Chapter 19 #4
“I’ll give it to you, Tommy,” I offer, pushing the table away from our bench, so he’ll have room to straddle my thighs. “Come here, and take what you need from me. No one else.”
“Oh my god,” He stares at me with wide eyes as I guide him carefully onto my lap, until he’s straddling me. “Oh my god, oh my god, this isn’t happening…”
“That ecstasy will make you feel pretty good,” I murmur, putting my hands on the table on either side of his hips, not touching just yet. “But I want you to remember that you can say stop at any time, and if you say red or yellow, I’ll stop then, too. Understand?”
He’s staring at me like I’m a dream, like he’s seeing a fantasy come to life. “Um, yeah.”
“Good boy,” I tell him, and he shudders hard, his eyes damn-near rolling back just from the praise.
“I don’t know if I–if I can, if I will–” He clenches his eyes shut, his hands in tense fists on my shoulders.
“You don’t have to do anything, Tommy, except feel good. There’s nothing you need to do. If it happens, great, if not, I’ll still tell you that you were a good boy for letting me try this for you. Hm? And we can always try again.”
“I think trying again would actually kill me,” he rasps. Sweat beads along his hairline as his body temperature rises. “I think I might already be dead, in some kind of purgatory. Because I can’t tell if this is a dream or a nightmare.”
“What would make it a nightmare?” I ask, taking advantage of the way the drug in his system is making him more talkative.
“If I can’t–if I let you down, if I can’t cum.” His eyes water, and his breathing picks up. “It feels good though, I feel so good already.”
“Good,” I praise him as he squirms on my lap, his fists unfolding hesitantly as he gives in to the urge to stroke the fabric of my shirt. “Very, very good boy, Tommy.”
“Touch me,” he breathes, leaning down on me hard, panting in my ear. “Touch me, please.”
“Where?” I ask. “Here?” I run my hands up his back, over his shirt, and he groans and grinds down against me, using my body to put pressure on his clothed dick.
“Yeah, everywhere,” he pants, rising up and then practically giving me a lap dance. He slides a hand down to his crotch, shivering all over. His impossibly dark eyes glisten and he looks like he’s about to cry from the pleasure, and that makes my dick twitch, too.
It’s dark at our booth, and the crowd on the dance floor isn’t paying any attention to us, but even if someone saw, they wouldn’t see anything obscene. I’m not taking his clothes off.
His eyes keep falling to my mouth, and he groans, the high taking away his verbal filter. “Wanna kiss you so bad.”
That makes me pause. I assess myself and my reaction to his words. I expect to feel some kind of denial, some kind of sign that it’s going too far, but instead, all I feel is heat. I want it.
“You like kissing, Tommy?” I purr at him as he writhes in my lap, in my hands.
I run my palms across his back, over the curve of his ass and down his legs, but not anywhere else, not yet.
“You were kissing those men on the dance floor, and I wanted to rip you away from them. I’m the one you should turn to if you need something like this. Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Goddamn,” he gasps, clutching the back of my neck. “I don’t think you’re straight, Young-gi.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“Yes, please, kiss me, oh fuck, I feel so good. So fucking good.”
I pull his mouth to mine, and we collide.
I press in immediately, eager and claiming. He groans into my mouth and shudders run all down his back.
His kiss is messy, uninhibited and enthusiastic to the extreme, probably from being high, but he moans into it and he’s so turned on that I enjoy it anyway.
The uncoordinated, raw way he’s kissing me is endearing, kind of filthy.
Suddenly, I realize that I’m more than halfway to getting hard myself.
Huh. Guess it is desire that I feel for him. I suppose I’m not perfectly straight after all.
At least, not where Tommy is concerned.
He shivers so hard, groans so loud, that I think he might’ve cum, but he didn’t, and he keeps whimpering and twitching and grinding on me desperately.
I soothe him, kiss him, let him kiss me, pet him, try to calm him down so he doesn’t get in his own way, emotionally speaking.
But his desperation is blatant, even with the drug making him feel good.
“I want it,” he cries at one point, face buried against my neck, writhing against me. “I need it.”
God, he’s art. Beautiful even in this acute, sensual pain.
“I know you do,” I murmur, moving his hand out of the way so I can be the one cupping and stroking his dick through his pants.
I feel extra fabric in the way, and realize he wore a jock so he could do this in public without making a mess.
Smart boy. “I want to give it to you. But it’s alright, either way, even if you can’t. ”
“Easy for you to say,” he says on a long, jagged moan, rubbing against my hand, writhing in my lap.
I know it’s cruel, and I don’t like to see him suffering, but the way he’s so desperate for it but can’t quite get there is doing something really dirty to my libido. Twisted, but I’m into it.
Maybe I like the way he’s so clearly in need, need for me and what I can give him.
“Whether you cum tonight or not, I’ll keep helping you,” I say into his ear, nipping the lobe until he gasps.
He has no idea what he’s done. This? Yeah, this part of him? Desperate and vulnerable and open and raw? It’s mine now.
I pull him in for another kiss, and realize that he doesn’t just like kissing; he loves it. Tommy is loud with his pleasure when he kisses. The drug is lowering all his barriers and letting him express his needs freely. Kissing makes him turn on those moans of his constantly.
I kiss him just to kiss him, just to make him feel good, just to connect to him. He’s leaning into it almost too hard, our teeth clacking, dirty and all consuming. By the time we part again, I’m so dizzy and breathless that I feel like maybe I’m the one who got high.
He groans, but it’s tinged with a sob. We’ve been here for almost an hour, both of our lips are swollen from kissing, and I know he’s hit the peak of the drug already.
