The controller clicked in Tim's hands, his thumbs working the buttons with focus. On the screen, some first-person shooter played out in bursts of gunfire and shouted commands through his headset. He sat sprawled on the couch, hairy legs spread wide, sweatpants pushed down to his ankles, completely absorbed in the game.
Between those spread legs, the slave worked.
His tongue traced the thick vein along the underside of Tim's cock, slow and worshipful, savoring the salt and musk. He'd been at this for twenty minutes now, maybe longer. Time blurred when he was on his knees like this. His jaw ached, lips stretched around the girth as he took Tim deeper, feeling the head nudge the back of his throat. He breathed through his nose, steady and controlled, the way he'd learned. The way he'd been trained.
Above him, Tim didn't even glance down.
"Fucking ganker," Tim muttered, not to the slave, never to him during these sessions, but to whoever was on the other end of the headset. "Yeah, I see him. Cover left.”
The slave hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder, trying to earn some acknowledgment. Some reaction. His hands rested on his own thighs, palms up, exactly as he'd been positioned. He wasn't allowed to touch without permission.
Tim's cock twitched against his tongue, and for a moment the slave thought he'd succeeded.
"Beer. Now.”
The words were flat, dismissive. The slave pulled off with an obscene wet popping sound, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the flushed head of Tim's cock. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood on shaky legs, his own erection straining painfully against his jeans. Tim still hadn't looked at him.
He padded to the kitchen, retrieved an IPA from the fridge, twisted off the cap. When he returned, Tim held out one hand without turning, eyes locked on the screen. The slave placed the cold bottle in his palm.
"Took you long enough, faggot.”
He sank back to his knees, resuming his position, but Tim's free hand came down and grabbed his hair.
"Did I say you could suck my cock again?" Tim's voice was casual, almost bored, but his fingers tightened, pulling the slave's head back at a sharp angle. "I said beer. That's it. You think you get to decide what you do with that worthless mouth?”
"No, Sir," the slave breathed. "I'm sorry, Sir.”
"You're sorry." Tim took a long pull from the beer, finally looking at the slave. Those beautiful eyes were cold and harsh staring down at the slave. “You're always fucking sorry. Sorry you're such a desperate whore. Sorry you can't even follow simple instructions. Sorry you're cheating on your little boyfriend right now to be here on your knees like the pathetic cock-hungry faggot you are.”
The slave's breath caught. Shame and arousal twisted together in his gut.
"What would he think, huh?" Tim released his hair, turned back to the game. "If he could see you right now? See how you really are when you're not pretending? You think he'd still want you if he knew what a pathetic little faggot you turn into?”
"No, Sir." The words came out hoarse.
"No, he wouldn't. Because he doesn't know you. Not like I do." Tim shifted his hips, his cock still hard and glistening. "He doesn't know you need this. Need to be used. Need to be reminded what you're actually good for.”
The slave's hands trembled on his thighs.
"Shoulders," Tim said abruptly. "They're tight. Massage.”
The slave rose again, moved behind the couch. His fingers found the broad muscles of Tim's shoulders, began to knead and work the tension there. Tim's skin was warm through his t-shirt, and the slave could smell him. Tim’s sweat had a musk that made his head swim.
"Harder," Tim commanded. "Jesus, you're useless. Put some actual effort into it.”
The slave pressed deeper, his thumbs working along the shoulder blades. On the screen, the game continued. Tim took another drink, set the bottle on the side table, picked up the controller again.
"You know what you are?" Tim said conversationally. "You're a tool. Just another desperate faggot who needs to be put in his place.”
The slave's cock throbbed. He bit his lip, kept massaging.
"And the best part?" Tim's voice dropped lower, more intimate. "You fucking love it. You love being degraded. Love being treated like you're nothing. That's why you keep coming back. That's why you'll drop everything when I text you. Not a consultant. Not a boyfriend. Just my bitch.”
"Yes, Sir," the slave whispered.
"Get back down there," Tim said. "And this time, don't stop until I tell you to. I don't care if your jaw hurts. I don't care if you gag. You're going to worship my cock like it's the only thing that matters in your pathetic life, and you're going to be grateful for the privilege. Understand?”
