I stood by the bed, arms crossed, heart hammering a steady drum against my ribs, but my voice was steady. I had earned this. I had played the card, waited him out, made him break first with that towel drop in the bathroom. Now it was my turn to take what was mine.
The floorboards creaked. Mike filled the doorway, towel slung low on his hips, chest still damp, hair curling with moisture. He looked at me, and for a moment uncertainty flickered across his face. The same uncertainty I had seen when he asked for the towel, when he realized I was not going to just roll over and take his shit anymore.
"ATTENTION," I said.
The words snapped through the air like a whip. Mike's shoulders straightened immediately, military instinct overriding hesitation. His bare feet hit the floor shoulder-width apart, chest out, chin up, but his hands stayed at his sides.
I raised an eyebrow. "Hands. On your head. Now."
He blinked. The command hung between us, heavy and charged. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his thick arms and laced his fingers behind his head. The position forced his chest out, every muscle standing in sharp relief, the towel barely clinging to his hips. He was massive like this. Bigger than me, stronger than me, capable of breaking me in half. But he was obeying. Because I had told him to.
"Good soldier," I said, and let my eyes roam.
I circled him slowly, drinking in the sight of him presented for me. From behind, the view was obscene. Broad back tapering to that towel, strong legs planted firm, hands locked obediently where I had ordered them. I could see the tension in his arms, the subtle tremor in his elbows as he fought to keep them raised. The sweat was already starting to bead on his upper lip, his neck, a sheen of moisture that caught the light.
I stepped close, pressing my clothed chest against his bare back. He sucked in a breath at the contact, his spine stiffening, his skin hot against my shirt.
"Steady," I murmured against his ear. "You do not move unless I say so."
"Sir," he breathed, and the word sent a jolt straight to my cock.
I reached around, my hands finding his biceps. They were huge, hard balls of muscle under my palms, veined and powerful, but tense with the effort of holding still. I squeezed them, feeling the strength there, the latent power that was choosing to submit to me. This was the first time I had touched him. Really touched him. Not a brush in the dark, not an accidental graze. Deliberate, claiming contact.
I let my fingers explore the curve of his arms, tracing the thick cords of muscle down to his elbows, then back up to his shoulders. I dug my thumbs into the meat of his traps, feeling him flinch, then relax into my touch. He smelled like soap and something deeper, muskier, the scent that had been driving me insane for weeks from across the room but was now filling my lungs, making my head swim.
"These arms," I said, my voice low, "could probably snap me in half. But you are not going to use them, are you?"
"No, sir," he groaned, his head falling forward.
I slid my hands down, tracing the curve of muscle until I reached his chest. His pecs were massive, heavy slabs that filled my palms, coarse hair tickling my skin. I spread my fingers wide, weighing them, feeling his heartbeat hammering there, fast and erratic, a rabbit's pulse in a lion's body. His nipples were hard little nubs, and I brushed over them with my thumbs, making him gasp and arch his back.
"Keep those hands up," I warned, feeling him twitch. "Do not you dare drop them."
I kept one hand on his chest, pinning him against me, while the other drifted lower. The soft swell of his belly was warm under my palm, firm muscle beneath a layer of softness, hair trailing down toward the towel. I traced the path with my fingers, feeling his stomach muscles jump and contract under my touch, the way his breath hitched as I got closer to the edge of the towel.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Please what?" I demanded, my hand stopping just above the towel.
"Touch me. Please, Kevin, sir, touch me."
I smiled against his neck, my free hand going to my own waistband. I pushed my pants and boxers down in one motion, letting my cock spring free, hard and aching and leaking. The air hit my skin, cool and sharp, but then I was pressing against him again, skin to almost skin, my bare cock nestled in the cleft of his ass with only the thin fabric between us.
I was naked from the waist down, fully exposed, my cock sliding against him while he was still mostly clothed, still presenting himself for me. The power dynamic was intoxicating. I thrust experimentally, letting my shaft slide up and down between his cheeks, the friction sending sparks up my spine.
"The towel is in my way," I said, my voice rough. "Fix it. Without using your hands."
