A week for the expectation
The week unfolded like a slow-motion catastrophe.
Monday brought rain that streaked the windows of Steven's classroom while his students debated the symbolism of the green light in Gatsby. He stood at the whiteboard, marker uncapped, staring at a question about unattainable dreams. His hand didn't move. A student coughed. Someone whispered. The marker slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Mr. Reyes?"
"Sorry." He bent to retrieve it, face burning. "Where were we?"
The green light. The dream that Gatsby reached toward, arms outstretched, knowing he would never quite grasp it. Steven's voice sounded distant to his own ears as he led the discussion. His throat still ached—a tender, bruised reminder that flared every time he swallowed coffee or cleared his throat. The students saw a tired teacher. None of them could see the phantom cock stretching his esophagus, the ghost of Mehdi's grip in his hair.
You wanted this.
He dismissed class early. Sat alone in the empty room with the rain hammering the glass and his phone face-up on the desk, the message thread still open. He'd read it seven times since waking.
Tuesday, Julio made breakfast. Eggs scrambled soft, the way Steven liked them. Toast with that sourdough from the bakery on Fifth. Coffee pressed, not dripped, because Julio insisted it tasted cleaner. He set the plate before Steven with a flourish and kissed his temple before sitting down with his own black coffee and the Wall Street Journal.
"You're spoiling me," Steven murmured.
"You deserve spoiling." Julio's smile was sunrise over their kitchen table. "Big week. I want you fortified."
The eggs were perfect. The toast was buttered exactly to the edges. Steven chewed mechanically while Julio read him snippets of financial news—interest rates, a merger, something about commercial real estate. The words washed over Steven like static. His gaze kept drifting to Julio's hands wrapped around the coffee mug. Strong hands. Familiar hands. The hands that had fastened a silver peony around his neck three nights ago.
Now you're perfect.
The peony pendant lay against Steven's sternum, warm from his skin. He hadn't taken it off. Not to sleep. Not to shower. He wore it like a talisman, or maybe like a brand.
"Steven?"
"Hmm?"
Julio was looking at him over the newspaper, one eyebrow raised. "I asked if you wanted to do something Sunday night. When I get back. Dinner, maybe? That place you like with the truffle pasta?"
"I'd love that." The words came automatically. His voice didn't crack. "Yes. Let's do that."
Julio beamed and returned to his paper, and Steven stared at the crust of his toast and felt the eggs turning to stone in his stomach.
Wednesday was the worst.
Afternoon office hours, the literature department quiet, rain still falling in that persistent, gray way that made the campus feel underwater. Steven graded essays on T.S. Eliot, his red pen hovering over a student's analysis of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."
Do I dare disturb the universe?
He set the pen down. Pressed his palms against his eyes until starbursts flared in the darkness. The question wasn't Prufrock's anymore. It was his. It had been echoing in his skull since Saturday, since the shower stall, since the message that had arrived in the dark while Julio slept beside him.
Come here. Friday. 7 PM.
Forty-eight hours away.
He picked up his phone. Opened the message thread again. The two video thumbnails were still there—dark squares of compressed data that contained his own tear-streaked face, his own stretched lips, his own desperate swallowing. He hadn't watched them again. But he hadn't deleted them either. His thumb traced the edge of the screen, just barely not touching play.
Or I'll start to think you're scared.
Was that it? Was he scared? No. Fear would be simpler. Fear had edges. Fear said run and your legs obeyed or they didn't, but at least the path was clear. This thing living in his chest had no edges at all. It was fog and hunger and the memory of green eyes in a steam-filled room. It was the way his body had responded before his mind could object—hips bucking against Mehdi's thigh at the gala, hands gripping Mehdi's vest, throat opening to take what shouldn't fit.
Your body knows what your husband can't give you.
That was the wound that kept bleeding. Not the sex. Not the betrayal. The truth underneath it.
Thursday evening, Steven stood in the garden.
The garden lay dormant under a December sky. Bare branches traced skeletal patterns against the gray, and the rose canes were wrapped in burlap—Julio's careful work from two weekends ago, before everything had shifted. Steven stood on the frozen flagstone path, his breath pluming in the cold air, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his wool coat. The raised beds were empty now, stripped down to dark soil and frost. No peonies. No blush and cream. Just the quiet waiting of winter, the earth holding its breath for a spring that felt impossibly far away.
