The slave woke to darkness and the weight of exhaustion pressing down on every muscle. Its body ached—jaw sore, throat raw, ass tender and used. The hardwood floor beneath it was unforgiving, and the chastity cage bit into its swollen cock with cruel precision.
It had slept at the foot of Tim's bed, curled on top of the pile of dirty gym clothes—Tim's and Ethan's both, still damp with sweat from yesterday's workout, reeking of masculine musk. The slave had breathed in that scent all night, its face pressed into the fabric, and even now its cock strained uselessly against the metal cage.
Morning light filtered through the bedroom curtains. The slave remained perfectly still, not daring to move until commanded.
Then it heard the sound—a sharp snap of fingers.
The slave's body responded instantly, muscle memory overriding thought. It crawled on hands and knees to the side of the bed, moving silently across the hardwood. When it reached Tim's side, it bowed its head once in acknowledgment, then lowered itself completely, pressing its forehead to the floor in full prostration.
Above, the slave could hear the rustle of sheets, the soft sound of breathing. Ethan's head was pressed affectionately against Tim's chest, his dirty-blond hair tousled and perfect even in sleep. Tim's hand rested possessively on Ethan's shoulder.
"Eyes," Tim said, his voice rough with sleep but commanding.
The slave lifted its head from the floor, raising its gaze but keeping it lowered—not making eye contact, never making eye contact without explicit permission. It could see Tim's chest, the defined muscles, the light dusting of hair. Could see Ethan's beautiful face resting against him, peaceful and content.
Tim's hand moved, two fingers forming a V, making a slow circular motion in the air.
The slave knew this command. It had been trained like a dog, conditioned to respond to gestures. This one meant: burrow under the sheets and service.
"Yes, Sir," the slave whispered, and crawled forward.
It lifted the edge of the sheet carefully, slipping underneath into the warm, musky darkness. The scent was overwhelming—sweat and sex and masculine dominance. The slave moved down Tim's body, navigating by touch and smell, until it found what it was looking for.
Tim's balls hung heavy and full between his legs, still sweaty from last night's orgy. The slave pressed its face against them, inhaling deeply, then extended its tongue and began to lick.
Above the sheets, Tim shifted, pulling Ethan closer. The slave heard the wet sound of kissing, heard Ethan's soft moan of pleasure.
The slave licked Tim's balls with devoted attention, running its tongue over the wrinkled skin, tasting salt and musk. It worked methodically, covering every inch, taking one ball gently into its mouth and sucking before moving to the other.
Tim's hand found Ethan's hair, fingers threading through the dirty-blond strands. "Fuck, you're beautiful," Tim murmured.
"You're perfect," Ethan breathed against Tim's lips. "So fucking perfect."
They kissed again, deeper this time, and the slave continued its work in the darkness beneath the sheets. It was completely ignored, a tool performing its function, nothing more. Its tongue traced the seam of Tim's balls, licked the sensitive skin behind them, worshipped every part of its Master's body it could reach.
The slave's cock throbbed in its cage, the metal biting cruelly into swollen flesh. It had been locked up for days now, denied any release, and the constant arousal was maddening. But it didn't matter. The slave's pleasure was irrelevant.
Ethan was stunning in the morning light. Late twenties, with the kind of beauty that seemed almost unfair—a sharp jawline that could cut glass, full lips that were made for kissing and sucking, bright blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and mischief. His dirty-blond hair fell just right, tousled in that effortless way that looked both casual and perfect. His body was lean and perfectly sculpted, every muscle defined without being bulky. His pecs were full and firm, his abs a perfect six-pack, his arms strong and capable. He looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine, and Tim couldn't keep his hands off him.
"Love waking up with you," Tim said, his voice thick with arousal.
"Yeah?" Ethan smiled, running his hand down Tim's chest. "Love being here. Love being yours."
The slave licked and sucked, its jaw already aching from the angle, but it didn't stop. It could hear everything—every kiss, every whispered word of affection, every sound of pleasure. It was witnessing Tim's intimacy with another man, and the jealousy burned hot in its chest even as it continued to serve.
Minutes passed. The slave's tongue grew tired, but it kept working, kept worshipping Tim's balls with absolute devotion.
Then—another snap of fingers, sharp and commanding.
