16. Nikolaus #3
I shove his pants down to his knees and wrap my hand around him through the soft green fabric of his training briefs, squeezing, not gently, not carefully, and he makes a noise so raw I have to clamp my other hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” I say, even though I want to hear every goddamn whimper. “You don’t want anyone coming in here to investigate, now, do you?” He whines into my palm, eyes going wide. “Unless… Maybe you want your housekeepers to see you get your hole destroyed by Daddy? Is that what my filthy boy wants?”
He shakes his head so hard I hear the friction of his cheek against my palm, but I see it, the shudder that ripples down his throat—he’s so close already, poor thing.
I bite the shell of his ear. “Tell me what you want, baby. Use your words.”
He tries to say something, but it’s mangled and lost behind my hand. I ease off, just a little, and his mouth chases my skin. “Want—” His voice cracks, and he tries again, softer, “Want Daddy.”
I go absolutely feral. I want to tear him open and climb inside. I want to fill every inch, mark every patch of skin so he’s never in doubt again.
His pants are halfway down, cartoon cars bright against the green elastic. I slide them off his legs, then kneel back to appreciate the view—a soft, flushed body, all round curves and pinkness, trembling and so goddamn vulnerable it makes my eyes water.
I want to eat him alive.
He covers his face with his hands and writhes, like if he moves fast enough, he’ll disappear. I grasp his wrists and pin them above his head, leaning in so he can’t squirm away.
“Show me, baby,” I say. “Show Daddy how pretty you are.”
He whimpers, but he drops his hands. His eyes are glassy, lashes stuck together, cheeks so red they look fevered. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling in sharp little bursts.
I slide a hand between his legs. He’s soaking wet, already leaking through the front of his training briefs. I could wring him out and make a goddamn cocktail with what’s coming out of him, and that thought alone nearly undoes me.
There’s a sob somewhere in his chest, and I realize it’s because he’s holding himself back, probably terrified that if he comes too fast, I’ll leave him here to stew in his own humiliation.
I want to tell him he’s wrong, but the words tangle behind the beast that’s taken over my tongue.
So I just tear the last of his underwear off and run my thumb down the slick, quivering line of him.
He jerks under my grip. I mean really, violently jerks, like he’s been shocked.
I smirk, then lean in and bite the inside of his thigh—hard enough to leave a mark, not hard enough to make him flinch away.
“Good boy,” I say again, and this time it’s not a reward, it’s a promise—you will be good for me, you will be mine, and I will take care of you even when you can’t stand yourself.
His hands are back to covering his face, but I let it go this time. He can have that much. I focus on his cock, so hard and purpling, I worry for a second he might pass out if I don’t do something about it. I stroke him, and he starts making these little keening noises behind his hands.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” I tell him, and I mean it so hard my throat aches.
I want to say it again, over and over, until there’s no air left in my lungs.
I want to break him and gather him back together, over and over, until the only thing left in this room is the memory of the two of us, fused and gasping, burned forever into the fabric of the universe.
He’s close. I know it in the twitch of his thigh, the blind, reaching fists, the way he tries to arch away from my hand even as he sobs, “Please, Niko—please, Daddy—please—”
I squeeze, just a hair crueler, just enough to make him cry out.
“There you go, baby,” I say, soft and savage at once. “Let me see how good you can be for Daddy.”
And then I bend down and swallow him whole, taking him all the way into my throat.
He comes so hard he makes a sound I’ve never heard from him, a broken shriek that’s one part pain and three parts ecstasy. I swallow his load, continuing to suck him through it until he’s begging and thrashing his head side to side, sobbing into his hands.
I choke once, then pop off his soft little cock, wipe my mouth, and crawl back up his body. His chest is flushed, mouth slack, hands tangled at his temples like he’s trying to keep his skull from flying apart.
He’s making a high, keening hiccup in the back of his throat, each inhale threatening to spill over into tears.
I cradle his jaw and bring our faces close until the shaking in his limbs starts to slow.
I let him be ruined. Sometimes that’s a mercy.
Sometimes it’s the only way to build a person back strong enough to withstand another round.
I watch the moment his pupils come back into focus. He blinks at me, eyelashes clumped, his lips parted like a question is waiting there, but he doesn’t know how to spell it.
I brush the wetness from the ridge of his cheekbone. “Oh, baby, we’re just getting started,” I whisper. “I won’t be done until your little boycunt is stuffed full and dripping Daddy’s cum.”