Your sanctuary. Julio's voice in his memory, warm arms around his waist. A place that's just yours.
But the words belonged to a different season. A different Steven. The frost had killed the flowers, and something else had died inside him too—or maybe it was just waking up, stirring beneath the frost like a bulb that had no business blooming in December. He crouched down, touched the cold soil with his bare fingers. The earth was hard. Unyielding. But beneath it, roots waited. They always did. The problem was that Steven no longer knew what kind of flower was going to push through when the thaw came.
The garden had become exactly that. Steven's retreat. His church. The one space where his thoughts could untangle and settle into something like peace.
Tonight, peace wouldn't come.
He knelt in the damp soil, weeding between the peonies, and his mind conjured Mehdi's voice with the vividness of a fever dream. You'll be alone next weekend. A whole weekend to yourself. The deep rumble of it. The way certain syllables stretched and others clipped short. Don't make me wait, habibi. Arabic this time—a word that meant my beloved but landed like my possession. Steven had looked it up on Wednesday, fingers trembling over the keyboard, knowing he shouldn't, knowing the knowledge would only plant itself deeper.
A single dead leaf, brittle and skeletal, skittered across the frozen soil and snagged against his bare knee. He picked it up. Crushed it between his fingers. The sound was a dry, papery crackle, a noise of endings. It smelled of cold earth and decay, the scent of a world asleep under frost. The garden was silent, waiting for a spring that felt decades away. When he closed his eyes, the smell of green and growth belonged to another life. The scent that clung to his memory now was steam and salt and the sharp, clean terror of a decision already made.
Chlorine and musk. Salt and skin. The thick, bitter taste of Mehdi's release coating his tongue, sliding down his raw throat. His mouth flooded with the memory—not a phantom, not a metaphor, but a physical recollection so precise his stomach clenched and his cock stirred against his thigh. He could taste it. Still. After five days. After brushing his teeth a dozen times. After Julio's kisses and Julio's cooking and Julio's body moving inside him with all the tenderness in the world.
I told you I saw something in you.
Steven's eyes snapped open. His breath came in shallow gasps. The garden was dark now, the sun having slipped below the fence line while he wasn't looking. His hands were dirty. His knees ached from kneeling. And somewhere across town, in a neighborhood of converted lofts and artists' studios, an unlocked door was waiting for him.
He stood. Brushed the soil from his jeans. Walked inside.
Julio was packing his briefcase at the dining table, papers spread in neat stacks, his phone pressed to his ear. He was speaking rapid Spanish—work calls always brought out his mother tongue—and he looked up when Steven entered, his face softening into that reflexive smile that had once made Steven feel like the most important person in the world.
Still did. That was the knife-twist. It still did.
"Sí, sí, mañana a las siete," Julio said into the phone. "Perfecto. Gracias." He hung up and crossed the room in three strides, pulling Steven into a hug that smelled of cologne and coffee and home. "You were out there a while. Everything okay?"
"Just thinking." Steven's voice was muffled against Julio's chest. "About the garden. About winter."
"My little gardener." Julio kissed the top of his head. "I wish I didn't have to leave you this weekend. I hate it. Every time."
"You're doing it for us."
"For us," Julio agreed, pulling back to frame Steven's face with his warm hands. His dark eyes searched Steven's expression, and for a heartbeat—just one—something flickered there. Not suspicion. Not quite. A question, unasked and unformed, before Julio blinked it away and smiled again. "I love you. You know that, right? I love you more than anything."
"I know." Steven's voice was steady. His eyes were dry. His hands, when they came up to cover Julio's, did not tremble. "I love you too. Go pack. You need sleep."
Julio kissed him once more—soft, lingering—and released him.
Steven stood alone in the dining room, the peony pendant cool against his chest, and watched his husband walk down the hall.
One more day.
Friday morning arrived too fast and not fast enough.