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The slave dropped to his knees again, positioned himself between those spread legs. He took Tim's achingly hard cock in hand and guided it back to his lips. This time he didn't tease or try to be artful. He took it deep, let it fill his mouth and throat, submitted completely to the weight and taste and presence of it.
Above him, Tim went back to his game, one hand on the controller, the other coming to rest almost absently on the slave's head. Not guiding, not forcing. Just... there. A reminder of ownership.
"That's what you're for,” Tim murmured, so quietly the slave almost missed it beneath the sounds of gunfire.
The slave worked Tim's cock with devoted attention, his tongue tracing every ridge and vein, tasting the salt of precum as it leaked steadily. His world had narrowed to this. The weight on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the sounds of Tim's game above him. He was exactly where he belonged.
Then Tim's hand lifted from his head. The slave felt the shift in the air, saw the movement in his peripheral vision. Two fingers pointed down, then swept to the side.
The slave pulled off immediately, saliva dripping from his lips, and shifted his position. He knew this gesture. His hands went to Tim's left foot, still in its white athletic sock, and he began to massage. His thumbs pressed into the arch, working the muscles with practiced pressure. He'd learned exactly how Tim liked it, firm but not painful, steady circular motions, paying special attention to the heel and ball of the foot.
"Yeah, that's it," Tim muttered, though whether to him or to someone in the game, the slave couldn't tell. It didn't matter.
He massaged for several minutes, losing himself in the repetitive motion, in the simple act of service. Then Tim's hand moved again, three fingers this time, a quick beckoning motion.
The slave's pulse quickened. He peeled off Tim's sock, revealing the broad, slightly sweaty foot beneath. Without hesitation, he lowered his head and extended his tongue, dragging it slowly between Tim's toes. The taste was sharp, masculine, intimate in a way that made his cock throb painfully. He worked methodically, tongue sliding between each digit, cleaning the spaces there, savoring the salt and musk.
"Fuck, got him," Tim said to his headset, his voice triumphant. His toes flexed against the slave's tongue, but otherwise he gave no acknowledgment of what was happening below him.
The slave continued his worship, tongue working diligently, until he saw Tim's hand move again from the corner of his eye. A fist, then opening, all five fingers spreading wide.
He knew this one too. His mouth opened wider, and he carefully worked Tim's toes inside, all of them, stretching his jaw to accommodate them. It was awkward, uncomfortable, degrading and he felt a surge of desperate arousal at the submission of it. His mouth was full of Tim's foot, his tongue pressed flat beneath the toes, and he held the position, breathing through his nose, waiting.
Tim shifted on the couch, adjusting his position for a better angle at the screen. His toes pressed deeper into the slave's mouth, and the slave's eyes watered slightly, but he didn't pull away. He wouldn't. Not unless Tim commanded it.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute, Tim's foot withdrew. The slave gasped quietly, working his jaw, and looked up just in time to see Tim's hand rise. Palm flat, facing him.
He straightened on his knees, bringing his face level with Tim's hand, close enough that when Tim's palm swung forward it connected with his cheek in a sharp, stinging slap.
The crack of it echoed in the room. The slave's head snapped to the side, heat blooming across his face. His cock leaked in his jeans.
"Pathetic," Tim said, almost conversationally, and backhanded him across the other cheek. "Look at you. Getting hard from being slapped around like a little bitch."
"Yes, Sir," the slave breathed, his voice shaking. "Thank you, Sir."
Tim's hand moved again. Two fingers in a V, pointing at his own crotch, then a circular motion.
The slave dove down, burying his face against Tim's balls. His tongue lapped at the heavy sac, tracing the seam, taking first one ball then the other into his mouth and sucking gently. The coarse hair tickled his nose and lips, and the scent of Tim’s sweat and musk and pure masculine dominance filled his senses completely. He worshipped there, licking and sucking, nuzzling against the warm skin, making soft sounds of devotion.
Tim's cock rested against his forehead, hard and leaking, but the slave didn't touch it. He hadn't been given that gesture yet. He stayed focused on his task, on pleasuring Tim's balls with single-minded dedication.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