He hesitated, then rolled his hips, shifting his weight. The towel slipped, caught on his erection for a moment, then pooled at his feet. He was naked now, exposed, his thick cock standing out heavy and curved, while I was pressed against him from behind, my dick sliding between his warm cheeks, skin on skin. The heat of him, the friction, the grip of his ass around my shaft, made me groan against his shoulder.
"Fuck," I breathed, thrusting slowly, letting my cock slide up and down between his cheeks, the head bumping against his lower back with each upward stroke. "Look at you. All this muscle, all this strength, and you are just standing there taking orders from a kid half your size, while I grind my bare cock against your ass."
"Yes, sir," he groaned, pushing back against me. "Your orders, sir. Only yours."
I reached around with both hands, one going back to his chest, pinching his nipple hard, twisting it slightly, while the other finally wrapped around his cock. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound, his hips bucking into my fist. He was hot, heavy, silky skin over steel, pulsing with his heartbeat. I had never touched another man's cock before, but I did not let him see any hesitation. I stroked him slowly, firmly, learning the weight of him, the way he liked it, while I kept thrusting between his cheeks, fucking his ass crack with my bare cock, the friction building, wet and slick with my precum.
"Do not you dare come yet," I growled against his ear, my teeth grazing his skin. "You hold it until I say. You got that, soldier?"
"Yes, sir," he gasped, his whole body trembling. "Fuck, yes, sir."
I worked him faster, my hand sliding up and down his shaft, thumb brushing over the slit where precum was beading. At the same time, I kept thrusting against him from behind, my cock sliding between his warm cheeks, the head bumping his lower back, then sliding down again, building toward my own edge. The room filled with the sound of our breathing, the wet sounds of my hand on his cock, the slap of my hips against his ass, the desperate whimpers he could not hold back.
I slowed down, wanting to make this last. I released his cock and brought both hands back to his chest, spreading my palms wide, feeling the heat and weight of his pecs, the frantic hammering of his heart. I thrust harder between his cheeks, faster, chasing my own release, the sight of him, big, strong, obedient, pushing me closer to the edge. My cock was sliding freely now, slick with my own arousal, bumping against his lower back with each upward thrust.
"You are mine tonight," I said, my voice rough with the truth of it. "This body," I squeezed his pec, "this cock," I reached down and gave him one slow stroke, making him moan, "all of it. Mine."
"Yours," he agreed, his voice breaking. "Fuck, Kevin, I am yours. Please."
"Please what?"
"Let me. I need to. Can I touch..."
"No," I cut him off, pressing my free hand against his stomach to hold him still. "Hands stay up. You do not get to touch. You just get to take it."
He made a sound like a sob, but his hands stayed locked behind his head, his muscles flexing with the effort of holding back. I could feel him getting close, his cock swelling, his balls drawing up tight. I wanted to draw this out, to make him suffer the way I had suffered all week, but I was too far gone, too overwhelmed by the heat and friction and the reality of finally having him.
I reached down again and grabbed his cock, pumping him fast and hard, my hand slick with his precum. "Now," I commanded. "Come for me now. Show me who owns you."
He cried out, his body going rigid, his back arching against my chest. His cock pulsed in my hand, shooting thick ropes across the floor, his ass clenching around my thrusting cock. The feel of him losing control, this dominant man shattering because I told him to, sent me over. I pulled back slightly, aimed my cock at his lower back, and came, my hips jerking, my cock throbbing as I painted his skin with my load, strip after strip of hot cum marking his lower back, his ass, claiming him with my release.
We stood there trembling, my arms wrapped around his heaving chest, my cock still nestled between his cheeks, his hands finally falling from his head to cover my own, holding me there like he was afraid I would let go. I could feel my cum cooling on his skin, the evidence of what I had done to him, what I had made him into.
Minutes passed. Our breathing slowed, the sweat drying on our skin. I finally stepped back, my cock slipping free from between his cheeks, leaving a trail of wetness behind. Mike turned around slowly, his eyes finding mine. He looked wrecked, undone, his hair matted with sweat, his chest heaving, my cum still drying on his lower back.
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then tried again. "Tomorrow," he said, his voice rough, "I am going to dominate you. You know that, right?"
I pulled up my pants, my cock still sensitive, and met his gaze with a smirk. "We will see about that, soldier."
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