Julio left at six-thirty, still adjusting his tie, a travel mug of coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He paused at the door, turned back, and crossed the kitchen to where Steven stood at the counter. His kiss was deep and thorough, tasting of coffee and toothpaste and something desperate Steven hadn't noticed before.
"Sunday night," Julio murmured against his lips. "Truffle pasta. Just us."
"Just us," Steven echoed.
The door closed. The car started. The house fell silent.
Steven didn't move for a long time. He stood at the kitchen counter in his bathrobe, the coffee growing cold in his mug, watching the clock on the microwave tick toward seven, toward eight, toward noon. Each hour was a door slamming shut behind him. Each minute was a step closer to the address glowing behind his eyelids, the unlocked door, the green eyes waiting.
He graded papers. He answered emails. He did laundry—Julio's shirts, his own underwear, the red swim briefs he couldn't bring himself to throw away. The ordinary tasks of an ordinary Friday, performed by a man who felt anything but ordinary.
At five o'clock, he showered.
The hot water beat against his shoulders, and he closed his eyes and let his hand drift down his stomach, past his hip, fingers wrapping around his own hardening length. He thought about Julio's hands. Julio's mouth. The reverent way Julio had touched him six nights ago, like he was something precious, something worth protecting. He stroked slowly, building the memory, trying to anchor himself in the life he'd chosen.
But when his rhythm quickened and his breath shortened and the pressure built at the base of his spine, it was Mehdi's face that surfaced behind his closed lids. Mehdi's hand gripping his hair. Mehdi's cock sliding past his lips. Mehdi's voice, low and rough and patient as a predator's.
Good boy.
Steven came with a choked cry, one hand braced against the shower wall, the release ripping through him. It wasn't Julio's name on his lips. It wasn't anything at all—just a raw, broken sound that echoed off the tile.
He stood under the spray, breathing hard, his spend washing down the drain, and faced the truth that had been waiting for him all week.
He could love Julio with every cell in his body and still want this.
He could wear Julio's necklace and still crave Mehdi's hands.
He could be a good husband and a hungry man in the same breath, and the two truths didn't cancel each other out. They coexisted. Like twin stars orbiting the same dark center.
The clock read six-fifteen when he dressed. Dark jeans. A fitted gray sweater. The silver peony still around his neck, tucked beneath the collar. He didn't remove it. Couldn't. It was Julio's gift, Julio's love, and he needed it close—not as armor, but as witness.
He called a car at six-thirty.
The drive across town took twenty minutes. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the streetlamps. The address was in a neighborhood Steven had never visited—warehouses turned into loft spaces, galleries with darkened windows, a coffee shop still open, its yellow light spilling onto the wet sidewalk.
The car pulled up to a brick building with a black door and a single light burning in the third-floor window. Steven paid the driver and stood on the curb, hands shoved in his pockets, heart pounding so loud he could feel it in his teeth.
Seven o'clock.
The door, as promised, was unlocked.
Steven pushed it open and stepped inside.The stairwell opened into a cavern of warmth and light.
The loft was vast—exposed brick walls, high ceilings with original wooden beams, a fireplace crackling in the corner. Persian rugs softened the concrete floor. The furniture was low and dark, leather and brass, arranged with the deliberate care of a gallery installation. Candles flickered on every surface, their flames reflected in windows that turned the night outside into a black mirror.
Steven stood frozen on the threshold, his breath catching. This wasn't what he'd expected. He'd braced for cold concrete and clinical intent. Instead, the space embraced him like a confession.
A floorboard creaked.
His heart seized. He turned, and there he was—Mehdi, emerging from the shadows near a bookshelf, dressed with devastating simplicity. A white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, the fabric draping over shoulders broad enough to fill doorways. Dark jeans. Bare feet. One button undone at his chest, revealing a sliver of olive skin, the faint shadow of hair.
The scent hit Steven before his eyes could fully adjust. Sandalwood. Tobacco. Something citrus and sharp, like bergamot cut with heat. The same scent that had haunted his memory for a week.
Mehdi crossed the room in three strides, his green eyes never leaving Steven's face. He said nothing. His hands found Steven's jacket, sliding it from his shoulders with a reverence that made Steven's skin prickle. The wool fell away. Mehdi draped it over a chair, then turned back.
