His weight is a possessive anchor, his cock a thick, spent plug inside me, holding his claim deep in my guts.
I can feel every slight shift of his hips, every twitch of his still-hard length, stirring the warm, wet mess he made of me. The sensation is overwhelming, a constant, filthy reminder of what we’ve done.
He’s not pulling out. He’s staying. The thought is a delirious, intoxicating mantra. He owns this. He owns me.
His lips find the sweat-damp skin of my shoulder, planting a soft, open-mouthed kiss. “You feel so fucking good, Rohan,” he murmurs, his voice a raw, satisfied rasp against my ear. “So warm and tight, even when you’re ruined. My fucking cum is dripping out of you and your ass is still trying to milk my dick.”
He punctuates the words with a slow, circular grind of his hips, and a shattered moan is torn from my throat. The oversensitive nerves inside me scream, a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. “Ansh… fuck…”
“I know, baby. I know.” His hand slides around my hip, his fingers splaying across my trembling stomach, pressing down. The pressure makes me acutely aware of the liquid heat pooling inside me. “You’re so full of me. I can feel it. My seed is so deep in your fucking belly.”
He stays like that for another eternal minute, just breathing against my neck, his cock nestled perfectly inside my well-used hole. Then, with a final, possessive squeeze of his hand on my stomach, he slowly pulls out.
The loss is a physical ache. A gush of warm fluid immediately follows his retreating cock, spilling down my thighs and onto the floor. I gasp, my legs trembling, barely able to hold myself up over the desk.
“Turn around,” he commands, his voice regaining its edge of control. He’s standing behind me, and I can hear the wet sound of him stroking his own cock, which is still gloriously hard.
I push myself up, my arms shaking, and turn to face him. The sight is devastating. He’s a primal god amidst the sterile office, his muscles glistening with sweat, his gaze burning with a dark, possessive fire. His fist is pumping his thick length, smearing it with the mix of our fluids that drip from his shaft.
“Get on your knees,” he says, his voice low and unwavering.
I sink to the carpet without a second thought, the rough fibers scraping my battered knees. I look up at him, waiting for my next command, my mouth already watering.
But he doesn’t bring his cock to my lips. He looks down at me, a cruel, beautiful smirk playing on his lips. “No. Not mine.”
Confusion must flash across my face because his smirk widens.
“Your turn, pretty boy.” He gestures with his chin towards my own groin. “I want to watch you suck your own fucking cock. Get that pretty mouth on your own dick. Show me how much of a desperate, filthy slut you really are.”
The command is so debasing, so utterly shocking, that a hot wave of shame flushes through me. Suck my own cock? I’ve never… I didn’t even know I could. But the shame is instantly consumed by a torrent of raw, blinding arousal. The sheer depravity of it, the complete surrender he’s demanding, makes my head spin.
“Ansh, I… I don’t know if I can,” I stammer, the protest weak even to my own ears.
“You can,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He continues to stroke himself, his eyes fixed on me. “You’re flexible. You’re desperate. And you’re mine to command. Now bend. Get your fucking mouth on your dick. I want to watch you trying to fuck your own face.”
The vulgarity, the specific command, pushes me over an edge. A low whine escapes me as I obey. I lean forward, bending my spine, bringing my head down towards my groin. It’s a strain, an awkward, contorted position, but the burning stretch in my muscles is just another form of submission. My own cock, still slick with my earlier release, bobs in front of my face. The musky, intimate scent of my own sex fills my nostrils.
I dart my tongue out, a tentative lick across my own slit. The taste is salty, familiar, but the act itself is profoundly alien. I’m tasting myself for him.
“That’s it,” Ansh encourages, his voice a husky growl. He’s watching me, his hand moving faster on his own cock. “Get more. Try to take the head in your mouth, you greedy fuck. Show me how badly you want it.”
I open my mouth wider, straining further. With a grunt of effort, I manage to get the swollen head past my lips. The sensation is bizarre, incredible—the warmth of my own mouth, the taste of my own pre-cum, the faint pressure of my teeth. I suck gently, my eyes squeezed shut, lost in the shame and the dizzying pleasure of following his orders.