The slave immediately stopped, carefully extracting itself from beneath the sheets. It crawled backward, emerged into the cool air of the bedroom, and returned to its position on the floor. It pressed its forehead down in full prostration, arms extended, body flat.
Ethan was kissing Tim's neck now, his lips trailing along the strong column of Tim's throat. "You're so fucking hot," Ethan murmured. "So strong. So dominant. You're everything I want."
"Damn right I am," Tim said, his hand sliding down Ethan's back possessively.
"You're perfect," Ethan continued, his voice taking on a submissive edge. "The way you take control, the way you use that slave... fuck, it's so hot watching you. You're incredible, Sir."
Tim's cock was visibly hard beneath the sheets now, tenting the fabric. He looked down at the slave prostrated on the floor and his expression was cold, calculating.
"Face," Tim commanded.
The slave lifted itself from the floor, rising to its knees and bringing its face close to Tim's—close enough to feel his breath, but keeping its eyes lowered, fixed on Tim's chest.
Tim's hand moved fast.
The slap cracked across the slave's face, hard enough to snap its head to the side. Pain exploded across its cheek.
"Thank you, Sir," the slave gasped immediately.
Another slap, just as hard, from the other direction.
"Thank you, Sir."
Tim's hand came down again and again, alternating sides, each slap harder than the last. The slave's face burned, its eyes watering from the impact, but it kept its position, kept its eyes lowered, kept thanking its Master.
"Thank you, Sir."
Slap.
"Thank you, Sir."
Slap.
"Thank you, Sir."
Ethan watched from the bed, his blue eyes wide with arousal. "Fuck," he breathed. "That's so hot."
Tim smiled, pleased by Ethan's reaction, and delivered two more brutal slaps to the slave's face.
"Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
The slave's cheeks were bright red now, tears streaming down its face, but its cock remained hard in its cage, leaking steadily.
"Pathetic pain slut," Tim said. "You love this, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir. The slave loves it, Sir. Thank you for hurting it, Sir."
Tim delivered one final slap, the hardest yet, and the slave sobbed out its gratitude.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Make us breakfast," Tim ordered. "Eggs, bacon, toast, coffee. And it better be perfect."
"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."
The slave crawled toward the door, its face burning, its body aching. It moved on hands and knees through the apartment to the kitchen, where it rose to its feet and began preparing the meal with shaking hands.
It worked quickly and efficiently, cracking eggs into a pan, laying out strips of bacon, starting the coffee maker. Every movement was precise, practiced. The slave had learned exactly how Tim liked his breakfast—eggs over easy, bacon crispy but not burnt, toast with butter melted into every corner.
Twenty minutes later, the slave arranged everything on a tray—two plates, two mugs of coffee, silverware, napkins. It lifted the tray carefully and carried it back toward the bedroom.
The slave pushed the door open with its shoulder and froze.
Ethan was riding Tim's cock, his perfect body rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His head was thrown back in pleasure, his mouth open, his abs flexing with each movement. Tim was propped up against the pillows, his hands gripping Ethan's hips, guiding him up and down on his thick shaft.
"Fuck, your ass is perfect," Tim groaned. "So fucking tight."
"Yes, Sir," Ethan gasped. "Feels so good, Sir. You feel so good inside me."
The slave stood in the doorway, tray in hand, watching. Its cock throbbed painfully in its cage.
Tim's eyes flicked to the slave, acknowledging its presence without stopping his thrusts.
"Coffee," Tim said simply.
The slave moved immediately, setting the tray down carefully on the dresser. It picked up one of the mugs, steam rising from the dark liquid, and approached the bed.
Ethan continued riding Tim's cock, his movements fluid and practiced. The slave could see everything—the way Tim's thick shaft disappeared into Ethan's hole, the way Ethan's own cock bounced with each thrust, hard and leaking.
The slave knelt beside the bed and brought the coffee mug to Tim's lips, tilting it carefully. Tim took a sip without breaking his rhythm, his hips still driving up into Ethan.
"Good," Tim said, and the slave withdrew, setting the mug on the nightstand.
It returned to the dresser and stood at attention, waiting.
Tim fucked Ethan slowly, savoring every moment. His hands roamed over Ethan's perfect body—squeezing his pecs, pinching his nipples, gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Ethan moaned and gasped, his blue eyes glazed with pleasure.
"You take my cock so well," Tim said. "Such a good boy."
"Thank you, Sir. Love your cock, Sir. Love being filled by you."