He stepped close. Closer. His palm settled against Steven's jaw, thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"I thought about you all week," Mehdi murmured, his voice a low rumble against Steven's ear. "Every hour. Every breath."
Then his mouth was on Steven's.
The first kiss was a question. The second was an answer. Steven's hands came up—found Mehdi's waist, gripped the fine linen of his shirt, pulled him nearer until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened. Opened. Became something that devoured the air in the room.
Steven kissed him back like a man surfacing from a drowning—desperate, clawing, swallowing air. His lips parted on instinct, and Mehdi's tongue swept inside like it owned the space, bold and exploratory, tasting every corner of his mouth. The kiss turned wet and hungry, teeth catching Steven's lower lip, tugging just hard enough to ache. Steven moaned into it, his hands fisting in the linen of Mehdi's shirt, pulling him closer until their chests pressed together, until he could feel the solid warmth of Mehdi's body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the evidence of his arousal thickening against Steven's thigh.
Mehdi's fingers tangled in Steven's hair, gripping tight—not gentle, not demanding, exactly that perfect pressure that made Steven's knees weaken. He tilted Steven's head back, breaking the seal of their lips just long enough to drag his mouth along Steven's jaw, teeth grazing the pulse point beneath his ear. Steven gasped. His hips rolled forward involuntarily, seeking friction, finding it against the hard muscle of Mehdi's thigh.
The fire crackled, sending shadows leaping across the brick walls. The city glimmered beyond the black windows, a distant galaxy of lights. But Steven saw nothing except the green eyes inches from his own, half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.
Then Mehdi broke the kiss.
He pulled back just enough to meet Steven's gaze, his lips wet and slightly swollen, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. His hand remained tangled in Steven's hair, keeping him close, anchored.
"I knew you would come," he murmured, the words a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through Steven's chest. "I knew it the moment I saw you."
Steven's breath came in ragged pants. His lips throbbed. His body burned. And every doubt, every guilt, every voice of reason that had whispered through his skull all week—it all fell silent.
He let himself fall.
But before Steven could sink deeper into the kiss, Mehdi's fingers loosened in his hair, trailing down the side of his neck with deliberate slowness. They paused at the collar of his sweater, brushing the fabric aside until the silver peony caught the firelight.
Mehdi's hand stilled. His eyes followed the chain down to where it rested against Steven's sternum, and something shifted in his expression—a flicker of recognition, cool and assessing.
"A present from Julio?"
The name landed like a stone dropped into still water. Steven's breath hitched. The heat in his chest curdled abruptly into something sharp and cold, guilt flooding the space where desire had been moments before. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words tangled.
"Yes," he finally managed, his voice thin. "He gave it to me, after the gala."
Mehdi's thumb traced the edge of the pendant, not lifting it, just feeling its weight against Steven's skin. His eyes stayed on the silver, unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost thoughtful.
"That is nice of him. He is always so careful." A pause. The fire popped. Mehdi's gaze lifted slowly to meet Steven's, and there was no mockery in it—only a quiet, absolute certainty. "A very nice present. Witness of the love he has for you."
Steven's throat tightened. The guilt pressed harder, a physical weight behind his ribs. He looked away, unable to hold those green eyes.
Mehdi's hand slid up, cupping Steven's jaw, turning his face back gently but firmly.
"But for this weekend," Mehdi murmured, his thumb brushing across Steven's lower lip, "you are not Julio's. You are mine."The words landed like a match to kindling.
Steven's guilt flickered—a breath, a heartbeat—and then Mehdi's mouth was on his throat, hot and insistent, and the guilt burned away. The silver peony pressed between them, a cool disc against Steven's sternum, caught between two bodies as Mehdi's lips found the pulse point beneath his jaw.
Steven's head fell back, a sound escaping him—half gasp, half moan. His hands found Mehdi's shoulders, gripping the linen of his shirt, holding on as the world tilted. Mehdi's tongue dragged along his jugular, tasting salt and skin, teeth grazing just hard enough to send a shiver down Steven's spine.
Mehdi's hands were everywhere.
