Surrender
Patrick [NOW]
He continues giving me head, his mouth a hot, slick vacuum around my girth, his tongue swirling with a maddening precision that makes my toes curl inside my work shoes—those stupid, sensible black shoes I wear for eight-hour shifts.
The plug works its magic on my inexperienced muscle, each subtle movement of my body sending shockwaves through my system.
His free hand, the one not occupied with the exquisite torture of my dick, snakes around my hip, digging into the flesh of my ass.
He begins to manipulate the plug, twisting it slightly, pulling it out enough to make me clench around it before pushing it back in deeper.
The motion is calculated, designed to push me right to the edge of what I can handle without letting me fall.
My body arches involuntarily. My wrists strain against the handcuffs, the metal biting into my skin with a pain that's both grounding and exhilarating. The wire shelf presses into my back, a constant reminder of how utterly trapped I am.
"Fuck," I gasp, the words barely coherent as he swallows me down again, his throat constricting around the head of my dick. My hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of anything he's willing to give me.
He responds by pulling back slightly, his lips wrapped around the tip, his tongue flicking against the sensitive underside with maddening lightness.
His other hand continues to work the plug, now thrusting it in time with the shallow movements of his mouth.
The dual stimulation is almost too much, a symphony of sensation that threatens to shatter me into a million pieces.
"Please," I beg, the word torn from my throat as my head falls back against the metal shelf with a thud that barely registers. "Sir, please..."
A low chuckle vibrates against my dick, straight up my spine, making me shake. He's enjoying this. I can feel it in the way his tongue suddenly becomes more intentional, more cruel. He's savoring my desperation. I'm enjoying it too. Every second of it.
His pace quickens suddenly, his mouth taking me deeper with each downward motion, his hand working the plug with increasing intensity.
The pressure builds inside me, a coiling spring of pleasure that winds tighter and tighter with every thrust, every suck, every twist of his wrist. My vision starts to tunnel, the edges blurring as all my focus narrows to the points of contact between our bodies—the hot wetness of his mouth, the cold metal of the handcuffs, the unyielding pressure of the plug.
Just as I feel myself approaching the inevitable, he stops.
His mouth pulls away, leaving my dick throbbing in the cool air of the office. His hand stills on the plug.
"Color?" he asks.
"Green," I gasp, my voice ragged. "Still so fucking green, sir."
He rises slowly to his feet. His hands move to his own pants, deftly working the button free, then lowering the zipper with agonizing slowness.
When he springs free, hard and ready, my mouth goes dry.
He's bigger than I remember, thicker, the head flushed a deep purple and already glistening with pre-cum.
He wraps a hand around himself, stroking slowly as his eyes rove over my body, taking in every detail—my flushed face, my heaving chest, my wrists bound above my head.
"I love you like this," he admits.
I can only nod, my words failing me as he steps closer, the head of his dick brushing against my stomach, leaving a wet trail on my skin. His other hand returns to the plug, twisting it again, sending another jolt of pleasure through me.
"I'm going to fuck you," he says, not asking, but stating it as fact. "And you're going to take every inch of me. Do you understand?"
"Yessir."
He doesn't remove the plug right away. Instead, he continues to manipulate it, stretching me, preparing me, watching my reactions with intensity.
A whimper escapes me as he finally eases the plug out, the sudden emptiness making me clench around nothing.
He positions himself between my legs, grabbing them into his arms, the head of his dick pressing against my entrance.
"Look at me," he commands. "I want to see you."
I obey, my gaze locked with his as he pushes forward, the head of his dick breaching me with a stretch that burns and pleasures at the same time. My breath catches in my throat, my hands clenching into fists above my head as he presses deeper, filling me inch by excruciating inch.
"Fuck… You’re so tight," he murmurs.
The praise sends a shiver through me, my walls clenching around him involuntarily.
He groans in response, his hips pressing forward until he's fully seated inside me, his balls flush against my ass.
