And then he began to move. His rhythm was not punishing, not frantic. It was a slow, deliberate, metronomic pistoning. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a full, deep re-occupation. It was maddening. There was no building wave, just a constant, plateaued state of being thoroughly, relentlessly used. Colin clenched his jaw, obeying the order for silence, though soft breaths hissed through his nose. His own cock, free and ignored, hung heavy and aching between his legs.
Mr. Henderson’s hands rested on Colin’s hips, not gripping, just anchoring. His breathing was even, controlled. He was a machine of pure, focused sensation. He shifted his angle minutely, and on the next thrust, the head of his cock grazed that devastating spot deep inside.
A broken gasp tore from Colin’s lips before he could stop it.
The rhythm stopped instantly. Mr. Henderson froze, buried deep. “I said no sounds,” he reminded him, his voice still calm. His hand came down on Colin’s left buttock, not a hard slap, but a firm, stinging spank that echoed in the quiet room. The shock of it, the shame, sent a jolt of pure heat straight to Colin’s groin.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Colin whimpered.
“I know,” Mr. Henderson said. And he began again, the same slow, measured pace.
This time, when he found that spot, Colin bit his lip until he tasted blood, determined to be good. He focused on the sensation, the impossible fullness, the slick sound of their joining, the contrast of the cool air on his exposed skin and the burning heat inside him. The denial of noise made the pleasure more internal, a silent scream building in his core. His untouched cock leaked a steady stream of pre-come onto the rug below, a testament to his aching need.
Mr. Henderson’s pace never changed. He fucked with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world, drawing out his own pleasure, and in doing so, drawing out Colin’s torment into an unbearable, beautiful agony. Colin’s thighs began to tremble with the strain of holding the position, with the effort of staying silent.
Just when Colin felt he might collapse, Mr. Henderson’s rhythm finally fractured. His thrusts became slightly quicker, deeper, his breathing harsher in Colin’s ear. One hand snaked around Colin’s hip, fingers wrapping around Colin’s dripping, neglected cock. He didn’t stroke it. He just held it, a tight, possessive fist around the base, a promise of nothing.
“Now,” Mr. Henderson grunted, his composure finally breaking. “Now you may come.”
The dual sensation—the final, deep thrusts hitting his core and the firm, denying grip on his cock—was the trigger. Colin’s orgasm exploded out of him, a silent, convulsive wave that had him seeing stars, his body clenching violently around the cock still pumping its own release deep inside him. It was a climax of pure submission, of being used exactly as his owner saw fit.
Mr. Henderson held him through the aftershocks, then gently withdrew. He tucked himself back into his impeccable trousers, righted his suit jacket. He looked as composed as when he’d arrived, save for a slight flush on his neck. He placed a card on the coffee table. “My number. Leo will arrange the transfer of the rest of the week. A… satisfactory evening.”
And he was gone, leaving Colin slumped over the table, shaking, spent, and more profoundly owned than ever. |