They slid down Steven's torso, palms flat against the wool of his sweater, tracing the lines of his chest, the dip of his waist. Fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipped beneath, and made contact with bare skin. Steven's abdomen clenched at the touch—warm, deliberate, mapping him like territory. Lower they traveled, over his hips, around to the curve of his ass. Mehdi's palms cupped him, fingers spreading, kneading the flesh with a possessive squeeze that made Steven buck forward.
"You have no idea," Mehdi murmured against his neck, his voice a low vibration, "how long I have wanted to touch you this way. To have you for me alone."
His tongue traced the shell of Steven's ear before his mouth returned, devouring Steven's lips again—deep, wet, consuming. The kiss was all tongue and teeth and the slick slide of breath shared between them. Steven's hips rolled, grinding against Mehdi's thigh, the friction sending sparks up his spine.
The loft spun around them, candles flickering, fire crackling, and Steven let himself be held, let himself be taken, as Mehdi's hands continued their exploration—palming his ass, squeezing, claiming.
The peony lay warm between them, witness to both the love that had placed it there and the hunger that now consumed its wearer.The kiss deepened until the world outside the circle of their arms ceased to exist. Without breaking the seal of their mouths, Mehdi walked Steven backward, guiding him with hands that knew exactly where they were going. They passed the fireplace, the low leather sofa, a bookshelf lined with spines in languages Steven didn't recognize.
Mehdi's hands left Steven just long enough to push open a door at the far end of the loft.
The master bedroom swallowed them whole.
It was a cathedral of shadows and silk. A bed dominated the space—vast and low, draped in charcoal linens that gleamed like water in the candlelight. A dozen candles flickered on every surface: the wide window ledge overlooking the city, a carved wooden chest, the dark-stained nightstands. Their flames danced in the glass of a full-length mirror that leaned against one brick wall, catching reflections of the two men tangled together.
The air was thick with the same scent—sandalwood, tobacco, bergamot—but here it felt concentrated, intimate, as if the room breathed with them. The ceiling soared overhead, crossed with aged beams, and the floor was covered in a Persian rug so deep Steven's bare toes sank into it when Mehdi pushed him gently toward the bed.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace from the other room and the ragged sound of their breathing. The space did feel like it existed only for them—a pocket of reality where nothing else could reach. No Julio. No guilt. No Monday morning.
Just this.
Just them.
Mehdi stood before him, green eyes dark in the low light, and reached for the hem of Steven's sweater. He lifted, slowly, deliberately, as if unwrapping something sacred. The wool slid over Steven's head, and he stood bare-chested in the candlelight, the silver peony catching flame-light against his sternum.
Mehdi's breath caught. His eyes traced every line—the slope of Steven's shoulders, the definition of his chest, the lean cut of his waist. His hands followed the same path, palms flat, mapping terrain he'd only imagined.
"You are beautiful," Mehdi murmured, almost to himself. "Slender. Fit. Athletic." His thumb traced Steven's collarbone. "Your husband must be very proud."
The name landed again, but softer this time—a ghost rather than a blade. Steven barely registered it. Because Mehdi had stepped closer, and now the evidence of his desire pressed against Steven's hip—a thick, insistent weight that stole Steven's breath.
The memory hit like a wave.
Not a distant recollection. Not a vague impression. A physical flooding—the weight of Mehdi's cock on his tongue, the bitter salt of his release, the smell of musk and heat and skin. Steven's body remembered before his mind could stop it. His mouth watered. His throat ached. His hands trembled as they found Mehdi's belt.
"I promised I would take you apart, " Mehdi whispered, his lips brushing Steven's ear. "Piece by piece. "
His hand slid down Steven's stomach, fingers splaying across the waistband of his jeans. The bulge in Mehdi's pants pressed harder, impossible to ignore, demanding acknowledgment.
Steven's breath came in ragged gasps. "I remember. "
"Good. " Mehdi's teeth grazed his earlobe. "Because I intend to keep that promise. " His hands found Steven's hips, guiding him backward until the back of his knees hit the bed's edge. The mattress gave beneath him, soft and deep, swallowing his weight as he sat. But Mehdi didn't push him down—not yet. Instead, he stepped between his thighs, standing over him, one of his finger following his jaw, his lips, his nose.