The slave watched, its heart breaking and soaring simultaneously. This was its Master's pleasure, and the slave existed to facilitate it, even if that meant standing by while Tim fucked someone else.
Minutes passed. Tim's thrusts became harder, more demanding. Ethan's moans grew louder.
"Fork," Tim said, not looking at the slave.
The slave immediately retrieved a plate and fork from the tray, speared a piece of egg, and brought it to Tim's lips. Tim took the bite, chewed, swallowed, never stopping his rhythm.
"More," Tim commanded after a moment.
The slave brought another forkful—bacon this time. Then toast. Then more eggs. It rotated through the breakfast items, feeding Tim carefully while he continued fucking Ethan, making sure not to spill anything, making sure each bite was perfect.
Ethan's body was a work of art in motion. His lean muscles flexed and rippled with each movement, his skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. His dirty-blond hair fell across his forehead, and his full lips were parted in pleasure. He looked like a god, and Tim was claiming him completely.
"Coffee," Tim said again, and the slave brought the mug back to his lips.
This continued for nearly thirty minutes—the slave feeding Tim, bringing him coffee, standing at attention when not needed. Tim fucked Ethan with steady, powerful strokes, taking his time, enjoying every moment.
Ethan's cock was leaking steadily now, bouncing with each thrust. "Sir," he gasped. "Sir, I'm getting close."
"Not yet," Tim commanded. "You don't cum until I say."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
The slave brought another forkful of eggs to Tim's lips. Tim took it, his eyes locked on Ethan's face, watching every expression of pleasure.
"You're mine," Tim said. "Say it."
"I'm yours, Sir. Completely yours."
"Damn right you are."
Tim's thrusts became harder, faster. His breathing grew ragged. The slave could see the tension building in his body, the way his muscles tensed, the way his grip on Ethan's hips tightened.
"Gonna fill you up," Tim growled. "Gonna pump you full of my cum."
"Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Want your cum inside me, Sir."
Tim slammed up into Ethan one final time and came with a roar, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside Ethan's ass. Ethan cried out, his body shaking, his own cock throbbing but denied release.
"Fuck," Tim breathed, his chest heaving. "Fuck, that was good."
"Thank you, Sir," Ethan gasped. "Thank you for using me, Sir."
Tim pulled Ethan down into a deep kiss, then pushed him off gently. "On your hands and knees," Tim ordered. "Ass up, back arched. Show off that perfect ass."
Ethan obeyed immediately, positioning himself on the bed with his ass raised high. His bubble butt was a thing of beauty—big and round, the hard glutes of an athlete, covered in fine blond hairs that caught the morning light. The slave could see Tim's cum beginning to leak from Ethan's hole, a thin trail of white against pink flesh.
Tim turned to the slave, his expression cruel and amused.
"You want my cum, don't you, slave?"
The slave's breath caught. "Yes, Sir. The slave wants Master's cum more than anything, Sir."
"Then beg for it," Tim said. "Beg to eat my load out of Ethan's beautiful ass."
The slave dropped to its knees immediately, crawling closer to the bed. It looked at Ethan's perfect ass, at the cum leaking from his hole, and its mouth watered.
"Please, Sir," the slave began, its voice desperate. "Please let the slave eat Master's cum from Ethan's ass. The slave is begging, Sir. It needs Master's cum. It's starving for it, Sir."
"Not good enough," Tim said coldly. "You need to mean it more."
The slave's voice became more frantic, more pathetic. "Please, Sir. The slave is nothing without Master's cum. It exists to consume Master's seed, to worship every drop. Please, Sir, please let it lick Master's cum from Ethan's perfect ass. The slave will do anything, Sir. Anything at all. Just please, please let it taste Master's cum."
"Better," Tim said. "But still not enough. Beg Ethan too. Tell him how beautiful his ass is. Tell him how grateful you'd be."
The slave turned its attention to Ethan, its voice breaking with desperation. "Please, Ethan, Sir. Your ass is perfect, Sir. It's beautiful and strong and the slave is so grateful Master chose to fill it with his cum. Please, Sir, please let the slave worship your perfect ass. Please let it lick Master's cum from between your beautiful cheeks. The slave is begging, Sir. It's nothing, it's worthless, but please, please grant it this privilege."
Ethan looked back over his shoulder, his blue eyes amused. "Damn, it really wants it."