“Fuck, look at you,” Ansh breathes, and I force my eyes open to look up at him. The look on his face is pure, unadulterated lust. He’s mesmerized by the sight of me debasing myself for his entertainment. “You’re a natural-born cocksucker, Rohan. Even your own fucking cock isn’t safe from that mouth.”
I try to bob my head, a pathetic, shallow movement, my neck screaming in protest. My own spit is slicking my shaft, making a wet, obscene sound. I am the most degraded, most owned I have ever been. And I have never been more turned on in my life.
“Yeah, just like that,” he grunts, his own rhythm becoming frantic. “Keep going. Make yourself fucking cum in your own mouth. I want to see you swallow your own load for me.”
The command is too much. The coil of pleasure in my gut, already wound tight from his earlier fucking, snaps. A broken, guttural moan vibrates around my own cock as I come, my orgasm crashing over me. Thick pulses of cum hit the back of my throat, the taste bitter and overwhelming. I swallow reflexively, again and again, consuming my own release as my body trembles violently.
Through the haze, I see Ansh’s expression shift into one of pure, predatory ecstasy. Watching me fall apart completely is what pushes him over the edge.
“Open your eyes! Look at me!” he snarls.
My eyes, which I hadn’t even realized I’d closed, fly open. I’m a trembling, contorted mess, my own cock slipping from my lips, cum dripping from my chin.
He lets out a guttural roar, and I see his cock pulse in his fist. The first thick, hot rope of his cum lands across my cheek. The second splatters over my forehead and into my hair. The third, a final, weaker shot, hits my parted, panting lips.
I stay frozen in my painful, twisted pose, painted anew. His spend is hot on my skin, cooling quickly in the office air, mixing with the sweat and my own tears of overwhelmed ecstasy.
He steps closer, his breathing ragged. He looks down at his handiwork, his expression one of absolute, savage satisfaction. He uses the head of his still-dripping cock to trace a line through the mess on my cheek.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive whisper.
He traces my lips with his messy cockhead, smearing his release like war paint. “Look at my good little bitch. Covered in my cum, covered in your own. You’re a fucking masterpiece of filth, Rohan.”
I can only pant, my lungs burning from the strain of the position, my body humming with a deep, resonant ache. His words aren’t an insult; they’re a benediction. I am his masterpiece.
“But you’re still empty,” he says, his voice dropping into that deceptively soft register that makes my stomach clench. “I can feel it. That hot, hungry little hole is twitching for me again already, isn’t it?”
He’s right. Despite the exhaustion, the soreness, a deep, primal part of me is already begging to be filled, to be claimed all over again. The emptiness is a physical ache.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word raw.
“Tell me what you want.” It’s not a question. It’s a command.
“I want your cock,” I rasp, my voice hoarse. “I want you to fuck me again. I need to feel you inside me.”
“Where?” he prods, his thumb brushing over my cum-smeared cheek. “Where do you want it this time, you greedy slut?”
The answer comes from a place so deep and shameless it surprises even me. “My ass. My fucking ass, Ansh. I want you to breed me again. I want you to put another load so deep inside me I can taste it.”
A dark, approving smirk graces his lips. “Such a perfect fucking whore. You really can’t get enough, can you? You want my fucking kids swimming in your guts until you’re bloated with them.”
The stark, vulgar biology of his words sends a fresh jolt of desire straight to my own spent cock, which gives a pathetic, interested twitch. Bloated with them. The image is terrifying and the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard.
“On the desk. Now.” His command brooks no delay.
I scramble up, my legs unsteady, and bend over the cold laminate once more. I press my cheek against the cool surface, a stark contrast to the burning heat of my skin. I hear him step closer, the sound of his hand slicking his already wet cock. The anticipation is a live wire under my skin.