"Two days," Mehdi murmured, his thumbs tracing the curve of Steven's cheeks. "This will be mine. Every inch."
He held Steven there for a long moment, green eyes burning down at him, before his grip loosened.
He stepped back, just slightly, and nodded toward the floor between them.
"Down."
The word was soft, but it carried the weight of command. Steven's knees buckled before his mind caught up. He sank onto the Persian rug in a cascade of candlelight, the wool soft against his shins, the warmth of the room wrapping around his bare shoulders. He looked up at Mehdi, and found him watching with half-lidded satisfaction.
Steven's hands found Mehdi's belt buckle. They trembled—not from fear, but from the collision of anticipation and raw, electric excitement. The metal was cool beneath his fingers. He worked the leather free with clumsy haste, then the button, the zipper, each sound loud in the cathedral quiet. Mehdi's cock sprang free, thick and already hard, the scent of him flooding Steven's senses.
Steven's mouth watered. His throat remembered. His hands shook as he wrapped them around the base, looking up into those green eyes, waiting for permission he already knew was his. He leaned forward, his lips parting, his tongue already wet and eager to taste. He wanted it—needed it—the weight of Mehdi's cock against his tongue, the familiar stretch of his jaw, the salt-and-skin flood of memory becoming reality again.
But his mouth never reached its target.
Mehdi's hand closed in his hair—not gently this time, not guiding, but stopping. A firm grip, roots burning, holding Steven's head an inch from the glistening tip. Steven froze, lips still parted, breath hot against the swollen head.
"Ah, ah, ah." Mehdi's voice was soft, almost playful. But his eyes were something else entirely. They pinned Steven in place, green and bottomless and patient as a winter sky. "Not so fast, habibi."
Steven's heart hammered. He tried to push forward, but Mehdi's grip held him fast, immovable. A low whimper escaped his throat.
Mehdi tilted his head, studying him like a painting. "You come into my home. You let me undress you. You sink to your knees." His thumb stroked through Steven's hair, almost tender. "But I need to hear it."
Steven's breath hitched. "Hear what?"
"That you are mine." Mehdi leaned down, bringing his face close enough that Steven could feel the warmth of his words. "For the entire weekend. Not just tonight. Not just this moment. Until Sunday night, when your husband returns, you belong to me."
He pulled back, but his grip didn't loosen. His cock hovered before Steven's mouth, a taunt, a prize dangled just out of reach.
"So I will ask you once." His voice dropped, low and dark as the space between stars. "Do you submit, Steven? Do you give yourself to me—completely, without reservation—for this entire weekend?"
The fire crackled in the other room. The candles flickered. Steven's tongue ached with wanting.
The question hung between them, heavy as a held breath.Steven's world narrowed to a single point of focus: the glistening tip of Mehdi's cock, inches from his parted lips. But above it, beyond it, those green eyes held him captive. The massive shadow of Mehdi's chest loomed, blocking half the candlelight, a wall of muscle and presence that made Steven feel small and utterly seen.
The answer came as a whisper first, barely audible over the crackling fire.
"Yes."
Mehdi's grip tightened, a firm correction. "I did not hear you, habibi."
Steven swallowed. His voice found strength. "Yes."
A smile spread across Mehdi's face—slow, predatory, the expression of a man who had already won. But he didn't release him. His thumb traced Steven's lower lip, pulling it down, exposing the wet pink inside.
"A simple yes is not enough." His voice dropped to a near-growl, intimate and absolute. "I want to hear you beg for it. I want to hear you need it. Tell me what you want, Steven. Tell me how much you want to serve me this weekend."
Steven's breath came in ragged pants. His knees ached against the rug. His cock strained against his jeans. Every nerve in his body screamed for the release of submission.
"Please," he whispered, the word cracking at the edges. "Please, Mehdi. I need it. I need you. Let me taste you. Let me serve you. I'm yours—all weekend—please."
The words tumbled out, raw and desperate, stripped of pride.
Mehdi's smile widened, sharp and satisfied. His hand loosened, guiding Steven forward.
