Earning the breakfast
Steven's mouth opened wider.
The command had barely left Mehdi's lips before Steven's jaw unhinged, a soft, wet sound escaping him—half moan, half surrender. His head hung off the mattress edge, blood rushing to his skull, the world inverted into a smear of gray morning light and exposed brick. But his eyes found Mehdi anyway. Those green eyes stared back, calm and certain, watching every tremor that rippled through Steven's exposed throat.
The shaking started in his hands first. Fingers gripping the sheets, knuckles blanched white against the linen. Then it traveled—up his arms, across his shoulders, into the column of his neck that was already straining, already offering. Apprehension and excitement twisted together in his chest like two snakes fighting, neither winning, both coiling tighter with every heartbeat.
This is going to destroy me.
The thought surfaced unbidden, sharp and crystalline, and Steven's cock twitched against his belly in response. Still sore from the night before. Still eager. Traitorous flesh that had already learned exactly what it craved.
Mehdi stepped closer. The joggers had been pushed down—Steven hadn't seen it happen, too focused on keeping his mouth open, his throat ready—and now Mehdi stood naked from the waist down, cock jutting forward, thick and veined and already glistening at the tip. The sight of it, upside-down and distorted by angle, made Steven's breath catch. It looked even larger from this perspective. A monument of flesh descending toward his waiting mouth.
The first contact was heat.
The tip of Mehdi's cock pressed against Steven's tongue—just the tip, just the beginning—and Steven's whole body jerked. His tongue curled instinctively, tasting salt and skin and the faint bitterness of pre-cum that had already beaded at the slit. The texture was smooth and hot, almost scalding, and a shiver ran through him from scalp to toes.
A moan vibrated up from Steven's throat. It was muffled immediately, swallowed by the intrusion, but Mehdi heard it. His lips curved.
"There it is," Mehdi murmured, the words drifting down like a benediction. "That sound. The sound of a throat learning exactly what it was made for."
He pushed deeper.
Steven's breath cut off.
Not slowly, not gradually—the cock filled his throat and the air simply stopped, blocked by flesh that demanded every inch of space. His gag reflex spasmed, a violent clench that sent tears springing to his eyes, but he forced it down. Swallowed around the intrusion. Felt his throat muscles contract and flutter, massaging the underside of Mehdi's shaft in helpless little pulses.
The weight was immense. His jaw ached already, stretched to its limit, the corners of his mouth burning with the strain. But deeper still—in the passage where breath and voice and self all tangled together—the fullness was something else entirely. Something that made his eyes roll back.
Mehdi's pubic bone met Steven's nose.
The wiry hair tickled his nostrils, and beneath it—swinging forward to rest against his closed eyes, his forehead—Mehdi's balls. Heavy. Warm. The scent of him was overwhelming: clean sweat and the musk of arousal that no shower could wash away. Steven inhaled and got nothing but Mehdi, nothing but man, nothing but the flesh that was currently buried to the root in his throat.
Mehdi exhaled. A slow, shuddering sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You take me so well," he said, and his voice had changed. The calm command was still there, but underneath it—something almost reverent. Almost awed. "I've never had anyone who could swallow me like this. Not on the first weekend. Not ever."
His hand found Steven's throat. Not squeezing—just resting there, palm flat against the vulnerable column of flesh, feeling the bulge of his own cock through the skin.
"From the outside," he continued, pressing down gently, "I can see myself inside you. Right here." His thumb traced the distended line of Steven's throat. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful like this."
Steven couldn't respond. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except lie there, impaled on Mehdi's cock, tears streaming down his temples and into his hair.
And then Mehdi spoke again, and this time the reverence was gone. Replaced by something harder. Something that made Steven's trapped heart stutter.
"From now on," Mehdi said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated through Steven's bones, "you are nothing but a hole for me to destroy. A throat for me to use. A vessel to hold my cock until I decide otherwise. Do you understand?"
He didn't wait for an answer. Couldn't receive one. Instead, he held.
