I worked him carefully, stretching and preparing him while stimulating his prostate with increasingly firm pressure. His cock leaked continuously now, fully hard again despite his recent orgasm. The sounds he made—half-gasps, half-sobs—were music to my ears, each one a testament to the pleasure I was giving him. To the control I was exerting. To the transformation taking place beneath my hands.
"Please," he begged, though I doubted he knew what he was asking for. "Please, Daddy, I need..."
"I know exactly what you need," I assured him, withdrawing my fingers. His entrance gaped slightly, pink and vulnerable. Exposed to me in a way no one else had ever seen.
I freed my cock, hissing as the cool air hit my overheated skin. I was painfully hard, the head dark and swollen, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. I stroked myself a few times, spreading the moisture, eyes fixed on Micah's exposed hole.
"I'm not going to fuck you tonight," I told him, my voice rough with arousal. "That's for another time. But I am going to mark you. Claim you."
He made a small, questioning sound, twisting to look back at me. The sight of him—face flushed, eyes glazed with pleasure, lips parted and swollen from sucking my nipples—pushed me dangerously close to the edge.
"Stay still." I positioned myself behind him, the head of my cock resting against his entrance without pushing inside. "This is going to feel strange, but good."
I stroked myself, the head of my cock rubbing against his hole with each movement. The dual sensation of my hand and the contact with his ass quickly built my pleasure to a critical point. My free hand gripped his hip, holding him steady as I worked myself against him.
Like any artist, I understood the importance of timing, of capturing the perfect moment. I held myself there, suspended between control and abandon, savoring the exquisite tension.
"You're mine now," I growled, feeling my orgasm approach. "This part of you belongs to Daddy. No one else."
"Yes," he gasped, pushing back against me. "Yours. Only yours."
Those words pushed me over the edge. My orgasm tore through me with unexpected force, pleasure radiating outward from my cock as I painted his hole with my release. The first jet hit directly on his entrance, stark white against the pink flesh. The second and third coated his ass cheeks and lower back, marking him as mine in the most primal way possible.
As the final pulses subsided, I used the head of my cock to smear my cum around his entrance, then slowly pushed two fingers inside him, carrying some of my release into his body. A primitive ritual of possession transformed into art.
"Good boy," I praised, fingers finding his prostate again, now slick with my cum. "The canvas of your skin wears my signature so well."
His entire body trembled, caught between intrusion and rising pleasure. His cock hung heavy and dark between his legs, leaking continuously onto the sofa below.
"I'm going to make you come again," I told him, establishing a rhythm with my fingers that directly stimulated his prostate. "But this time, it will be different. More intense. A prostate orgasm is unlike anything you've experienced before."
"I don't think I can," he protested weakly. "Not again. It's too much."
"You can and you will," I said firmly, increasing the pressure and speed of my movements. "Because I want to see it. Because it will please me to watch you come apart from my fingers inside you."
The invocation of my pleasure changed something in his resistance. His body yielded, accepting the intrusion, welcoming the stimulation rather than fighting it. His breathing deepened, muscles relaxing even as the pleasure built visibly within him. Each new surrender was a victory, a step closer to complete dependency.
"That's it," I encouraged, my fingers moving in precise circles against his prostate. "Let it build. Don't fight it."
Minutes passed, his body trembling continuously now, small sounds escaping his throat with each press of my fingers. Unlike a traditional orgasm, which built quickly to a peak, this pleasure seemed to expand within him, radiating outward from the center in ever-widening circles.
"I feel strange," he gasped. "Like I'm going to... but not... I don't know what's happening..."
"Surrender to it," I instructed, maintaining the steady rhythm. "Let it take you."
When it finally happened, the transformation was beautiful to witness. His entire body went rigid, back arching sharply, a cry tearing from his throat that sounded almost like pain. His cock jerked, spilling in slow streams. He shuddered with wave after wave of pleasure.
It was like watching a death in reverse—that moment of profound change, of crossing from one state to another.
The orgasm seemed endless, his muscles contracting around my fingers in rhythmic pulses as his cock continued to leak. His hands clutched desperately at the sofa cushions, knuckles white with tension. The sounds he made were broken, almost inhuman in their raw intensity.
When the final tremors subsided, he collapsed bonelessly across the arm of the sofa, utterly spent. I withdrew my fingers gently, aware of his sensitivity, and gathered him into my arms. His body was limp, eyes unfocused, breath coming in ragged gasps.
"There," I murmured, cradling him against my chest. "Now you understand. Now you know what your body is capable of."
He couldn't speak, could only nod weakly, his face pressed against my shoulder. I could feel the rapid flutter of his heart gradually slowing, his breathing becoming less ragged.
"So good for me," I praised, stroking his hair. "Such a perfect boy."