"Keep begging," Tim ordered the slave. "More. I want to hear how pathetic you are."
The slave's voice rose in pitch, becoming more desperate, more broken. "Please, Sirs. Please. The slave is begging on its knees. It will do anything, be anything. It exists only to serve, only to consume Master's cum. Please let it press its face between Ethan's perfect cheeks. Please let it lick every drop of Master's seed from his beautiful hole. The slave needs it, Sirs. It's starving for it. It's nothing without it. Please, please, please."
Tears were streaming down the slave's face now, its voice cracking with genuine desperation. It was performing perfectly, giving Tim exactly what he wanted—complete degradation, total desperation.
"Please, Sirs. The slave will worship Ethan's ass forever. It will thank him for the privilege. It will be so grateful, so obedient. Please just let it taste Master's cum. Please."
Tim watched for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The slave continued begging, its voice hoarse, its body trembling.
Then Tim smiled—cold and cruel.
"No," he said simply.
The slave's heart shattered. "Sir—"
"I said no," Tim repeated. "You don't get my cum. You don't deserve it."
The slave's head dropped, devastation washing over it. "Yes, Sir. The slave understands, Sir. Thank you for considering it, Sir."
"Ethan, go clean yourself up," Tim ordered.
Ethan rose from the bed, his perfect body on full display, and walked toward the bathroom. The slave watched him go, watched Tim's cum drip down the inside of his thigh, and felt the loss like a physical wound.
"Get dressed," Tim told the slave. "Your regular clothes. Then attend to Ethan in the bathroom."
"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."
The slave crawled to where its clothes had been left—jeans, t-shirt, underwear. It dressed quickly, its movements mechanical, its mind still reeling from the denial.
When it entered the bathroom, Ethan was standing at the sink, examining his reflection. Tim followed a moment later, moving to stand beside him.
"Open your mouth," Tim commanded the slave. "Wide. And keep it open."
The slave obeyed immediately, dropping to its knees and opening its mouth as wide as it could, tongue out, ready to receive.
Tim picked up his toothbrush, applied toothpaste, and began brushing his teeth. Ethan did the same, both men standing side by side at the mirror.
They brushed thoroughly, working the paste into foam, and then—without warning—Tim leaned over and spat directly into the slave's open mouth.
The thick mixture of saliva and toothpaste landed on the slave's tongue, bitter and minty. The slave held its position, mouth still open, grateful for even this.
Ethan followed Tim's lead, spitting his own mouthful into the slave's face. Some landed in its mouth, some on its cheeks, some dripped down its chin.
"Don't swallow yet," Tim ordered.
"Mmph," the slave acknowledged, holding the mixture in its mouth.
Tim brushed more, worked up more foam, and spat again. Then again. Ethan matched him, both men using the slave's mouth as their personal sink, filling it with their spit and toothpaste and phlegm.
The slave's mouth was overflowing now, the bitter mixture coating its tongue, dripping from its lips. Its eyes watered but it held position, kept its mouth open, accepted everything they gave it.
"Swallow," Tim finally commanded.
The slave swallowed the disgusting mixture, gagging slightly but forcing it down. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Ethan, Sir."
"Pathetic," Ethan said, but he was smiling.
Tim rinsed his mouth with water and spat that into the slave's mouth too. Ethan did the same. The slave swallowed again, grateful for even this degradation.
"Into the shower," Tim ordered. "Now."
The slave stood and walked to the large walk-in glass shower enclosure. It stepped inside, fully clothed—jeans, t-shirt, everything—and stood at attention.
Tim and Ethan followed, both naked, both beautiful and powerful. They stood at the entrance to the shower, looking down at the slave with contempt.
"You know what's coming," Tim said.
"Yes, Sir. The slave knows, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
Tim stepped forward first, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. He aimed it at the slave and began to piss.
The hot stream hit the slave's chest, soaking through its t-shirt immediately. Tim moved his aim, spraying the slave's face, its hair, its jeans. The acrid smell filled the enclosed space.
Ethan joined in, his stream hitting the slave from a different angle. Together they covered the slave completely, piss running down its body, pooling in its shoes, dripping from its hair.
The slave stood perfectly still, arms at its sides, accepting the degradation with gratitude. It was completely exposed in the glass enclosure, visible from every angle, drenched in its Master's and Ethan's piss.
"Open your mouth," Tim commanded.
