9. Henri #4
Michael set out the containers, watching Henri perch carefully on the barstool. “Want to tell me what happened back there?” He kept his movements deliberate as he broke apart chopsticks.
Henri stared at the counter, fingers tracing patterns on the marble. “It’s stupid. Just a memory.”
“Not if it affected you like that.” Michael placed a set of chopsticks in front of Henri.
After a long moment, Henri did. He glossed over it a bit, and left out that Marc had left him in the master bedroom for days without food, never bothering to heal his injuries.
Michael’s chopsticks stilled. “When was this?”
“Right after we moved back to PDC from Stanford.” Henri wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Michael set down his chopsticks and moved behind Henri, wrapping his arms around him. He pulled Henri back against his chest, one hand coming up to stroke his hair. “What he did was monstrous. You know that, right?”
Henri leaned into the touch, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The warmth of Michael’s chest against his back grounded him, away from those memories.
“Intellectually, I know.” His voice grew quieter. “But somewhere deeper... I also know I deserved it. I know I shouldn’t think that way, but I can’t seem to stop.”
Michael gave Henri one final squeeze before moving to sit on the stool beside him. He reached for the soy sauce, his movements deliberately casual, as if to bring them back to the present moment and their lunch. Henri watched him mix wasabi into the small dish, grateful for the shift in focus.
Henri paused, chopsticks hovering over a piece of sushi. “This has cream cheese in it. I didn’t realize—dairy isn’t great before...”
Michael’s jaw tightened, but he kept arranging the soy sauce dishes.
“I’m sorry,” Henri said quickly, hearing how it sounded. “I just meant—”
“Stop.” Michael’s voice was firm but gentle. “Don’t apologize. I want to know everything about you, Henri. Every rule, every restriction, everything that shaped you, so I can give you everything you deserve.” He kissed him, then set several cream-cheese rolls on Henri’s plate on purpose.
Michael held his gaze, steady and warm.
Henri couldn’t hold it. His chest tightened. He didn’t deserve this. Not the kiss. Not the patience. Not food chosen for him, like he was worth feeding.
Trash , said the old voice. A problem to manage. A mess to hide. Too much. Not enough. Breakable. Already broken.
He stared at the plate. The rice was too white. The salmon too clean. His hands felt borrowed. If he asked for things, people got hurt. If he needed, people paid. Be quiet. Useful. Small.
His pulse climbed. Soy sauce burned his tongue. The room narrowed at the edges. If Michael knew all of it, he would—
A low vibration stirred inside him.
The plug buzzed to life—soft at first, a steady thrum that found the point just behind his pubic bone.
The current climbed his spine and cut the thought in two.
Henri folded over the counter with a small, startled gasp, fingers biting the marble.
Heat pooled low. His cock hardened like his body remembered a language his brain had dropped.
“Breathe,” Michael said, fingers carding through Henri’s hair. “With me.”
Henri dragged air in. The pulse eased. He let it out. The thrum pressed a little more. Breath and sensation linked until the static thinned.
The voice that called him trash receded under the hum and Michael’s steady hand. He blinked up. Michael was watching him. Not checking for mistakes—watching him.
“Good,” Michael murmured, sure and quiet. He lifted his phone so Henri could see the screen. “We’re eating lunch. Together. Just us.”
Henri’s hands clenched the stool, knees shaking. He nodded. “Yes… yes, okay.”
Michael thumbed the app; the vibration eased to a background purr.
He picked up a roll and tapped it lightly against Henri’s lower lip.
“Open.” Henri obeyed. “Chew.” Michael counted under his breath—one, two, three—and smiled when Henri swallowed.
He pressed a glass of water into Henri’s hand.
“Drink.” A napkin. “Wipe.” His thumb chased a dot of soy from Henri’s mouth, and he sucked it clean, eyes on Henri the whole time. “Good.”
The hum stayed low.
They finished the food in small, ordinary movements—sushi, water, breath—Michael feeding him the last bite.
Henri turned to him, trembling. “Please, Michael. I’ve been good. I ate everything. Please let me cum.”
Michael dragged a finger down Henri’s sternum, slow enough to make his lungs forget their job. “Before that,” he said lightly, “tell me three things you can feel right now.”
Henri blinked. “The stool. Your hand. The—” his hips twitched “—the plug.”
“Good.” Michael’s mouth curved. “Two things you can taste.”
“Soy. Fish.”
“And one thing you want.”
Henri’s throat worked. “You.”
The vibration climbed a notch; Henri’s breath broke. Michael leaned in, lips brushing his temple. “Better. Now use your words.”
“I want to cum,” Henri whispered. “Please.”
“Closer.” Michael’s thumb eased over a nipple; the hum pulsed in answer. “What are you asking me for?”
“Permission,” Henri said, shivering. “Yours.”
Michael’s eyes warmed, pleased. “There you are.” He tipped the phone again; the vibration bumped and held, pulling a helpless sound from Henri’s chest. “Stay here with me, baby. In your body. Then we’ll see what you’ve earned.”
“I need it. Need you,” Henri said, the plea clean now—no static, only want.
Michael’s smile went wicked and fond. “That, I can work with.”
He rose and pulled Henri from the stool, guiding him to the couch. Michael sat and drew Henri into his lap, one arm around his back, the other sliding between his cheeks to the base of the plug.
“Breathe,” he said.
