The warmth of Master Ansh’s cum is a brand inside me, a thick, pulsing reminder of my place. I can feel it, a heavy, liquid heat nestled deep in my core, already beginning its slow, inevitable descent. My body is a canvas of his ownership—my stomach painted with my own spend, my thighs sticky with his.
Master Ansh’s fingers trace the trail of his own release as it leaks from my stretched, used hole. He gathers a thick glob on two fingers, holding it up to the light. “Look at that, Dhruv. Look at my fucking claim on you. It’s already trying to escape. It knows it belongs out here, marking you for everyone to see.”
He smears it across my lower back, a crude, wet stripe. “Get dressed,” he commands, his voice dropping back into that familiar, unyielding tone that brooks no argument. “We’re going for a walk.”
My limbs feel like lead, my muscles liquid from the force of my orgasm, but I move. I always move for him. I slide off the bench, my legs trembling as I stand. The moment I’m upright, a fresh, warm trickle snakes its way down the inside of my thigh. I gasp at the sensation, so intimate and filthy.
“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on the shiny path his cum is making on my skin. “Let it leak. Let it ruin your fucking clothes.”
He hands me my briefs. The white cotton feels impossibly small, unbearably pure. I step into them, and as I pull them up, I feel the immediate, damp soak of the fabric against my tender entrance. It’s a cold shock followed by a creeping warmth as his seed is absorbed, the wet spot spreading instantly. My jeans are next. The rough denim is a harsh contrast to the soft briefs, a constant, abrasive pressure against my sensitized skin with every slight movement.
He dresses himself with an infuriating, casual grace, looking every inch the powerful, put-together professional. I look like what I am—a well-fucked boy trying to hide his Master’s mess.
He takes my hand, his grip firm, and leads me out of the private room. The club’s main area is still throbbing with music and shadowed bodies, but we move through it and out the main doors into the cool night air of the city. The shift from the club’s dark, carnal energy to the mundane reality of the street is jarring.
Every step is a symphony of humiliation. I can feel it. A slow, steady seepage. With each shift of my weight, a little more of his cum is released from my well-used hole, warming the cotton of my briefs, dampening the seam of my jeans. The fabric clings to me, a wet, secret shame. The streetlights illuminate our path, and I feel impossibly exposed, convinced that every passerby can see the evidence, can smell the sex on me.
“Master,” I whisper, my voice tight with a mix of arousal and anxiety.
“Quiet,” he says, his tone conversational, as if we’re discussing the weather. “Just walk. And feel it. Feel my cum leaking out of your ass with every step you take. That’s my mark on you, Dhruv. That’s the proof that you’re owned.”
We stop at a crosswalk. A few other people stand nearby, waiting for the light to change. A woman in a business suit checks her phone. A couple laughs softly together. And me, standing beside my Master, feeling a fresh, distinct trickle escape and run down my skin. My face flames with heat. I’m hyper-aware of the damp spot on my jeans, a darker patch on the denim. Can they see it? I want to squirm, to press my legs together to stem the flow, but I know I can’t. I have to stand here and take it.
Master Ansh leans close, his lips brushing my ear. His breath is warm. “Are you embarrassed, my filthy slut? Do you think these people know that you’re walking around with a load of your Master’s hot cum dripping out of your well-fucked hole?”
“Yes, Master,” I breathe, my eyes fixed on the pedestrian signal.
“Tell me what you are,” he whispers, his voice a low, commanding thrill that goes straight to my already-stirring cock, trapped and aching in my soiled briefs.
“I’m your dirty little cocksleeve,” I murmur, the words barely audible. “I’m your leaking, used-up whore.”
The light changes. We cross the street. The motion makes the sensation more pronounced. It’s not just a trickle now; it’s a slow, steady ooze, a constant reminder of the brutal fucking I just received, of the reward I begged for so prettily. We walk for another block, the city sounds a blur around me. My entire world has narrowed to the feeling between my legs and the firm grip of Master Ansh’s hand on mine.
He guides me into a small, dimly lit park, leading me off the main path to a secluded bench shrouded in shadow. He sits down, pulling me to stand between his spread legs.
“Now,” he says, his voice low and dark. “Let’s see how much of my reward you’ve wasted.”
His hands go to the button of my jeans. He pops it open, drags the zipper down. The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet park. He yanks my jeans and briefs down to my knees in one rough motion, exposing me to the cool night air. I gasp, my hands flying up to cover myself on instinct.
He slaps my hands away. “Don’t you dare. I want to see.”
He forces me to turn around, bending me over slightly, my bare ass presented to him under the faint light of a distant streetlamp. He spreads my cheeks with his thumbs.
“Fuck, Dhruv,” he growls, and the sheer awe in his voice makes my knees weak. “Look at that. You’re still dripping. A river of my fucking cum, just leaking out of your ruined asshole. You’re a mess.”
I feel his thumb, rough and demanding, circle my stretched rim. It slides through the wetness, gathering it, then pushes back inside me. I cry out, the intrusion a shocking pleasure-pain. He fucks me with his thumb, a shallow, filthy mimicry of what he just did, smearing his own release back inside me.
“You want to be a public slut?” he snarls, his other hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. “You want to walk around with my load inside you? Then let’s give you a fresh one. Right here.”
I hear the sound of his zipper. The rustle of his clothes. I’m bent over, exposed in a public park, my Master’s thumb jammed in my ass, and he’s freeing his cock. I can’t see him, but I can feel the heat of his body, the intention rolling off him in waves.
“Beg for it,” he commands, his voice a guttural whisper against the back of my thigh. “Beg for your Master to fuck another load into his dirty, leaking whore. Out here where anyone could see.”
The thumb in my ass curls, pressing against that perfect spot, and a moan is torn from my lips. “Please, Master! Please, fuck me! I need it! I need you to fill me up again, I need to feel you pumping your hot cum into my ass right here, please, I’m nothing without your fucking seed inside me, I’m just an empty, leaking hole begging to be used!”
The thumb is replaced by the broad, familiar head of his cock. He doesn’t push it in. He just rests it there, a hot, slick promise against my entrance.
“Louder,” he demands.