This time, he doesn’t tease. The broad head of his cock finds my well-stretched entrance and he pushes in with one long, smooth, claiming thrust. I cry out, a strangled sound of pure relief and overwhelming sensation. He’s in. He’s home.
“Fuck, Rohan,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips, his body curving over mine. “Your ass is still so fucking tight. It’s sucking me in like it’s trying to keep me forever.”
He begins to move, and it’s different now. It’s not the brutal, frantic pounding from before. This is slower, deeper, more deliberate. Each thrust is a measured, possessive claim, a fucking with purpose. He’s not just seeking his own pleasure; he’s implanting himself inside me.
“This is where you belong,” he grunts, his voice thick with effort and lust. “Bent over your own desk, taking my fucking cock like you were built for it. You feel that? You feel how deep I am?”
“I feel it,” I moan, pushing back against him, meeting every slow, grinding thrust. “I feel all of it.”
“You’re gonna remember this every time you sit at this fucking desk,” he promises, his pace never faltering. “You’re gonna be in a meeting, talking about quarterly reports, and you’ll feel a little ache. A little reminder that this ass is mine. That I’ve been here. That I’ve fucking bred you.”
His words are a catalyst. My own orgasm, which I thought was impossible, begins to coil again, low and insistent in my gut. It’s not the sharp, frantic climax from before. This is a slow, rising tide of pleasure, building with every deep, purposeful stroke against my prostate.
“I’m close,” I whimper, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth desk. “Ansh, I’m so close again.”
“Yeah?” he says, his voice dripping with dark pride. “You gonna cum again? You’re gonna cream your own stomach while I’m pumping a second load into your ass? You’re that much of a fucking wanton slut for me?”
“Yes! God, yes!” I’m babbling, lost in the sensation, in the filthy, beautiful truth of his words.
“Then do it,” he commands, his rhythm becoming slightly more frantic, losing its precise control. “Cum for me, Rohan. Show me how much you love being my well-used little bitch.”
His permission is all I need. The tide crashes over me, a deep, pulsing wave that seems to go on forever. My cock spasms against nothing, spilling a pathetic, thin stream of release onto the desk beneath me. My ass clenches around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, milking his dick, pulling his own climax from him.
With a guttural, primal groan that seems to shake the very walls, he slams into me one final time and holds, his body shuddering violently against mine. I feel the hot, wet flood of his release, a second claiming, even more potent than the first, filling the emptiness he so perfectly occupied.
He collapses over my back, his weight a sweaty, comforting anchor. We stay like that for a long time, both of us breathing in ragged, synced gasps. The only sound is our panting and the soft, wet drip of his cum onto the floor.
Slowly, carefully, he pulls out. The resulting gush is a torrent, a hot cascade of his seed flowing out of me. He guides me, turning me in his arms until I’m facing him. My legs won’t hold me, so he supports my weight, holding me against his chest.
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that steals what little breath I have left. It’s not tender now. It’s desperate, raw, and fucking hungry. It tastes of sweat, of salt, of him, of me, of us. It’s a kiss that claims just as thoroughly as his cock did.
When he finally breaks away, we’re both breathless. He looks down at the mess between us, at his cum dripping steadily down my thighs.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe. He swipes two fingers through the rivulets on my inner thigh, gathering a thick pool of it. He brings his fingers to my lips. “Open.”
I obey, and he paints my tongue with his spend. The taste is overwhelming, stronger than before, more potent.
“That’s the second batch,” he says, watching me swallow. “That one’s gonna take. I can feel it.”
The promise, the sheer biological certainty in his tone, makes me weak. He lowers me gently until I’m sitting on the edge of the desk, my legs spread, my entire body on display for him.
He kneels before me, his hands on my knees, his eyes fixed on the messy, well-used junction of my legs. He leans forward, and I feel the hot, wet swipe of his tongue, not on my ass, but licking a broad, cleansing stripe up the inside of my thigh, collecting the evidence of his possession.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispers, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. But let us end today here maybe some other day when we will be alone we will continue my slut.. He gets dressed and leaves for home and offers to leave him to his apartment