The silence stretched.
One minute. Maybe longer. Steven's lungs began to burn—not the gradual warmth of held breath, but a screaming, clawing fire that spread through his chest and into his shoulders. His body bucked once, an involuntary spasm, but Mehdi's hand on his throat held him steady. Kept him pinned. Kept him full.
Tears leaked steadily now, tracing hot trails down his cheeks, pooling in the hollows of his closed eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched in the sheets. His cock—impossibly, shamefully—was harder than it had been in months, dripping onto his stomach in a thin strand of pre-cum that caught the gray morning light.
I'm dying. I'm dying and I'm so hard I can't think.
The thought was distant, muffled by oxygen deprivation, but it burned with truth. This was what he had come here for. Not the tenderness of the shower. Not the whispered endearments in languages he didn't speak. This. The annihilation of self. The reduction of his body to a single purpose, a single function, a single hole stretched around a cock that owned him completely.
Mehdi began to withdraw.
The drag of flesh against Steven's throat was agonizingly slow. Each millimeter sent fresh shudders through him—the stimulation of nerve endings he hadn't known existed, the sudden rush of air that never quite reached his lungs because Mehdi was still there, still blocking the passage. Steven's throat clung to the retreating shaft, muscles fluttering, reluctant to release what they had been forced to hold.
When only the tip remained—just the head, poised on Steven's tongue like a question—Mehdi stopped.
Steven gasped. A ragged, desperate sound that was more sob than breath. Air flooded his lungs, cold and sweet, and for a moment the room swam back into focus: the exposed brick, the gauze curtains, the green eyes watching him from above.
"Don't get comfortable," Mehdi said.
And pushed back in.
The re-entry was deliberate. Torturously slow. Steven felt every ridge, every vein, every inch of the shaft as it carved its path back down his throat. His tongue mapped the shape of it—the slight curve, the thick ridge of the frenulum, the way the head flared just slightly before tapering. His throat remembered too, opening with less resistance this time, a passage already trained to accept what it had once fought.
Mehdi's pubic bone met his nose again. The balls settled against his forehead. And this time, the fullness felt like coming home.
"There," Mehdi breathed, his voice gone rough at the edges. "There it is. That perfect little hole, learning its place." His hips rocked forward, not thrusting—just grinding, pressing deeper, as if he could somehow claim another millimeter of space that didn't exist. "You're going to let me do this whenever I want this weekend. Whenever I'm hard. Whenever I need somewhere warm and wet to put my cock. And you're going to lie here and take it, aren't you?"
He withdrew again. Just as slow. Just as deliberate. Pushed back in.
The rhythm was glacial, devastating—each stroke a full minute of agonized pleasure that left Steven weeping and gasping and impossibly, impossibly hard. His own cock lay rigid against his stomach, untouched, leaking steadily. The silver peony pendant had slid sideways, the chain catching on his collarbone, and every time Mehdi's hips pressed forward, the pearl clicked softly against his skin.
Evidence. Always evidence. Mehdi's pace quickened. Not much—just enough that the strokes became continuous, a slow tide of flesh that pulled back only to push forward again, each thrust a little deeper, a little harder. Steven's throat made obscene sounds: wet clicks and desperate gags and the liquid squelch of saliva being forced aside. His hands had gone numb. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel of gray light and Mehdi's stomach flexing above him.
The world had shrunk to this. To the weight on his tongue. The burn in his throat. The green eyes watching him shatter, piece by piece, with the patience of a man who knew exactly how much destruction a body could take.
And still, beneath the tears and the gagging and the oxygen-starved trembling of his limbs, Steven's cock throbbed with a hunger that felt bottomless. The edges of Steven's awareness began to fray.
Oxygen deprivation crept through him like slow poison, turning the gray morning light into a pulsing aurora at the edges of his vision. The ceiling swam—bricks bleeding into mortar bleeding into darkness—and somewhere in the depths of his skull, a voice whispered that he was drowning. That he had been drowning for minutes now. That death was reaching for him with gentle fingers.