The sensation is overwhelming—fullness, pressure, a deep, primal satisfaction at being claimed so completely.
He stills for a moment, giving me time to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel my pulse racing where we're connected, can feel every twitch and throb of him inside me. All of this feels intimate in a way I've never experienced before.
Then he starts to move. Slowly at first, with long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. Each thrust is designed to drive me to the brink of insanity. My head falls back against the shelf with each powerful movement, my mind going blank with pleasure.
"Fucking perfect," he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to leave bruises. "You feel incredible."
The praise, combined with the relentless stimulation, pushes me higher and higher.
I'm a mess of need and want, my body no longer my own, existing solely for the pleasure he's giving me.
The metal of the handcuffs digs into my wrists, the pain a distant echo beneath the overwhelming burn of my own list for more of him.
"Can I come, sir?" I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice, so desperate and wrecked.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he reaches between us, wrapping his hand around my dick, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is too much, the coil of pleasure tightening to the breaking point.
"No," he growls against my ear, the word a low rumble that vibrates through my entire body. "I'm not done with you."
I arch up against him, desperate for any friction from the hard planes of his stomach, but he catches on immediately.
Before I can register the movement, he's pulling out completely, leaving me empty and aching.
I groan at the sudden loss, my head falling back against the metal shelf as my feet hit the floor.
He takes a few steps back. His sight roams over my body, taking in every detail—my heaving chest, the sweat beading on my forehead, the way my wrists strain against the handcuffs.
His dick is still hard, glistening in the dim light of the office, pulsing with unspent need.
I'm panting, sweating, pulling uselessly at the cuffs, and somehow the predatory look in his eyes fuels my ego more than anything I've ever experienced.
He smirks and bends down to retrieve the keys from where they'd fallen on the floor.
The movement is controlled, giving me a perfect view of his toned back and the muscles flexing in his thighs.
Before he unlocks the cuffs, he grabs the belt still cinched around my waist, using it to pull me flush against him.
The kiss he gives me leaves me breathless and dizzy.
Then he finally unlocks the cuffs, the metal clicking open. The gentleness as he rubs my wrists, massaging away the indentations left by the metal, makes my heart flutter in my chest. He takes my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and kisses me again, soft and tender.
"I love you," he says.
Before I can find the breath to echo the sentiment, I'm yelping instead as he heaves me up, his strength catching me off guard.
Papers fly as he pushes me chest-first onto the desk, the wood digging into my ribs and my cheek pressed against a stack of invoices.
The sudden movement leaves me breathless.
His hand comes down on my ass, the smack echoing in the small office.
The sting radiates through me in a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure that makes my dick throb against the hard wood of the desk.
"Color?" he whispers again, his body covering mine, pinning me in place.
"Green," I moan, the word muffled by the papers beneath my cheek. "But it's about to be yellow if you don't hurry up—"
Another smack cuts me off, harder this time, followed by another, and another.
The rhythm is relentless, each impact sending jolt after jolt of electricity straight to my dick.
My skin is on fire. Then his grip is in my hair, yanking my head back, the angle forcing my spine into an arch.
His voice is back in my ear, a dangerous growl that vibrates through my entire body.
"Are you being bad, baby?"
"No, sir," I gasp, the denial automatic.
"Hmm," he rumbles, the sound a low hum of disagreement. "I think you were being very bad."
He leans back slightly, the shift in weight giving him a new angle.
His hand snakes between my legs, gripping my dick, pulling it back until it's trapped between my thighs.
His other hand joins in, cupping my balls, tugging them down in a way that makes my entire body tense with pleasure.
His thumb finds the tip, circling the sensitive slit, smearing the pre-cum that's gathered there.
The stimulation is almost too much, a direct line to the orgasm that's coiling in my gut.
"Sir," I gasp in desperate warning. "You're going to make me cum."
"You're not allowed to yet."
