“I can’t!” he cries, slumping in my lap, sobbing onto my shirt. “I’m too fucked up, I can’t do it. So fucking stupid, worthless, so dumb, I can’t do it– I can’t do it–”
“Tommy,” I intend to put a stop to that line of thought, but he tears himself away from me and stumbles out of the booth.
“No,” he snaps, sounding both angry and needy, because he’s high and shivering with pleasure-pain. “Fuck you.”
I stand up with him, hold him close, and give him a stern warning. “What’s your safe word, Tommy?”
He grits his teeth, his pupils wavering as the drug keeps him high but his emotions try to bring him low. “Red.”
“Are you saying it now?”
He opens his mouth, closes it. He looks lost. I run a hand up his chest, and he moans, unable to contain it. His skin is hypersensitive right now, and he grabs my other hand and brings it to the front of his pants, whimpering. “No,” he says, and I almost stop, but he continues. “I’m not saying it.”
I don’t want to say good boy as a reward for not saying his safe word, that seems counterintuitive, but I get a little closer to him, kiss him again. He melts into it, soft and sweet, desperate. But after a few minutes of his sad cries, his tearful kisses and breathy moans, he tears himself away.
“I can’t!” He storms toward the front of the club, unsteady on his feet but pushing past anyone in his way. I follow, but the crowd is thick, and he makes it outside before I do.
I catch up to him at the car, where he’s yanking uselessly on the locked handle. I drove us here tonight, so there’s no driver to open the door for him. I push up against his back, pinning him to the car, and he moans loud and long, squirming. I’ve never been aggressive like this, but it feels so right with him, so perfect. Like it’s just what he needs, what I need.
“Please, please please please,” he begs. “Please, Young-gi, please help me, Ican’t,so, so stupid, soworthless–”
I unlock the door and push him into the backseat, which is roomy enough to suit my needs. I crawl in after him and lock us inside. I know my security team is watching, but fuck that. It means nothing to me. What matters is this boy right in front of me. My boy, who needs me to help him.
He leans against the window opposite me, staring at me, tears on his face.
“Come here, Tommy,” I command. He slides closer to me with a shiver, his eyes bright and glassy. Once he’s close enough,practically in my lap, I slide one hand around the back of his neck to hold him in place. “This mouth is telling lies about you, Tommy.”
“I…what?”
“Your mouth,” I say, pausing to kiss him deeply, making sure he feels my tongue against his. “It’s telling lies about you. It’s insulting you.And I don’t allow insults.”
“Holy shit, that’s f-fucking hot,” he pants, overwhelmed. “What–um, what are you–gonna do?”
“I don’t have any soap with me to clean it out, but it needs to be corrected, doesn’t it?” I’m keeping my voice smooth and persuasive. “I need to see what’s making it lie and say those untrue things, hm? Let me take a look.”
“Let you…look?”
“Yes, Tommy, let me look for the lies you’ve got in that mouth of yours.” I put my thumb just under his lower lip and pull down gently. “Open up, let me see.”
The interior of the car is dim, but there are lights outside for the parking lot, so I can see it when he submits to me, the way he melts for me and becomes more fragile at the same time. His expression gets soft and hazy, his hands shake where they grasp my thighs, and he parts his lips.
“Wider,” I urge.
He whines, shifts in his seat, but obeys.
“Wider,” I tell him again. “Show me everything.”
He’s panting now, and I notice the way his dick is pressing hard against his jeans, more prominent than it’s been so far. He opens his mouth wide.
“Good boy,” I murmur, looking at his mouth intently, playing my part in a little game with him, one that will help get his mind off the ‘I can’t’ rhetoric. Something to distract him from cumming at all, until it happens on its own. Like being overwhelmed on the dance floor. Plenty of stimulus, he’d said.Just redirecting his attention and giving him that domination he craves.
“Hm, I’m not sure I can see everything. Stick your tongue out for me,” I coo. “Let me see it.”
He whimpers, looks at me like he’s trying to see if I’m serious. I am. Trembling, without any of his usual bratty defensiveness, he does as I ask, laying his tongue out for me like rolling out a red carpet.
Mine. That’s mine, too. All of him, mine.
“There’s a good boy.” Once he has it out, I put the tips of two fingers against it and press down. He makes a small sound, confused, aroused. I stroke his tongue, knowing it’s sensitive as hell–he loves kissing for a reason, and the drug only makes it more intense–and hum thoughtfully. “I don’t see any lies in here, Tommy. Do me a favor, though, and hold these in your mouth for a second, so I can make sure those bad words don’t come out again.”
