Imagine giving Patrick Bateman the most desperate, disgustingly sloppy head he’s ever had—so filthy and overwhelming that he has no choice but to hate himself for how much he loves it.
He’s a complete mess: crying, sweating, blushing like a whore. He’s so far gone that he’s shaking wildly, unable to grip your head, forced to cling to the couch instead. His legs are strained, eyes squeezed shut, and the moan that tears out of him is the wildest, most broken sound—like it’s the first real orgasm he’s had after a fucking century of denial.
You work him through it, swallowing everything until there’s nothing left for him to give. It’s both illegal and the most genuinely right thing between the two of you, the moment the walls finally come down and he lets you see him as the one who craves—without shame.
Even after he’s spent, even after you’ve swallowed everything he had to give, you keep your mouth on him. Soft, wet, relentless. The second the sensitivity hits, his whole body jerks like he’s been shocked. A broken, almost panicked sound leaves his throat—high and raw, nothing like the controlled man he forces himself to be every day.
“Fuck—wait—” His voice cracks.
His hands finally find your hair, but he doesn’t pull you off. He just holds on, trembling hard, thighs twitching under your palms. You can feel how oversensitive he is, how every slow drag of your tongue makes him flinch and whimper. His hips try to twist away, but there’s nowhere to go. You keep him right there, gentle and merciless at the same time, working over the head until he’s shaking so badly the couch creaks.
Tears are still slipping down his flushed face. He’s biting his lip so hard it looks like it might bleed, trying to muffle the soft, ruined sounds you keep pulling out of him. Every time you suck lightly or swirl your tongue, his stomach flexes and another broken noise slips free. He looks wrecked. Completely undone. The perfect, composed Patrick Bateman reduced to a trembling mess who can’t decide if he wants you to stop or never, ever stop.
When you finally pull off, a thin string of spit still connects your mouth to him. He stares down at you with glassy, overstimulated eyes, chest heaving, lips parted. For a second he just breathes, wrecked and exposed.
Then, voice hoarse and quiet, he says the most honest thing he’s probably ever said to you:
gamechangershow
romaincrisis
gummygunk
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