The denial hits me, and the strangled sound that escapes my throat is pure desperation.
I hear the cap of the lube pop open again, followed by the shock of cold liquid pooling against my entrance, dripping down to coat my balls and shaft.
His hand is everywhere at once, spreading the slickness from hole to tip, yanking and twisting until I'm rising onto the balls of my feet, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation while simultaneously craving more.
Shit. I'm going to come. He's not going to stop.
Before I can form the words to warn him again, he's pressing into me.
He enters me in one swift, punishing thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The belt around my waist becomes a rein as he yanks me back against him, forcing me to balance with my palms flat against the desk, papers scattering beneath my hands.
He fucks me relentlessly, each stroke harder and deeper than the last. The slap of his hand against my ass echoes in the small office, mingling with the sound of his hips meeting mine.
His grip on the belt tightens, using it to control my movements, to pull me into each thrust with bruising force.
Then he props one foot on the office chair, changing the angle enough to make me see stars with every movement.
The new position allows him to hit that spot inside me that makes my entire body tremble.
He yanks my head back until his mouth is pressed against my ear.
"Come," he grunts. "Now."
The permission is all I need. With a broken cry, my body shatters, the orgasm ripping through me with an intensity that leaves me gasping for air.
My release spurts onto the desk and onto my own thighs, each pulse of pleasure drawing out a grunt from deep in my chest. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, riding me through the aftershocks until his own release takes him.
With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside me, his dick pulsing as he fills me with heat. His groan is deep, nearly primal.
For a moment, we stay like that, our bodies pressed together, both trembling. His weight on my back is grounding.
Then he's lifting me, gently this time, turning me in his arms until I'm facing him. He cups my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I didn't even realize had fallen. The kiss he gives me is soft and tender.
"You were perfect," he whispers against my lips.
I laugh, the sound rough in my throat. "You were..." I pause, trying to find the right word, but my brain's all fuzzy. "Assertive," I finally whisper back, leaning in close.
He turns his head to catch my eye, that familiar glint of mischief dancing in his irises. "A good thing?" he asks. He already knows the answer.
I can't help it—I'm grinning like a goddamn idiot, my face stretched so wide it almost hurts. "Yeah," I say, and it comes out more breathless than I intended. "A very good thing."
We stand there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, the silence of the office broken only by our slowing breaths.
The scent of sex and coffee and sweat fills the air, mingling with the faint smell of old paper.
It's perfect in a way I never could have imagined, a perfect blend of the familiar and the forbidden.
I snag my lip ring with my teeth, letting out a jagged breath when I spot the ceiling. No cameras in the office. The relief is so instant it almost makes me dizzy.
Finally, he pulls back, his hands sliding down my arms to my wrists, examining the red marks left by the cuffs. "I didn’t mean to leave these… I'm sorry about the bruises," he says softly, his thumb tracing one of the angry welts on my ass.
"Don't be," I reply. "They'll remind me of this every time I see them. And trust me, that's not a bad thing."
He laughs, and the sound is so fucking real it almost hurts, pulling me back into his orbit until his mouth crashes against mine.
We're a team, a codependent mess. But as Ricardo's mouth explores mine, I realize something. I'd spent months convincing myself comfort was the enemy of passion, that love had an expiration date we were counting down to. But being here with him, I realize I got it backwards.
Comfort wasn't the problem, we were. Not because we'd stopped loving each other, I love him so much it hurts, but because we'd stopped talking.
The real things, not surface-level bullshit.
We've been so busy playing house, wrapped in our domestic bubble, that we forgot to keep pushing each other, to keep being the spark that drew us together.
We became comfortable, and in that comfort, we grew complacent.
We stopped fighting for each other, because we thought we'd already won.
But this—this messy, complicated, terrifying thing—feels like we're finally waking up. Like we're remembering that love isn't passive. It's an action. A choice you make every day, even when it's hard. Especially then.