“Does it feel good? Is it enough?”
“No!” he cries. “I keep coming, and n-nothing helps.”
At his broken words, I notice it. The white streaks on the duvet beneath him. He’sbeendoing this. All day. Most likely since he left the altar room.
“Oh, baby,” I coo, reaching the bed just in time to run my fingers up his spine. “You poor thing.”
I watch his eyes roll back, his mouth falling open, though no sound escapes him.
“Can I help you?” I ask. “Can I touch you now?”
“Please,”he pleads. “Please touch me, Julie. Make it go away.”
It appears Atlas is no longer afraid of the consequences of my touching him.Thank fucking god.
“Take these out,” I instruct softly, grabbing his wrist and tugging with very little force. Atlas whines in disagreement.
“No, leave them. Please leave them,” he begs.
The brown curls at the base of his neck are stuck to his skin, his toes digging into the duvet.
“If you take them out, I’ll fill you up so you’re warm and full,” I promise.
Atlas practicallypurrsat that, slowly pulling his fingers from his entrance and allowing his arm to fall limply to his side.
“Good boy, Atty,” I praise. “Now get on your back. Come on, be good.”
I roll him gently, and when he finally settles, the red of his cheeks and the way his hair is stuck to his face make my heart skip a beat. He looks so fragile, so fucked out and needy that I feel like the most desired, most important man on the planet.
Like Atlas might die without me.
His chest rises and falls, covered in light scratches and marks. His nipples are hard and abused, as if he’s been tugging at them relentlessly. His hard dick lies against his lower stomach, weeping and borderline purple with how aggressively horny he is.
I can’t tell if it’s drool or sweat or tears that drip down his chin and onto his neck, but I lick it up all the same, hearing his soft cry at the feel of my warm tongue.
As my fingers graze his sensitive nipples, he arches, his fingers digging into my biceps.
“Please, please, please,”he mumbles.
“I hear you. I’ll make it all better, okay?”
As I move to sit up, only for a moment to remove my clothes, Atlas panics. He grabs hold of my arms and yanks me on top of himself.
“Don’t leave! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being bad before, but don’t leave me now. I think I’m dying. I feel like I’mdying.” He’s sobbing, gripping me so tightly I’m concerned he’s drawing blood.
“Shhh. Atty, listen to me. Hey,listen.” The force of my tone makes him hesitate, quieting to the point of only releasing small cries. “I’m not leaving you, I promise. I’m just taking my clothes off. You hear me?”
I tap the side of his face softly, keeping his attention as his eyes focus and then unfocus once more.
“Uh-huh,” he mutters quietly.
When I move to get up again, he lets me.
With incredible speed, being mindful of his painful condition, I rip off my shirt and my pants, sliding my briefs off before climbing between his legs.
Atlas immediately reaches for me again, and one thought becomes incredibly clear.
I was right. This time around, he does not need rough sex. He needs soft, loving, and gentle. He needs to be held, grounded, and praised.