"Good boy. But don't expect anything gentle from me. From now on, you are devoted to me. You will explore new way to please and be satisfied.
Mehdi's hand guided Steven's mouth forward, not gentle, not slow. The head pushed past his lips, and Steven's jaw stretched to accommodate the width—familiar and overwhelming all at once. Before he could adjust, before he could breathe, Mehdi's grip tightened in his hair and he thrust deep.
Steven's throat seized. The full length invaded him in one brutal, glorious motion, the crown pressing against the back of his throat, forcing past the reflexive clench. He gagged, tears flooding his eyes as his body fought the intrusion. His hands flew up to grip Mehdi's thighs, not to push away but to steady himself as he choked around the thickness filling him.
But he didn't pull back. He stayed. He took it.
Mehdi held him there, buried to the hilt, Steven's nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base. The position was absolute—no space, no air, just the relentless fullness and the burn of surrender. Steven's throat convulsed around him, tears streaming down his cheeks, drool spilling from the corners of his stretched lips.
When he finally pulled back, slow and deliberate, Steven gasped for air, chest heaving. But Mehdi gave him no respite. His hand pushed forward again, sliding back into the wet heat of Steven's throat, and this time Steven's hands relaxed on his thighs. His throat opened, accepting. Willing.
Mehdi's grip tightened in Steven's hair, anchoring him as he set a rhythm—deep, unhurried, each thrust pushing past resistance into the yielding heat of Steven's throat. The sounds that filled the room were wet and obscene: the slick slide of flesh, Steven's gagged gasps, the crackle of candles.
"Look at you," Mehdi murmured, his voice rough with pleasure. "On your knees. Taking every inch. This is where you belong."
Steven's eyes streamed, his vision blurring as he looked up through tears. Mehdi's cock glistened with his saliva, sliding in and out of his stretched lips. His own cock strained against his briefs, trapped and aching, dripping precum into the fabric.
Minutes passed. Mehdi showed no sign of stopping. He leaned back on his elbows, settling onto the edge of the bed, and Steven followed like a supplicant—crawling forward, never breaking the seal of his mouth. The new angle let him go deeper, his nose brushing Mehdi's stomach with every bob of his head.
"Good boy," Mehdi breathed, one hand cupping the back of Steven's skull, not pushing, just holding. "You take me so well. Has your husband ever had you like this? So desperate you forget to breathe?"
Steven moaned around him, the vibration making Mehdi's hips buck. The answer was obvious. Julio had never claimed him this way—with hunger instead of tenderness, with ownership instead of love.
"That's what I thought. "
Mehdi's thighs tensed. His grip firmed. And Steven, gagging and weeping and harder than he'd ever been, knew he wouldn't have it any other way. He pushed deeper. Past the threshold of comfort, past the reflexive gag, into the raw, constricting heat where Steven’s throat fought and failed to accommodate him. Steven’s vision blurred. His lungs burned. The world narrowed to the relentless intrusion, the pressure at the back of his throat, the suffocating fullness that left no room for air.
"Shh," Mehdi murmured, watching him with clinical detachment. His hips pulsed, grinding deeper, testing the limits of Steven’s throat. "I want to see how much you can take before you break. Before you push me away."
Steven’s hands clawed at Mehdi’s thighs, not to stop him—to hold on. His chest heaved, but no air came. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision, stars flickering behind his eyes. He was drowning, and he didn’t fight.
"Look at you," Mehdi breathed, voice thick with satisfaction. "A bitch for my cock. Nothing else exists. Not your marriage. Not your guilt. Just this."
He held there—seconds, eternities—studying Steven’s trembling form, the way his throat spasmed around the invasion, the tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Just before the black could swallow him, Mehdi pulled back, slow and cruel.
Steven collapsed forward, coughing, gasping, chest heaving as oxygen flooded his lungs. His throat felt raw, stretched, owned.
But even as he coughed, even as his eyes streamed, his hand found Mehdi’s thigh. Squeezed. Pulled.
He looked up, face wet, lips swollen, and opened his mouth again.
More. Mehdi let out a low, breathless laugh, his chest still heaving. His hand slid from Steven's hair to cup his wet, tear-streaked face, thumb brushing across his swollen lips.
