The silver-haired man’s smile is a slash of white in the dim light. His fingers, still resting possessively on my cage through the denim, exert the slightest pressure. It’s not painful. It’s a promise.
“My Master…” I start, my voice a hoarse whisper, but he cuts me off.
“Is not here,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I am. And I see a beautiful, caged boy alone in a den of wolves. I’m offering you a taste of the hunt before you become the main course.” His thumb rubs a slow, deliberate circle. My breath hitches. “A simple challenge. You please me, here, against this wall, and I’ll ensure your Master’s night is everything he desires. You have my word.”
My mind screams for Master Ansh, for his command, for his permission. But this… this is part of the test, isn’t it? To be alone. To be tempted. To make a choice.
The choice is an illusion, a voice that sounds like Master’s whispers in my head. Your only choice is obedience.
I look into the man’s piercing blue eyes, see the cool, calculating hunger there, and I nod. A single, sharp dip of my chin.
His smile widens. “Good boy.” He takes my arm, his grip firm but not cruel, and guides me away from the main thoroughfare, into a darker alcove partially shielded by a heavy velvet curtain. The music is a dull throb here, the air closer, more intimate. He pushes me back against the cold, textured wall, his body caging me in.
“Let’s see what your Master keeps locked away,” he murmurs, his fingers making quick work of my jeans button and zipper. He doesn’t fumble. His movements are precise, practiced. He yanks my jeans and briefs down to my thighs in one smooth motion, exposing the plastic cage and my trapped, aching flesh to the cool, charged air.
A low, appreciative hum rumbles in his chest. “Exquisite,” he says, his fingers tracing the hard plastic. “The ultimate denial. It makes every other part of you so much more sensitive, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand slides down, cupping my balls, weighing them, rolling them gently. A moan is torn from my lips. Fuck. He’s right. Every touch is electric, amplified a thousand times by the relentless pressure of the cage.
“You’re going to stand here,” he commands, his voice dropping to a husky whisper directly against my ear. “You’re going to take what I give you. And you’re not going to make a sound above a whisper. If you do, I stop. And I’ll tell your Master his property has a disobedient mouth. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe, the title feeling foreign yet terrifyingly appropriate.
He drops to his knees.
The sight is surreal. This powerful, older man in his impeccable suit, on his knees for me. But the power is all his. He owns this moment. He nuzzles against my inner thigh, his stubble rough against my sensitive skin. His tongue, hot and wet, licks a long, slow stripe from the base of my balls all the way up the shaft of the cage.
I jerk against the wall, a gasp catching in my throat. I bite my lip hard, drawing blood, to keep the sound in.
He does it again. And again. He’s not teasing. He’s tasting. Worshipping the prison. His mouth closes over the entire cage, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the hard plastic, lavishing attention on the one part of me that can’t feel its direct wet heat. The frustration is its own kind of pleasure, maddening and intense. My knees feel weak.
“You taste of anticipation,” he murmurs, pulling off with a soft pop. “Of desperate obedience. It’s intoxicating.”
His hands grip my hips, holding me steady. He moves lower, his tongue delving into the sensitive space behind my balls, laving and flicking until I’m trembling. Then lower still. His tongue, firm and insistent, presses against my hole.
I choke back a sob. My fingers scramble against the rough wall behind me.
He eats me out with a surgeon’s precision and a glutton’s hunger. His tongue is a ruthless instrument, circling, pressing, then spearing deep inside me. It’s degrading and sublime. This stranger, in a semi-public club, devouring me like I’m his last meal. I can feel the wetness, the heat, the shameful bliss of it coiling deep in my belly. My whispered moans are a continuous, broken stream.
“Please… oh god… Sir…”
He ignores my begging, intensifying his assault. He works me open with his tongue until I’m panting, my body slick with sweat, my mind dissolving into a puddle of sensation. I’m so close to some nebulous edge, my caged dick throbbing with a need it can’t possibly fulfill.
Suddenly, he stops. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, his face glistening with my sweat and his saliva. He unzips his own trousers, freeing a thick, imposing cock. He’s already fully hard, the head flushed and leaking.
“Turn around,” he commands, his voice thick with his own arousal. “Hands on the wall. Present that wet, eager hole for me. I want to feel how well your Master’s slave prepared you.”
I obey instantly, turning to face the cool wall, spreading my legs, arching my back. The vulnerability is absolute. I hear him spit into his hand, slicking his length. I feel the broad, hot head of his cock nudge against my entrance.
He doesn’t thrust. He pushes. A slow, inexorable, stretching invasion that steals the air from my lungs. He’s bigger than Master Ansh. Thicker. The stretch is immense, a burning, perfect fullness that makes me see stars. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully sheathed, his hips pressed flush against my ass.
A whimper escapes me, far too loud. He slaps my ass, hard. The sting is a sharp counterpoint to the deep, throbbing ache inside me.
“I said quiet,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips like vices.
He begins to move. His rhythm is brutal, possessive. Each thrust is a claim, pounding into me with a power that shakes my entire body. The sounds are obscene—the slap of his skin against mine, the wet, slick noise of my well-used hole taking his massive cock, my ragged, whispered pleas.
“You take a stranger’s cock so well,” he grunts, his breathing harsh in my ear. “Your Master trained a perfect little public whore, didn’t he? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be used anonymously against a wall?”
“Yes! Sir! Fuck yes!” I cry out, the words a desperate prayer.
“You’re just a hole,” he snarls, pounding into me with renewed force. “A warm, tight, anonymous hole for me to fuck. Tell me.”
“I’m a hole! I’m your hole! Fuck me, use me, please!”
His pace becomes erratic, animalistic. I can feel his control shattering. He’s chasing his release, using my body to get himself off, and the sheer degrading truth of it pushes me higher. My body is no longer my own. It’s a tool for his pleasure.
With a final, guttural groan that vibrates through my spine, he slams deep and holds there. I feel the hot, pulsing jets of his cum flooding my depths, marking me, claiming me as his temporary property. The sensation is overwhelming, a stranger’s release joining the cocktail already inside me.
He stays buried for a long moment, his weight heavy on me, his breath hot on my neck. Then, he pulls out slowly. I feel a rush of his cum leaking from my well-stretched hole, dripping down my thighs.
He steps back, tucking himself away, zipping his trousers. He adjusts his suit jacket, every movement composed, as if he just concluded a business deal. I slump against the wall, boneless, trembling, a used mess.
He leans close again, his lips brushing my ear. “Tell your Master that Silas approves of his property. And tell him… I’ll be watching for his show.”
He disappears through the velvet curtain, leaving me alone, filled with a stranger’s cum, my ass throbbing, my mind reeling. The weight of what just happened crashes down on me. I did it. I obeyed. I took it.
A new voice, familiar and laced with dark amusement, cuts through the haze from behind me.
“I see you didn’t waste any time, slave.”
I freeze. My blood turns to ice.
Slowly, I turn around.
Master Ansh is standing there, leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his chest. A small, predatory smile plays on his lips. His eyes, dark and all-seeing, drift down my body, taking in my disheveled state, the cum glistening on my thighs, the unmistakable look of a well-fucked boy.
How long has he been watching?
“Tell me, Dhruv,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous purr that slithers under my skin.
