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I frown, but the look in his eyes demands an answer. “Washed it before I left the house. That satisfy your curiosity?”
A smug smile graces Corvin’s lips, and it’s clear I’ve fallen into some sort of trap. “Hands on the shelf, sweetheart.”
The sudden change in mood has my mouth drying out. I grip the lowest shelf behind me I can reach, bracing for whatever this man plans on doing to me.
He returns his focus to the dick in his hand, spits in his free one, and coats the shaft with it. My eyes widen because—holy shit—from here it looks like he’s jerking my cock. A cis cock. That’s not an illusion I ever knew I needed.
The hand not stroking me comes to cradle the base and balls of the cock and presses them securely to my crotch, creating a constant pressure on my t-dick.
“Morales.” His name leaves my mouth warily with an edge of want.
He presses his lips to the head of the dick, and I have to slam my eyes closed to keep the onslaught of dysphoria from taking over.
“Want me to stop?”
I can’t even believe what he’s starting, but the chaos in my head is quiet save for the voice crying out that if he’s going to have my dick in his mouth I want to actually feel it.
“I feel like this is a joke.”
Slowly I open my eyes to find him watching me with an unsettling reverence.
“No joke. You need to calm down before I can teach you anything. I’ll ask again: Is this okay or do you need me to stop?”
Not want. Need.
I shake my head, and when that isn’t good enough, I wet my lips and rasp out, “Don’t stop.”
He smiles, wraps his lips around the cockhead and mumbles, “Good boy.”
Everything else fades away.
My eyes stay open to watch it all. To make up for what I can’t feel. But Corvin thought of that, too.
He slides his mouth down the shaft—only four inches and semi-soft—and then my thoughts are blown away by the pressure on my dick—my actual fucking dick—as he sucks on the goddamn silicone.
The hand securing the base applies an even paced pressure to the rhythm that he sucks and glides his lips up and down the shaft. I can’t feel each individual flick of his tongue, but the raw grind of the ribbed edges on the inside of my packer give way to the illusion.
There’s something deeply erotic about seeing Corvin on his knees with a dick in his mouth. Lips stretched around it. Eyes boring into mine as if daring me to look away.
There’s a tightness in my chest that surprises me. Along with the arousal burning and aching inside me, there’s also a sharp sting that makes me feel fucking small.
A reminder that I can’t have this.
That this is a one time, experimental thing, and then the fantasy will break and deteriorate until it’s an unattainable pipe dream.
I have to break eye contact before the tears fall. Ridiculous, frustrated tears.
The sensations stop. A hand slides to my hip. Squeezes.
“There you are.”
I snap my attention to Corvin—blinking rapidly because I will not cry in front of this man again, dammit. He’s tucking my packer back into my underwear and sliding my sweats up to cover my indecency.
“I’m willing to give you what you need,” he says, standing to his full height and dragging his hand from my crotch to my throat. “But you have to follow my rules, sweetheart.”
I reach for his sides and dig my fingers into his skin. He doesn’t flinch. Our eyes meet.
“I need to fuck you,” I say.
