“I suppose I can make an exception this once.”
I grab his cock that’s squished beneath his weight, pulsing with its own heartbeat, awash with his precum. Stroking his length in cadence with the rhythm of the pulse. “Does that feel swell baby?”
“Yes, yes, yes—just like that!” he whines, his body tensing, shaking like a volcano before its penultimate explosion.
My palm grips his prick harder, stroking with fury to witness the detonation. Thrusting in and out his plush arse, savouring every second of his glorious flesh.
“I’m abo—” he wails, voice cracking, his cock seizing in my clasp. Loads of viscous cream bursting out from his head, saturating the sheets with his milk.
His cries echo through the air like a psalm on Easter.
The vision of watching him lose it in my grip drives me mad, I pound his arse with vehemence, the image of his cream pushing me to the precipice.
“Take it,” I snarl, voice crazed with frenzy. “Every drop. Take your God’s gift.”
Then it comes—the flood. My cock vibrates violently inside, as if the heavens themselves have split. Spurt after zealous spurt filling his insides, the way God once flooded the world to lift Noah’s Ark into the storm.
After the last rage of my prick, I land beside him, our pants exhaling in sync, admiring his beauty. The instance of how he’s tied up, begging for more. I suppose we could go another round… Give him some more holy milk, but that would be cruel.
I’m a man of reason and logic—but these weird flutters of empathy keep crawling up from my depths. The desire to ask him how he feels, what I can do for him.
Is this normal?
I want to nurture him. Christ, even make him some dinner, he must be famished. He needs some nutrients to replenish all those fluids he’s lost.
But what is wrong with me?
I want to hold him tight, cuddle with him. Am I satisfied?
Definitely not, I want more of him, every ounce of his flesh. I can’t get enough. My ears ache for his prayers.
Usually after a fuck or two I don’t give a rat’s arse about anybody. They become soiled goods in my eyes, but there’s something drawing me into this man that won’t allow me to toss him onto the street.
I thought maybe after I ruin him for Charlie, my obsession would fade, but it’s only intensified with a vengeance.
“Let’s get you untied baby,” I purr into his ear, plopping a kiss onto his cheek. My hands undoing the twisted knots. “You were so fucking grand. A masterpiece.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “But you were amazing, I’ve never been worshipped like that.”
His words shatter through me, splitting me open like no one ever has. He understands that he’s my sanctuary. My altar. My Eucharist to consume. The bread for my mouth, the wine for my veins.
“Of course you haven’t,” I snicker, tracing his jaw, ripping off the blindfold so his chestnut irises meet mine. “Because no else knows how. No one else can. Only me. Only your King can worship you the way you deserve—raise you to your full potential.”
His lips spread into a wide grin, radiating the room with the light it shines.
A smile so bright, it brands itself in my brain, searing deeper than any tattoo I’ve ever gotten.
Is this what love feels like?The strange twisting of your gut, an urge to make him feel good rather than torture him into oblivion.
Or is this obsession to the next level?
My brain has never known love. I haven’t seen my parents in nearly a decade. My agent wires them money to keep them whisked away on the other side of the Atlantic.
My father taught me torture and fear, indulged me with so much of it I became immune.
Since then, my blood has only adored two things: the taste of sweaty fists and shattered teeth on the ice, and the thrill of tormenting my baby brother until he went mental. I’ve only let violence and cruelty lead my moral compass.
This is something different—the light sucking me into it’s blissful rays. Destroying the shadows I’ve thrived in. And maybe it doesn’t feel so bad. Tonight, I’m not going to fight it.
