4. Henri #2
Henri’s fingers uncurled at the command, his mind spinning. This wasn’t—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Michael’s fingers pressed inside, stretching and cleaning with the same care as washing his hair. Henri flushed, torn between shame and desire, wanting to hide yet craving more.
How could something shameful feel so good? Marc would never—
Another finger pressed in, and Henri’s confused thoughts scattered. Time seemed to blur, reality narrowing to Michael’s careful touches, the warm water, the gentle press and stretch of fingers. Henri found himself drifting, caught in this strange new tenderness.
Michael finished washing him thoroughly, his touches efficient but still gentle. When he was satisfied, he pressed a kiss to Henri’s shoulder. “Get out. Dry off and wait for me on the bed.”
Relief flooded Henri. This, he understood. Orders and compliance, these were familiar. He dried himself quickly, hanging the towel neatly back on the rack.
He moved to his suitcase, retrieving the lube he’d packed.
The dildo stayed in its case, a silent reminder of Marc’s demands.
Every trip Henri had taken, no matter how short, Marc expected video calls.
Henri performing, slicked and ready, the lube and toy were his tools for obedience.
Henri may not have spoken to Marc since before he left for London, but he still expected Marc to call.
Marc’s demands would likely be humiliating…
His fingers lingered on the lube bottle. Excitement flickered, sharp and forbidden. Using it for Michael, not Marc, felt like stealing something precious. Heat stirred in his gut, his cock twitching at the thought.
Henri bent over the king-sized bed, the position achingly familiar, and reached back with slicked fingers.
He’d barely pressed one inside when Michael’s voice cut through the room. “What are you doing?”
Henri froze, confused. “Preparing for you?”
Michael shook his head, water still beading on his chest. “I told you to wait. I want to do this part.”
Henri’s mind stalled. He stayed frozen as Michael gently took the lube from his unresisting fingers.
“On the bed,” Michael ordered.
Henri moved automatically, starting to settle on his hands and knees until Michael caught his hip, flipping him onto his back. A knowing smirk played across Michael’s lips. “Oh no, baby. I want to see your face—every expression you make while I take you.”
“You do?” Henri blurted, stunned.
Michael raised an eyebrow at him. “Do your lovers only ever take you from behind?” He asked as he spread Henri’s legs wide, exposing him to Michael’s gaze.
“No! Of course not,” Henri lied, cursing himself. Marc despised seeing his face. The men Marc chose didn’t either.
The only ones he fucked face-to-face were the women he was ordered to take.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why apologize?” Michael settled between Henri’s legs, resting his calves on his hips.
“Because…” Henri faltered. “You don’t believe me?”
“Is that a question?”
Henri hid his face in his hands, panic rising. “I don’t know! I just—I’m sorry!”
Michael caught his wrists, pulling them away. “It’s alright, Henri. Everything’s alright.” He leaned over, fingers threading through Henri’s hair, kissing his temple. “Why did that bother you, sweetheart?”
Henri shook his head, jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut as an unfamiliar emotion swelled. Michael waited, laying gentle kisses along his face, his neck, his collarbone.
“Tell me,” Michael whispered against his jaw.
Henri swallowed, trembling. “I’ve only ever had sex with men face-down. I’m sorry for lying.”
“Why would you lie about that?” Michael asked softly, still pressing gentle kisses along Henri’s jaw. His weight was grounding, rather than pinning. “And why haven’t you...?” He trailed off, thumb brushing Henri’s cheekbone.
Henri tried to turn his face away, but Michael caught his chin. “Look at me, baby.”
Henri met Michael’s concerned gaze. “It’s just how it’s always been,” he said, voice thin.
Michael studied him for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “And the lying?”
“I didn’t want you to think I was—” Broken. Used. Damaged. “—inexperienced,” he finished weakly.
“Hey.” Michael’s hands framed Henri’s face, the touch both commanding and tender. “There’s nothing wrong with how much or little experience you have. But I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”
The question felt weighted, important. Henri nodded slowly.
“Good boy,” Michael murmured, and Henri felt the knot of tension in his stomach dissolve at the praise. “Now, I’m going to take care of you. Show you how good it can be, seeing each other like this.”
The honest concern in Michael’s voice, so different from Marc’s cold commands, made Henri’s eyes sting. He nodded again, not trusting his voice.
Michael smiled softly, his thumbs brushing over Henri’s cheekbones before he leaned down. Henri’s heart thundered in his chest—he hadn’t been kissed since Jessica, that one night at Stanford.
