How perfectly fucked out I’ll look as he breaks me.
Carey draws back an inch. I feel his cock twitch and the bitterness of his pre cum leak onto my tongue.
I want to lick it up and swallow it down, but I know he won’t allow it. And I’m too far gone to be a brat right now. My eyes are misty with tears, my breath is erratic, and my heart is threatening to break out of my chest. But I’ve never felt so good.
Every time he brings me here, it feels better than the last.
How far he’s willing to push me grows on par with my trust in him.
If he opened the door, I couldn’t stop him. But if I could, would I want to? I want the whole world to know about how I feel for Carey, but I need to be forced into everything. Living thirty-four years in a box designed by someone else is a hard thing to break free from, but the cracks are there. The wood is splintering. I’m working from the inside, and Carey is prying it open with acrowbar. He’s only young, but he does know what’s best for me. He’s lived a far freer life than I have. Trapped by my family, and my own anger, I lived every day blaming everyone else for my problems, but I was a willing participant until Carey Novak came along, slapped me across the face, and breathed life back into me.
Popping out his thumb, Carey holds the back of my head, guiding me to a better position.
His hips move, and the strain I’ve been begging for bites at my throat.
I gag, spit spraying harshly all over Carey’s stomach.
“You can clean that up when you’re done,” he tells me, and without another second to collect myself, he pushes forward until I feel his crown slip past my tonsils.
My eyes gape.
My throat contracts, but it’s not strong enough to force him out.
He bullies his way further in, his hand cupped around my neck so he can feel me stretch open as he bottoms out.
His balls are like fire against my chin.
I wish I could see clearly.
I want to know the look on his face and how perfectly ruined I am as he uses me.
“Tek? How much longer are you gonna be?”
“He’s busy,” Carey answers through his teeth because the sounds I’m making are wet and disgusting and perfect. Unrecognizable. Not a moan, more like an animal choking on a bone. And like the wretched beast I am, I squirm on the spot, trying to ease the ache between my legs.
Carey sees and tells me to; “Spread your knees.”
He slips free of my throat.
He gives me the soul of his slipper, and nothing more.
“You can touch it,” he says, and I know exactly the parameters of my permission. I wrap my hands around his ankle, holding him still as I grind up against his foot.
It’s torture, having so little room to move, so little to work with.
My cock aches inside my jeans, the backside of the zipper pressing into it uncomfortably, but it’s not a hindrance to my desperation.
I’m so worked up, so high on Carey, so degraded, so small, that I don’t need much.
New, fat, thankful tears stream down my reddened cheeks, mouth too full to do anything more than let out a feeble whimper as I come inside my underwear.
Carey drags his foot away and grabs my head with both hands.
He's relentless from the first new thrust.
My nose mashes into his blond hairs, thick with his scent.
He’s so rough that each new jab at my throat slaps more spit against his abs.
