I look down to see my cock throbbing, the dark cockhead leaking so much pre-cum it’s like I’m cumming non-stop. Then I see the blood smeared on it. Blood on my cock. Blood on my nuts. Blood on my chest.
“Fu—Hngh!”
A white-hot surge rips up my spine, tears through my gut, and explodes out my fucking cock. Cum shoots out of me—thick ropes hitting my belly and chest, all over the blood. Uncontrollable. Violent. My hips buck, fucking empty air while Naoya-san’s cock sits dead inside my hole. No thrust. No grind.
It feels more frustrating than good—over too fucking fast, leaving me panting, shaking, and soaked in my own fucking mess.
“Shit,” I gasp, my breath sawing in my throat. My cock twitches weakly, spitting the last drops onto the mess cooling onmy skin. Shame burns hot behind my eyes. My fucking pathetic dick came like some virgin boy seeing boobs for the first time.
Naoya-san lets out a soft, low hum, almost amused. He lifts the blade away from my balls, tapping the flat edge on my spent cock once, twice.
“I knew you’d enjoy it. But I didn’t expect you to enjoy itthismuch.”
His cock, still heavy inside me, pulls out almost all the way. For a split second, there’s only a pulsing emptiness. Then heramsback into me.
A ragged sound rips out of my throat. My oversensitive body screams, every nerve alight, raw and protesting. The pleasure is gone, burned away by my own violent climax, leaving only an overwhelming sensitivity.
“Nao-san—!” I choke out, but it dissolves into a moan.
He doesn’t answer. His hips set into a piston-like rhythm, each drive of his cock punching the air from my lungs. His hand, the one not holding the fucking tanto, grips my hip so hard I know it will leave a perfect, five-fingered bruise. The other lays the cold, flat side of the blade against my stomach, a fucked-up contrast to the fire he’s shoving inside me.
I’m an exposed nerve, and he’s grinding salt and fire in the wound.
My limp cock jumps painfully with every slam. There’s no chance of getting hard again so soon, but my hole clenches around him, milking his dick and begging for more even as my mind whites out.
“You see? See how honest your body is?”
Well, yeah, sensei, my body was always fucking honest to begin with,I want to say, but I’m too busy looking at him.
His hair sticks to his forehead, those pretty lips are spit-slick and parted, his face flushed red. He doesn’t look perfect like he always does, all proper and shit. He looks fucking aroused. Looks like someone who got his hands dirty just by touching me.
And that’s all because ofme.
His control is fucking terrifying, too. His breathing is harsh, but his movements are precise and calculated. He’s drawing this out, watching me come apart, using my oversensitive body to wring every last reaction from me.
He rams balls-deep one last time, and then I feel his cum flooding me up. There’s no frantic thrusting, just pure ownership as he empties himself deep inside me.
It’s the most intimate and degrading thing I’ve ever felt.
He collapses atop me, and stays inside for a long moment. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart, or maybe it’s mine—who the fuck knows. I’m trembling, completely wrecked, soaked in sweat and cum and blood.
My body is not buzzing anymore.
Naoya-san pulls out slowly, and I feel fucked open and hollowed out, like there’s nothing left inside me but heat and breath. He zips himself up again, no rush, his hands steady. Then he looks at the ropes, runs his fingers over the thin cords cutting into my thighs, and clicks his tongue.
“Hold still.”
He reaches for the tanto, and I watch him sliding the blade between the ropes and my skin, cutting through them in one clean stroke.
He lifts me by the shoulders, gets me sitting up, and does the same to the ropes binding my arms. My wrists feel like they’re on fire from holding all my weight, and I grunt when the bloodstarts coming back. Naoya-san rubs circles into the swollen joints.
It’s weird how soft his hands can be after everything he’s just done.
“You held up well,” he says softly.
He stands, straightens his shirt, then walks off into my place without asking. I sit here, arms limp, staring at the mess he made of me—blood, cum, bruises. My chest’s a map of everything he touched. I drag my fingers through it, smearing red down my ribs, tracing the sting between my legs.
When he comes back, he’s got a bowl of water and a towel. He kneels beside me and starts wiping at the dried blood on my chest.