The slave obeyed, and Tim aimed his stream directly into the slave's open mouth. The slave gagged but held position, letting Tim's piss fill its mouth before swallowing.
"Good slave," Tim said mockingly. "Such a good little toilet."
When they were both finished, they stepped back, leaving the slave standing in the shower, completely soaked, reeking of piss.
"Out," Tim ordered. "Now."
The slave stepped out of the shower, piss dripping from its clothes, leaving wet footprints on the bathroom floor.
"Crawl," Tim said.
The slave dropped to its hands and knees and crawled out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, down the hallway. It left a trail of piss behind it, the carpet darkening with moisture.
When it reached the apartment door, Tim's voice called from the bedroom: "Get the fuck out. I'll text you when I need you again."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
The slave opened the door, crawled through, and stood up in the hallway. It closed Tim's apartment door behind it with a soft click.
Then it walked down the hallway, down the stairs, and out onto the street.
The morning sun was bright, the air cool. People were walking to work, starting their days, living their normal lives.
And the slave walked among them, completely drenched in Tim and Ethan's piss, its clothes soaked and reeking, its face still sticky with their spit and toothpaste.
It walked with its head high, grateful and broken and exactly where it belonged.
***
Tim closed the apartment door and turned back toward the bathroom. Ethan was already waiting, standing by the shower with a towel draped over his shoulder, his perfect body on full display.
"Get the water hot," Tim said, stripping off his shirt. "I want it steaming."
"Yes, Sir." Ethan stepped into the glass enclosure and adjusted the temperature, testing it with his hand until steam began to rise. When it was ready, he stepped back out and waited.
Tim finished undressing and walked into the shower. The hot water cascaded over his shoulders, running down his muscular back. He stood under the spray for a moment, letting the heat soak into his muscles, then looked at Ethan expectantly.
Ethan didn't need to be told twice. He stepped into the shower and immediately dropped to his knees on the wet tile, water streaming over his dirty-blond hair and down his lean, sculpted body.
He reached for the body wash, squeezing a generous amount into his palm, and began working it into lather between his hands. Then he placed both palms on Tim's left calf and began to soap him with slow, reverent movements.
Ethan's hands moved up Tim's leg methodically—calf, shin, knee, thigh. His fingers worked the soap into Tim's skin with firm pressure, massaging as he went, worshipping every inch. His bright blue eyes were focused entirely on his task, his full lips slightly parted in concentration.
When he finished the left leg, he moved to the right, repeating the process with the same devoted attention. His hands were strong but gentle, kneading Tim's muscles, working out any tension. Water ran over both of them, washing away the soap as Ethan continued upward.
Tim stood perfectly still, one hand braced against the shower wall, watching Ethan work. His gaze was possessive, approving—the look of a man who knew exactly what he owned and took satisfaction in it.
Ethan's hands moved to Tim's ass, soaping and massaging the firm muscles there. His fingers traced the curve of Tim's glutes, working the soap into every crevice with thorough attention. Then he moved around to the front, his hands sliding over Tim's hips, his lower abs, carefully soaping Tim's cock and balls with reverent touches.
"Good," Tim murmured, his voice low. "Keep going."
Ethan continued upward, his hands spreading soap across Tim's stomach, his chest, his shoulders. His fingers traced the definition of Tim's muscles—the ridges of his abs, the hard planes of his pecs, the strong lines of his shoulders and arms. He worked with the focus of someone performing a sacred ritual, every touch deliberate and worshipful.
When Tim's body was completely soaped, Ethan guided him under the spray, using his hands to rinse away the lather. Water cascaded over Tim's skin, and Ethan's hands followed, making sure every trace of soap was washed away.
"Shampoo," Tim said.
Ethan reached for the bottle immediately, squeezing a generous amount into his palm. He stood up from his knees—his body rising in one fluid motion that showed off the perfect definition of his lean muscles—and moved behind Tim.
He worked the shampoo into Tim's hair with both hands, his fingers threading through the dark strands. Then he began to massage Tim's scalp.
His fingers moved in slow, firm circles, applying pressure to every part of Tim's head. He worked methodically—temples, crown, the base of the skull, behind the ears. His fingertips pressed and kneaded, finding tension and working it out with practiced skill.
