I stroked his cock once, slow, just to remind him I was in charge. He whimpered. I didn’t give him the rhythm he wanted. Just a tease, then I went back to his belly, circling his navel. He arched, desperate.
“Color?”
“Green,” he gasped, wrecked. “Green, please, sir.”
That earned him a squeeze, my hand wrapped around the base of his cock. He slammed his head back into the pillow, legs trembling so hard I thought he’d cramp.
“That’s good,” I murmured. I let my short nails scratch gently over his thighs while my other hand kept him on edge, never enough, never too much. He trembled. He needed to come so badly he was incoherent.
“Good boy,” I said, and the words made him groan, hips rocking. I let the praise hang, just out of reach. He’d work for it. They always did, but this one? He’d barely taken anything and already he was wound so tight I could tell he’d fall apart the second I let him.
I moved my fingers up, nails raking soft red lines up his stomach, over his chest, careful of the scar there. He shivered but didn’t pull away. I liked that. I wanted to see how much he would take.
“You’re so sensitive,” I told him. “Nobody’s ever just touched you like this? Taken their time?”
He shook his head, breath coming in shallow pants. “Not…like this. Not ever.”
“Do you want to come, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Clayton’s voice broke, so I bent down and whispered in his ear.
“Good boy. You can come whenever you’re ready.”
A ragged cry, and I watched as cum erupted from his pulsing cock. I let my hand rest on his chest, just above his heart, and felt the way it thudded unevenly under my palm. His whole body was shaking, sweat slick on his skin and the blindfold already sliding down his cheek. He didn’t move, not even to wipe his nose, just lay there and let the aftershocks run through him, breath coming too fast, broken up by tiny, desperate sounds he probably didn’t even know he made.
He was beautiful like this. Wrecked, undone, every bit of that old armor stripped away. Not a single mask left.
I watched him for a while, not speaking, just letting the silence settle. Most subs couldn’t stand it. They got twitchy, embarrassed, tried to fill the air with chatter or apologies or whatever it was they thought would make me like them. Clayton just breathed and basked in the feeling.
I liked that.
He didn’t pull away when I reached up and slid the blindfold off. He flinched, instinct, but then his eyes found mine and held. Red-rimmed. Wet. I thumbed a tear off his cheek, and he actually whimpered at the touch.
He looked so lost. I could see it, every single crack in him, all the ways life had bent him out of shape, and he still wanted to be here, still wanted to please.
I got a towel from the cabinet and wiped him down, slow, gentle, not letting him move at all. Just pushed his hair off his forehead, wiped the sweat from his jaw, careful with the bruise at his lower back. He let me do it, didn’t even try to help. Good. He needed this. And part of me felt the loss that I wouldn’t revisit him. It wouldn’t be fair. I didn’t do commitment, and he needed it badly.
I tossed the towel aside and sat on the bed next to him, just watching the way his chest shuddered in and out. My hand found his hair again, stroking it back from his forehead. He shivered harder, and I grabbed a soft blanket for him.
“Breathe, Clayton. Don’t think. Just let go for a minute.” My voice was low, softer than I’d ever used in here. For some reason it felt right.
He blinked, swallowed, tried to focus. “Sir…” His voice was wrecked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
I cut him off with a shake of my head. “You did exactly what I wanted. Lie still. Let the feeling settle.”
He tried. I could see him working at it, the way his fingers twitched on the sheets, the way his lips parted like he might say something else and then stopped himself. I let him have the silence. I didn’t need to fill it. I pulled the blanket around his shoulders.
He relaxed, slowly, like a string of tension snapping one section at a time. His eyelids fluttered, not quite closing, but the fight went out of him. He was floating. That was obvious.
Most Doms would have left then. Or not even gotten this far. A lot of the time, aftercare was a blanket tossed over a naked back or a glass of water on the side table, nothing more. But I stayed.I wanted him to know he could have it. That he could have me, if he wanted, just for now.
I found myself wanting that more than I expected.
I stroked his hair again, just because I liked the way he melted under my hand. I didn’t have to say anything. It was enough just to be there, solid, present, letting him know I wasn’t going to vanish the second he’d served his purpose.
I could feel how badly he wanted it. Not the sex. Not the kink. This. The quiet. The safety. The permission to just exist, unrushed.
Most men didn’t need that. Not really. Or said they didn’t, anyway.
