slick and leaking from the nipple play, I took the mid-size sound from the set, dipped it in sterile lube, and held it up for him to see.
“Ready?”
He nodded, biting his lip. His eyes—so wide, so preternaturally bright—shuddered shut as I began to guide the instrument home. It went easier this time, less resistance, less panic, but the way he drew in his breath still made my own cock pulse with arousal.
I was always gentle at first, unable to tear my eyes from where the metal was disappearing into his dickhole. He took it all, gasping, and then at last opened his eyes to look at me.
“Pretty little siren,” I cooed, holding eye contact as I pulled the tool up and almost all the way out of him.
He whimpered, and I kissed him hard, forcing his jaw open so I could taste his moan. I kept working the sound, in and outrelentlessly of his cock, until the muscles in his forearms went tight and his hands clutched at the fabric of my suit jacket.
When his head finally dropped back against the cushion, exposing his pale, lovely throat, a desperate mewl escaped him. I reached up with my free hand to stroke the rapidly fluttering pulse at his neck; fingertips lined along the blue track of his jugular. The vulnerability of it, the utter trust, undid something in me.
“Perfect,” I told him. “You’re absolutely perfect. Do you like Daddy fucking your slutty cock?”
He squirmed, face damp with tears, throat bobbing with the effort to form words. “I—yes—” His hips gave a shallow jerk and the shaft bucked around the steel, the thin skin there blanched and angry at the stretch. “It’s so—” he bit down on the syllable, then whimpered, “too much—I can’t—”