"What have I woken up in you, habibi?"
The question hung in the candlelight—not mocking, but wondering. Marveling. His green eyes traced Steven's flushed cheeks, the drool glistening on his chin, the desperate hunger still burning in his gaze despite the raw throat and burning lungs.
"I told you," Mehdi murmured, tilting Steven's face up. "You were hungry for more than just the romance. More than candlelight and poetry and tender hands. You needed someone to take you."
Steven's answer was not words. He leaned forward, lips parting, chasing the taste still lingering on his tongue.
Mehdi's laugh this time was sharper. His grip tightened in Steven's hair, yanking his head back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Greedy," he said. "I like it."
And then he gave Steven exactly what he begged for.
He thrust forward with a violence that stole Steven's breath—not slow, not measured, but demonic. His hips snapped against Steven's face, driving his cock deep into the waiting heat of his throat. No hesitation. No mercy. Each thrust was a claim, a punishment, a reward. Steven's gag reflex screamed, but Mehdi didn't stop. His hands fisted in Steven's hair, holding him in place as he fucked his face with relentless precision.
The room filled with wet, choking sounds—Steven's desperate gasps, the obscene slide of flesh, Mehdi's guttural groans. Candles flickered. The fire popped.
"Yes," Mehdi hissed, his rhythm brutal and unbroken. "This is what you needed. This is what you are."
Steven took it. Tears streaming. Throat burning. Hands clutching Mehdi's thighs like Steven's world narrowed to the relentless rhythm, the burn in his throat, the wet sounds of his own submission. And then Mehdi's hips slammed forward and held.
The fullness consumed him—cock buried to the root, pressing against the deepest part of his throat. Steven's hands flew to Mehdi's thighs, gripping as his throat convulsed around the invasion, muscles spasming in desperate, involuntary protest. The gag was constant now, a reflexive clench that only made Mehdi groan above him.
"You better be ready for what is coming," Mehdi growled, his voice ragged, broken.
Steven felt it before he understood it—a pulse, then a flood. Hot and thick, jet after jet of release filling his mouth, coating his tongue, sliding down his raw throat. He had no choice but to swallow. The cum kept coming, wave after wave, and Steven's throat worked mechanically, drinking down everything Mehdi gave him.
His vision darkened at the edges. Tears streamed. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His hands stayed locked on Mehdi's thighs, holding himself in place as the last pulses faded, as Mehdi's grip finally loosened, as he pulled out with a wet, obscene sound.
Steven collapsed forward, chest heaving, gasping for air he hadn't realized he'd been denied. His throat burned. His lips were swollen. Cum and saliva dripped from his chin, and he didn't wipe it away.
Above him, Mehdi's breathing was ragged. His hand found Steven's hair again, gentler now, stroking.
"That's my good boy," he murmured. "You took all of it."
Steven looked up, eyes wet, throat raw, and smiled.
Steven's smile faltered as Mehdi's hand tightened in his hair, pulling him up until their eyes met. The green gaze was still dark, still hungry—not sated, not even close.
"Don't expect me to be already done with you," Mehdi murmured, his voice low and rough as gravel. His free hand traced down Steven's cheek, smearing the evidence of his release across his skin. "This was only the first step."
Steven's breath caught. His throat still burned, his lips still tingled, and already his body was responding to the promise in those words.
Mehdi leaned in, his lips brushing Steven's ear as he spoke. "There is your perfect ass I have to fill the same way. "
The words landed like a blow—delicious, devastating. Steven's cock twitched painfully in his brief, trapped and leaking. His mind conjured the image before he could stop it: himself bent over that vast bed, Mehdi's hands spreading him open, that same relentless thickness pressing into untouched territory.
"You think you've served me? " Mehdi pulled back, his green eyes burning with dark amusement. "You've only tasted what I can give. I intend to leave you claimed in every way, habibi. By Sunday night, you won't remember what it felt like to be empty. "
Steven's voice came out wrecked, barely a whisper. "Yes. "
Mehdi's smile was sharp and satisfied. He released Steven's hair and stood, extending a hand down.
"Then get up and come right here, on the bed."