But god, the cock in his throat was heaven.
A moan bubbled up from him, muffled and wet and utterly shameless. The sound vibrated around Mehdi's shaft, and Steven felt the answering shudder travel through the body above him. His own hips bucked helplessly against the mattress, his cock dragging through the slick puddle of pre-cum he'd been leaking since this started. He didn't care anymore. Couldn't care. The part of him that had once been shy, once been hesitant, had dissolved in the heat of Mehdi's throat-filling presence.
All that remained was need.
Mehdi's balls swung forward with each thrust, slapping against Steven's upturned face with a wet, rhythmic thud. They were covered now—glistening, slicked with the mix of saliva that dripped from Steven's lips and the pre-cum that pearled at the base of Mehdi's shaft with every withdrawal. A translucent sheen coated them, catching the dim light, sliding across skin in slow rivulets that traced down to where Steven's chin had become a pool of overflow.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Each impact was softer than the last, cushioned by the growing layer of fluid. Each impact drove Steven deeper into the haze. His eyes had rolled back, showing only white beneath half-closed lids. His throat worked automatically now—swallowing, spasming, serving—a reflex that had been trained into submission in less time than he'd thought possible.
He was half conscious, floating. And every atom of his being was focused on the cock that filled him completely. The rhythm shattered.
What had been glacial, deliberate, became urgent—Mehdi's hips driving forward with a sudden, frantic energy that stole what little breath Steven had managed to reclaim. The slow tide became a storm, each thrust shorter, harder, hammering into the depths of Steven's throat with a desperation that hadn't been there moments before.
A growl rumbled from Mehdi's chest. Low at first, then building—a sound that vibrated through his shaft and into Steven's skull, resonating in the bone like a struck bell.
"Fuck," Mehdi snarled, the word tearing free. "Fuck, you're going to make me—"
He didn't finish. Couldn't. His hand on Steven's throat tightened, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh, feeling every convulsive swallow as Steven's body fought to keep up with the punishing pace. The grip was present now—not just resting, but claiming. A collar of flesh and bone that anchored Steven to the mattress as Mehdi used him.
Steven's vision went white. He was drowning. Drowning. The thrusts came faster and faster, a blur of heat and pressure that left no room for breath, no room for thought. His own orgasm coiled in his gut like a serpent, building in sync with Mehdi's frantic rhythm—two bodies on the same precipice, teetering together.
Mehdi's hips stuttered. His growl became a roar, muffled by gritted teeth, and Steven felt it—the sudden swelling, the first hot pulse against his tongue. Steven's throat milked him.
The first pulse hit his tongue—hot, thick, impossibly abundant—and he swallowed without thinking. A reflex born of instinct and training and the desperate need to please. More followed, flooding his mouth faster than he could process, and his throat worked in convulsive waves, drawing each pulse deeper, claiming it, consuming it.
The cum seemed endless. An unstoppable stream that filled him completely, coating his tongue, sliding down his throat in a cascade of heat. It was everywhere—slicking his lips where it overflowed, dripping down his chin in viscous strands, pooling beneath his tongue in a pool of salt and surrender.
And somewhere in the haze, Steven felt his own orgasm tear through him.
His cock erupted without warning, spasm after spasm painting his stomach in ribbons of white. His whole body locked—back arching, toes curling, hands tearing at the sheets—and the moan that ripped from his throat was muffled only by the cock still buried to the root.
The vibration traveled through Mehdi's shaft. A shiver ran through the man above him, a soft groan escaping through clenched teeth.
Mehdi held. Waited. Then, with deliberate tenderness, he gave small thrusts—gentle pushes that worked every last drop down Steven's throat. The movements were slow, almost loving, coaxing the cum deeper until nothing remained.
He withdrew. Steven gasped, coughing, chest heaving.
Mehdi's large smile appeared above him, warm and satisfied.
"See?" Mehdi said, voice rough but gentle. "You deserved your breakfast."
