The whiskey touched his tongue and Thomas swallowed obediently, his throat working in visible gulps as the amber liquid burned like fire going down. He looked up at Michael with wide, pleading eyes, desperate for approval, for acknowledgment that he was being good. The alcohol stung his nostrils and made his eyes water, but he suppressed the cough that clawed at his chest, refusing to make a face or show any discomfort. He held Michael's gaze throughout, watching the hunger darken those eyes as he took it, accepted this strange communion. When Michael finally released his chin and patted his face with proprietary ownership, Thomas felt the praise settle deeper than the alcohol, warm and intoxicating.
When the command came, Thomas's breath hitched, the words landing heavy and undeniable somewhere between his stomach and his throat. "Yes, sir," he whispered, his voice thinner and needier than he recognized, already surrendered. His hands moved to Michael's belt with mechanical obedience, the leather warm from body heat, the buckle heavy in his unsteady fingers. Michael watched from above, cataloguing every fumble, every shaky breath, and that scrutiny only made his fingers clumsier, his arousal sharper.
The trousers came down and then there was only cotton, strained tight against what waited beneath. Thomas hesitated, the reality vast and overwhelming. He pulled the waistband down and Michael's cock sprang free, thick and heavy and half hard. The smell hit him then, musk and soap and something uniquely male, and he swayed forward on his knees before any conscious decision. The first taste was salt and heat and power, and Thomas moaned around the weight, sinking lower, taking more than he should, faster than he should.
His own arousal throbbed painfully now, insistent and ignored, because touching himself had not been permitted and Thomas found he did not want to break the rules. The denial became its own pleasure, a tight coil of frustration that made him suck harder, hollow his cheeks, look upward through wet lashes to gauge Michael's reaction. He wanted Michael to see exactly what he had reduced him to, wanted him to know that Thomas was hard as stone in his own trousers, leaking and desperate and grateful for the chance to atone.
He worked his tongue along the underside, finding a rhythm that made Michael's thigh tense beneath his palm, and the power of that small reaction sent fresh heat pooling in his gut. He was nothing now, stripped of competence and excuses and pride, and the freedom was intoxicating. Thomas worked willingly, eagerly, throat relaxing around the intrusion even as his lungs burned. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking friction against empty air, and the whine that escaped around Michael's cock was pure, abject need. The shame was still there, coiled tight beneath his ribs, but it had become indistinguishable from the arousal now, the two sensations braided together into something that felt like surrender.
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
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