Tim's eyes closed, his head tilting back slightly into Ethan's touch. The massage was indulgent, luxurious—Ethan's fingers moving with the perfect amount of pressure, neither too soft nor too hard. He took his time, spending minutes on each section of Tim's scalp, his hands working with devoted attention.
Ethan's body was pressed close to Tim's back now, his full pecs against Tim's shoulder blades, his lean frame fitting perfectly against Tim's larger build. Water ran over both of them, steam rising around them in the enclosed space.
The massage continued for long minutes—Ethan's fingers working through Tim's hair again and again, massaging in slow, thorough circles. His sharp jawline was set in concentration, his bright blue eyes focused on his task. He looked like a sculpture come to life—every line of his body perfect, every movement graceful and deliberate.
Finally, Tim stepped forward under the spray, letting the water rinse the shampoo from his hair. Ethan's hands followed, making sure every trace was washed away, his fingers combing through Tim's hair gently.
"Out," Tim said.
They both stepped out of the shower. Ethan immediately grabbed a large, fluffy towel and began drying Tim off.
He started at Tim's shoulders, patting the towel against his skin with careful attention. He worked his way down—chest, arms, stomach, back. When he reached Tim's lower body, he knelt again, drying Tim's legs with the same methodical care he'd shown while washing them.
Ethan dried Tim's feet, lifting each one gently to pat the towel between his toes. Then he stood and dried Tim's hair, rubbing the towel through the damp strands until they were only slightly wet.
When he was finished, Ethan hung the towel on the rack and stood at attention, water still dripping from his own perfect body. His dirty-blond hair was plastered to his forehead, his lean muscles gleaming with moisture. He looked like a god—beautiful and strong and completely devoted.
Tim looked at him for a long moment, his gaze traveling over Ethan's body with obvious appreciation. Then he raised his hand and snapped his fingers once.
The sound echoed in the bathroom.
Ethan's response was immediate and instinctive. He dropped to the floor in one smooth motion, pressing his forehead to the tile in complete prostration. His arms extended forward, his back flat, his perfect ass raised slightly—the exact position the other slave had taken countless times.
Tim smiled, satisfaction spreading across his face. He looked down at Ethan's prostrated form—at the way his sculpted back curved, at the definition of his shoulders and arms, at the submission written in every line of his body.
"Up," Tim commanded.
Ethan rose to his knees, then to his feet, his movements fluid and graceful. He kept his eyes lowered respectfully, his hands at his sides.
"Sir," Ethan said, his voice soft but steady. "Will I be serving you alongside the other slave?"
Tim's expression shifted—something cold and dismissive crossing his features. He stepped closer to Ethan, close enough that their bodies were almost touching.
"No," Tim said flatly. "I don't need that pathetic thing anymore."
Ethan's eyes widened slightly, his bright blue gaze flicking up to meet Tim's for just a moment before lowering again.
"You're its replacement," Tim continued, his voice firm and final. "You're everything it could never be—beautiful, strong, worthy of my attention. That thing was just a placeholder until I found you."
Tim's hand came up, gripping Ethan's jaw and tilting his face up. Their eyes met—Tim's dark and possessive, Ethan's bright and devoted.
"You understand what that means?" Tim asked.
"Yes, Sir," Ethan breathed. "It means I'm yours. Completely yours."
"Damn right you are." Tim pulled Ethan close, their bodies pressing together. His hand slid down to grip Ethan's ass possessively. "You're mine now. My property. My slave. And you're going to serve me better than that pathetic thing ever could."
"Yes, Sir," Ethan said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll be perfect for you, Sir. I promise."
Tim's other hand came up to thread through Ethan's damp hair, gripping it firmly. "You already are," he said. "Look at you. Fucking perfect."
He pulled Ethan into a deep kiss—possessive and claiming, his tongue pushing into Ethan's mouth with absolute dominance. Ethan melted into it, his body going pliant, his hands coming up to rest on Tim's chest.
When Tim finally pulled back, Ethan was breathing hard, his lips swollen, his eyes glazed with arousal and devotion.
"Get dressed," Tim ordered. "We're going out for breakfast. And then we're coming back here, and you're going to show me exactly how grateful you are to be mine."
"Yes, Sir," Ethan said immediately. "Thank you, Sir."
Tim smiled—cold and satisfied and absolutely in control. He had everything he wanted now. Everything he needed.
And the pathetic thing that had served him before? It was already forgotten, replaced by something infinitely better.***
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