The memory hit hard. Marc dragged him to a Stanford party, where Jessica Tisch flirted shamelessly, touching Marc’s arm, batting her eyelashes. A lesser Tisch, pretty but not the prize Marc wanted. That was Melanie Kohler, her roommate, a true heiress.
Marc’s instructions were simple, whispered in Henri’s ear. Charm Jessica. Keep her distracted. Another of Marc’s games, using Henri as a pawn to clear the way for his real target. Two juniors manipulating freshman drama with cold precision.
Jessica pulled Henri into an empty hallway. Her kiss was sudden, tentative. Henri froze at first, heart pounding. But he was supposed to distract her. Did this count? He leaned in, reciprocating, his lips pressing back against hers. Soft, uncertain, but enough to keep her engaged.
Marc hadn’t explicitly said to kiss her. Just charm her. Keep her distracted. Henri’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer. The line blurred in his mind. This had to be fine. It was part of the game.
He broke away first, breathless. Marc would know. He’d smell her perfume, see the guilt on Henri’s face. Henri wiped his mouth, panic rising.
For weeks, nothing happened. Henri dared to hope Marc hadn’t noticed. He let himself breathe.
Then Jessica vanished. Expelled on fabricated drug charges. Whispers said planted evidence—enough coke and pills in her dorm to implicate her in dealing, not just using. Scales, baggies, the works. Her future, ruined.
Henri knew instantly. This was his punishment. Not fists or rage, but something calculated. Marc had eliminated the temptation, leaving Henri to carry the weight of her destruction.
Guilt settled in his bones. He’d crossed a line he hadn’t known existed. Later, Marc made it clear: Henri shared his body only when explicitly told. No exceptions. Another rule learned the hard way.
Before her, there had been only that one curious, experimental kiss with Marc when they were teenagers. Marc had never kissed him again.
But Michael’s lips were sure against his, confident and commanding. When Henri gasped, Michael took advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue plunging into Henri’s mouth. It was possessive, claiming. Michael’s hips rolled against his, their cocks sliding together, and Henri moaned.
This was nothing like what he knew, nothing like what he’d been trained for.
Michael kissed like he was consuming him, like he was claiming every part of Henri, not just his body, but his breath, his sounds, his pleasure.
Henri’s hands fluttered uncertainly before settling on Michael’s shoulders, holding on as the kiss grew more demanding.
This was kissing. This was what he’d been denied all these years.
Henri found himself chasing Michael’s mouth when he tried to pull away, wanting more of this newfound pleasure.
Michael chuckled against his lips, indulging him with another deep kiss before slowly beginning to trail his way down Henri’s body.
Each press of his lips felt like a brand. Along Henri’s jaw. Down his throat. Across his chest. Michael took his time. He mapped Henri’s abs with his tongue. He nipped at his hipbones.
When Michael settled between his spread thighs, Henri’s panic returned full force. “What are you doing?”
The question came out too sharp. Too afraid. Henri knew he’d given something away.
Michael’s eyes darkened. He draped Henri’s legs over his shoulders. “You’ve had selfish lovers,” he stated. No question in his voice.
Henri never had lovers at all.
All thought ceased as Michael swallowed him down in one smooth motion.
Henri’s hands flew to Michael’s hair. Fingers tangled in the damp strands. Pleasure surged through him. A desperate sound escaped him. Part gasp, part moan.
His back arched. Hips thrust briefly. But Michael held him down as he swallowed around him.
Henri moaned. Overwhelmed by the sensation. Henri had performed this act countless times, his throat pounded raw by men who took without care. But being on the receiving end? The wet heat. The steady suction. It was unlike anything he’d known.
A slicked finger pressed inside him. Henri moaned at the dual sensation. Then Michael crooked his finger. Finding that spot inside him. Intense pleasure shot through Henri’s body.
Michael took him deeper. Henri hit the back of his throat, then pushed further. The tight pressure dragged up memories. Henri on his knees, gagging, throat burning as men thrust brutally, chasing their own release. Marc’s voice in his head: Swallow or you’ll regret it.
Shame twisted with pleasure. He wanted to pull back, to escape the echo of that pain. His hips jerked away instinctively.
But Michael’s hands clamped down harder on his thighs. Pinning him. Forcing him to stay buried in that enveloping heat. No escape. Only surrender.
“Stop,” he gasped. Hands tightened in Michael’s hair. “I’m close. I can’t.”
Michael pulled off just long enough to growl, “Give it to me.” Then he swallowed him down again. Deeper this time. Throat working around Henri’s length in deliberate swallows.