Henri did. Michael twisted a fraction and drew it out slowly. The first ridge dragged over the tight ring, and Henri’s mouth fell open. Stretch giving way to glide. A slick, obscene sound as the toy retreated, the vibration fading to a whisper and then—
—air.
The last ridge slipped free with a soft pop. Coolness hit sensitive flesh; his rim fluttered around nothing. The ache flipped inside out into a hollow that made his stomach drop. Empty. Hungry. His cock kicked hard against his belly, leaking.
“Michael,” he gasped, thighs shaking. His body tried to clench the absence closed, tried to pull something back in.
“I know,” Michael murmured, palm warm at the small of his back, holding him steady. He set the toy aside. “You’re open for me.”
The emptiness throbbed, need burning low and insistent. Henri’s hands fumbled at Michael’s zipper, frantic now, desperate to trade the vacancy for heat and weight. “Please—inside—”
“Ask me,” Michael said, voice rough and pleased.
“Please, Michael,” Henri begged, almost sobbing with it. “Fill me. I need you.”
Michael freed himself; the blunt heat of his cock nudged at Henri’s slick rim. He kissed Henri’s throat, breath hot. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Only mine.”
He slid the head in and held there until Henri’s body fluttered and pulled for more.
“Yes,” Henri breathed, and sank down.
Michael’s hands locked on his hips—iron and sure—and Henri wanted the promise of it. He tried to rise; Michael held him in place and ground up, slow and deliberate. Henri groaned.
His thighs trembled around Michael’s hips. Breath caught. His body kept clutching down, trying to keep Michael deeper. Keep the moment.
Michael went still.
A small, broken sound slipped out of Henri. He pressed his palms to Michael’s chest, needing the confirmation that he was held.
Thumbs stroked his hips. “Beg.”
“I already—”
“No.” Lower now. “Not to come. To move. Beg to ride my cock.”
“Please,” Henri said, hips already trying to shift. “Please let me ride you.”
“More.”
Henri’s throat worked. He felt foolish and fierce at once. The words burned on the way out. “I want… your marks.” His eyes flooded. He nodded, hard, like that could push the shame past. “Please bruise me. I want to see you on my skin. I want to wear you.”
Michael’s breath hitched. He gentled his voice. “You want bruises?”
“Yes.” A sob slipped free, humiliating and true. “Please. Your handprints. Your bite. My hips, my thighs—here.” He guided one of Michael’s hands to the sharp curve of bone. “Don’t hide it.”
“Look at me,” Michael said. Henri did. “Stop means stop. If you change your mind, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“You want my marks on you, baby?”
“I want them,” Henri said, tears bright. “I want you.”
The grip on his hips tightened, a mix of control and care in the same hold. “That’s my boy,” Michael said, pride warm in it. “Show me. And don’t touch your cock. That’s mine.”
Henri nodded, no hesitation.
He lifted, a slow glide out, dragging over a live nerve, then sank with a helpless moan.
Again. Up. Down. Again.
He found a rhythm: careful at first, then deeper, grinding at the bottom until stars pricked the edges of his vision. Wet sounds. Harsh breaths. The faint creak of the couch.
“Look at you,” Michael murmured. “So tight. So good for me. You feel incredible, baby.”
Heat flushed Henri’s skin. He kept moving. He wanted Michael to feel everything.
“You’re doing so well,” Michael said, sliding one hand to the small of Henri’s back, the other branding down on his hipbone in a hold that would color. “Riding me like you were made for it.”
“I was,” Henri gasped. “For you.”
Michael growled low. He shifted under Henri, searching, then found the angle that sent pleasure knifing bright through Henri’s belly. The next stroke hit it again. Henri’s breath broke.
“Breathe with me,” Michael said, rough but steady. Henri obeyed—inhale, exhale—and the rhythm held.
“You want to cum?”
“Yes—God, yes, please—”
“Don’t you dare.” Michael stilled.
A sob tore out of Henri. His whole body clenched.
Fingers caught his chin, lifted his gaze to storm-dark eyes. “You wait for me.”
He nodded, barely holding on.
Michael moved again. Three shallow rolls, one deep thrust that landed with unnerving precision. Again. Again. The pattern took thought apart.
Henri’s cock leaked untouched between them. His legs burned. He breathed and obeyed. Michael’s hands stayed where Henri had begged, his fingers biting into the soft of Henri’s thigh, thumbprint settling dark over his hip.
A hand slid between them—not to stroke, only to ghost close. Enough to shock another sound from Henri; never enough to tip him.
“Say it,” Michael growled, rhythm fraying toward rough. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” Henri choked. “I belong to you.”
Michael surged up and bit where neck meets shoulder—open-mouthed and luscious. A claim that would bloom visible. Henri cried out as the pressure crossed into ache, into color, into exactly what he’d asked for.
The world went bright.
He came with a sob, release striping hot across their skin as his body clenched hard around Michael. Michael cursed, thrust once—twice—and spilled deep, holding Henri through every pulse.
They stayed there, breathing hard, slick and spent. Henri sagged into Michael’s chest, forehead to shoulder, unwilling to move.
Arms wrapped him fully. No demands. Only a hold.
“You did so well,” Michael whispered at his temple. “Perfect.”
Henri made a small, wordless sound. Michael kissed the bite, gentle now. The edges already darkening.
And Henri let himself be kept, marked and held, the ownership he wanted written on his skin.