That insult, dripping with so much contempt, should have shattered me.
It should have been the final, crushing blow.
But it wasn't.
A white-hot spark ignited deep in my gut. It was a dirty, shameful thing, a perverse pleasure. The condescension in his voice, the way he looked down at me like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe… it was the most exhilarating thing I had ever felt.
My resistance didn't just crumble; it turned to ash.
My hands, which had been pushing uselessly against his thighs, slid around them.
I wasn't being held anymore.
I was holding on.
I stopped fighting the brutal rhythm of his thrusts and met them head-on. I rocked forward, my throat opening, swallowing him again. My tongue, no longer a paralyzed muscle, came alive. I swirled it greedily around the thick, pulsing column of his cock, tracing the heavy vein that snaked up its length.
I wanted to make him feel good.
The thought was a revelation, a shock that made my own cock pulse with a fresh, agonizing throb.
I wanted to drive him insane.
I wanted to be the best he’d ever had.
I worked my jaw, my lips, milking him, my throat muscles contracting around him.
I wanted that sound again.
Not the taunting laugh, but the sound of his control cracking.
A tremor shot through his massive frame. His fingers loosened their grip on my skull, tangling in my hair now.
And then I got what I wanted.
A deep, primal groan rumbled from his chest, a raw vibration that traveled down his spine, through his hips, and straight into my mouth. It was the sound of a man losing himself to pure, carnal sensation.
My lips fluttered against his groin, my throat muscles spasming around the thick, insistent shaft.
I had never done this before.
I always pulled away at the last second, a final act of self-preservation, a line I refused to cross.
But this was Brock.
For him, I would cross every line.
For him, I wanted to drown.
His body went rigid.
His hips locked, his thick thighs bunching into solid rock against my cheeks. His hand, still tangled in my hair, tightened into a fist, yanking my head back just enough that I could feel the full, pulsing length of him deep in my throat.
A long, drawn-out groan tore from his lips, a sound of pure, violent release.
Then he came.
And came.
And came.
A thick, hot torrent erupted against the back of my throat.
It was too much.
It filled my mouth in an instant, a salty, scalding gush that choked me. I tried to swallow, a desperate, reflexive gulp, but it was useless. It kept coming, an unstoppable flood spilling from the corners of my lips, dripping in thick, white streams down my chin and onto my chest.
“That’s it. Take it all, you filthy faggot.”
I swallowed again, my eyes watering, the sheer volume of it overwhelming me.
“Look at you. A perfect little cum-guzzler.”
His hips gave one final, powerful buck, emptying himself completely.
“My perfect little cocksucker.”
His hand stayed tangled in my hair, holding my head steady as he oozed the last of his load onto my tongue. I swallowed, a thick, difficult gulp, the salty taste coating my tongue, my cheeks, everything. My chin was sticky, my shirt streaked with the overflow.
I felt his cock twitch one last time before he finally, slowly, pulled out.
He left me there, on my knees, head bowed. I could see his dick, still hard, glistening under the single bare bulb that lit our filthy stage. It was slick with my spit and his own thick seed.
I thought it was over.
A wave of dizzying relief washed through me.
He got what he wanted.
Now he would let me go.
He would shove me away, call me a name, and disappear back into the night.
But his hand didn't leave my hair.
He didn't push me away.
He didn't release me.
He just held me there, a captive audience to his recovery.
He used his grip to tilt my head up, forcing me to look at him.
A low chuckle.
“It’s your lucky day, you know that?”
His thumb stroked over my cheek, smearing the sticky mess there.
“I can cum and go again right away.”
My mind couldn't process his words.
My body, however, understood them perfectly.
Before I could even form a protest, his hands were on me.
One arm around my waist, the other clamped onto my shoulder. He hauled me to my feet, like I weighed nothing, and spun me around, my feet barely touching the ground, and slammed me face-first into the wall.
The rough, cold brick scraped against my cheek, the gritty texture a shocking contrast to the heat of his body pressed against my back. The smell of damp earth and decay filled my nostrils.
A single, practiced tug.
My barely-there shorts were ripped down my thighs, catching around my ankles. The cool night air hit my exposed skin, raising goosebumps all over. He pressed his groin into the small of my back, his still-hard cock a demanding pressure against me.
A low, appreciative laugh right next to my ear.
“Fuck yeah,” he said. “I’m in for a treat today, huh?”
His hand, big and calloused, landed on my right ass cheek. He didn’t caress it. He pawed at it, his fingers digging into the flesh, squeezing and kneading like he was testing its ripeness. My muscles clenched under the rough appraisal, my ass jiggling with the force of his probing.
Smack.
The sound was sharp, explosive in the tight confines of the alley. My skin screamed, a stinging heat spreading across the cheek he’d struck. My hips jerked forward, my nose grinding against the mortar.
Smack. Smack.
Two more followed, harder this time, rocking my whole body. A choked gasp escaped my lips, part pain, part something else. Something dark and thrilling that made my knees weak.
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