Soon, he’ll start coming down. It will be a slow comedown, sure, and he’ll feel pretty good for another two hours or so, which means we have more time, but he seems disappointed as he continues to struggle in vain.
“I can’t!” he cries, slumping in my lap, sobbing onto my shirt. “I’m too fucked up, I can’t do it. So fucking stupid, worthless, so dumb, I can’t do it– I can’t do it–”
“Tommy,” I intend to put a stop to that line of thought, but he tears himself away from me and stumbles out of the booth.
“No,” he snaps, sounding both angry and needy, because he’s high and shivering with pleasure-pain. “Fuck you.”
I stand up with him, hold him close, and give him a stern warning. “What’s your safe word, Tommy?”
He grits his teeth, his pupils wavering as the drug keeps him high but his emotions try to bring him low. “Red.”
“Are you saying it now?”
He opens his mouth, closes it. He looks lost. I run a hand up his chest, and he moans, unable to contain it. His skin is hypersensitive right now, and he grabs my other hand and brings it to the front of his pants, whimpering. “No,” he says, and I almost stop, but he continues. “I’m not saying it.”
I don’t want to say good boy as a reward for not saying his safe word, that seems counterintuitive, but I get a little closer to him, kiss him again. He melts into it, soft and sweet, desperate. But after a few minutes of his sad cries, his tearful kisses and breathy moans, he tears himself away.
“I can’t!” He storms toward the front of the club, unsteady on his feet but pushing past anyone in his way. I follow, but the crowd is thick, and he makes it outside before I do.
I catch up to him at the car, where he’s yanking uselessly on the locked handle.
I drove us here tonight, so there’s no driver to open the door for him.
I push up against his back, pinning him to the car, and he moans loud and long, squirming.
I’ve never been aggressive like this, but it feels so right with him, so perfect.
Like it’s just what he needs, what I need.
“Please, please please please,” he begs. “Please, Young-gi, please help me, I can’t, so, so stupid, so worthless–”
I unlock the door and push him into the backseat, which is roomy enough to suit my needs. I crawl in after him and lock us inside. I know my security team is watching, but fuck that. It means nothing to me. What matters is this boy right in front of me. My boy, who needs me to help him.
He leans against the window opposite me, staring at me, tears on his face.
“Come here, Tommy,” I command. He slides closer to me with a shiver, his eyes bright and glassy. Once he’s close enough, practically in my lap, I slide one hand around the back of his neck to hold him in place. “This mouth is telling lies about you, Tommy.”
“I…what?”
“Your mouth,” I say, pausing to kiss him deeply, making sure he feels my tongue against his. “It’s telling lies about you. It’s insulting you. And I don’t allow insults.”
“Holy shit, that’s f-fucking hot,” he pants, overwhelmed. “What–um, what are you–gonna do?”
“I don’t have any soap with me to clean it out, but it needs to be corrected, doesn’t it?” I’m keeping my voice smooth and persuasive. “I need to see what’s making it lie and say those untrue things, hm? Let me take a look.”
“Let you…look?”
“Yes, Tommy, let me look for the lies you’ve got in that mouth of yours.” I put my thumb just under his lower lip and pull down gently. “Open up, let me see.”
The interior of the car is dim, but there are lights outside for the parking lot, so I can see it when he submits to me, the way he melts for me and becomes more fragile at the same time. His expression gets soft and hazy, his hands shake where they grasp my thighs, and he parts his lips.
“Wider,” I urge.
He whines, shifts in his seat, but obeys.
“Wider,” I tell him again. “Show me everything.”
He’s panting now, and I notice the way his dick is pressing hard against his jeans, more prominent than it’s been so far. He opens his mouth wide.
“Good boy,” I murmur, looking at his mouth intently, playing my part in a little game with him, one that will help get his mind off the ‘I can’t’ rhetoric.
Something to distract him from cumming at all, until it happens on its own.
Like being overwhelmed on the dance floor.
Plenty of stimulus, he’d said. Just redirecting his attention and giving him that domination he craves.
“Hm, I’m not sure I can see everything. Stick your tongue out for me,” I coo. “Let me see it.”
He whimpers, looks at me like he’s trying to see if I’m serious. I am. Trembling, without any of his usual bratty defensiveness, he does as I ask, laying his tongue out for me like rolling out a red carpet.
Mine. That’s mine, too. All of him, mine.
“There’s a good boy.” Once he has it out, I put the tips of two fingers against it and press down.
He makes a small sound, confused, aroused.
I stroke his tongue, knowing it’s sensitive as hell–he loves kissing for a reason, and the drug only makes it more intense–and hum thoughtfully.
“I don’t see any lies in here, Tommy. Do me a favor, though, and hold these in your mouth for a second, so I can make sure those bad words don’t come out again. ”
He shakily closes his lips around my fingers, and I move them a little deeper, then in and out, just once, back and forth against his tongue, petting it. His eyes roll back; he’s shaking hard.
“See, this is a good boy,” I say, and I lean forward, crowding him. “And he’s my good boy, isn’t he?”
I barely brush against the front of his jeans, and he cums. He sucks reflexively on my fingers, groaning and trembling, shivering hard as pulses wrack his hypersensitive body for a long time, releasing built-up pressure from weeks of going without.
He cums so hard for so long that a small wet patch manages to soak through his jockstrap and his jeans.
I watch, transfixed, and the primal satisfaction of giving him what he so desperately needs is so good that I feel like I’m one touch away from cumming, too.
Just from this. Just from getting him off with a little Daddy play.
“I see what you need,” I murmur as he pants hard, starting to come down. “Good boy, Tommy.”
He curls against me, shivering, and cries.