Chapter 129: His Submissive dick -2

Quillon didn’t hurry.

Vesper heard the soft clink of ceramic in the kitchen, the low rush of the kettle, the quiet scrape of a spoon against the bottom of a mug.

Every ordinary sound stretched the minutes thin. His cock stayed rigid against his stomach the entire time, the head glossy, a slow trickle of precome cooling on his skin.

He didn’t dare touch it. He didn’t even shift his hips. The rule was simple enough to live inside: stay hard, stay ready, stay exactly where he’d been left.

When Quillon finally came back he was carrying a single mug of tea, steam curling off the surface. He stopped in the doorway and looked.

Vesper’s cock hadn’t moved. Still thick, still standing, the vein along the underside standing out in the low light.

Quillon’s mouth tipped in something close to approval. He walked to the armchair in the corner instead of the bed, sat down, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. The black lounge pants rode low enough that the dark trail of hair below his navel was visible. He took a slow sip of tea and watched Vesper over the rim of the mug.

"Still hard," he said, quiet. "Good."

Vesper’s throat worked. "Yes."

"Come here."

Vesper swung his legs off the bed and stood. The air felt cool against the wet head of his cock. He crossed the short distance and stopped in front of the chair, close enough that Quillon could have reached out and touched him if he wanted.

Quillon didn’t. He simply looked.

"Closer."

Vesper stepped in until his knees almost brushed Quillon’s. His cock jutted forward, the tip only a few inches from Quillon’s chest.

Quillon set the mug on the side table and leaned forward just enough to blow a thin stream of warm breath across the head. Vesper’s hips jerked once before he locked them still.

"Hands behind your back," Quillon said.

Vesper laced his fingers together at the base of his spine.

Quillon reached up then, two fingers tracing the underside of Vesper’s cock from the root all the way to the slit. He collected the fresh bead of precome on the pad of his thumb and rubbed it in slow circles over the head. Vesper’s breath left him in a controlled exhale.

"You’re leaking for me already," Quillon murmured. "That’s exactly what I want. I want you wet the whole time. I want you aching. I want that cock so hard it hurts a little, and I want you to keep it that way no matter what I do."

He closed his hand fully around the shaft and gave it three long, deliberate strokes. On the third he squeezed just under the head and held. Vesper’s thighs trembled.

"Still hard," Quillon said, as if he were checking a list. "Perfect."

He released him and sat back, picking up the tea again. "Kneel."

Vesper went to his knees between Quillon’s open legs. The carpet was soft under him. His cock pointed upward, the head almost brushing the loose fabric of Quillon’s pants.

Quillon sipped his tea and watched him for a long minute, saying nothing. Then he set the mug aside, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the lounge pants, and pushed them down just far enough to free himself. He was hard now too—thick, flushed, resting against his lower stomach.

"You’re going to keep me company while I finish my tea," Quillon said. "Mouth open. Tongue out. You don’t suck until I tell you. You just hold still and stay hard while I use your mouth however I want."

Vesper opened his mouth and let his tongue rest on his lower lip. Quillon guided the head of his own cock forward until it rested on Vesper’s tongue. The weight of it was heavy, warm, salty. Quillon didn’t push deeper. He simply left it there and reached for the mug again.

Every few seconds he rocked his hips the smallest amount, dragging the head across Vesper’s tongue, then settling it back in place. Vesper’s jaw stayed open. His own cock remained rigid between his thighs, untouched, a thin string of precome stretching from the tip to the carpet.

Quillon finished the tea slowly. When the mug was empty he set it down and looked at Vesper’s face—flushed, eyes dark, mouth full of him.

"Still hard?" he asked, voice soft.

Vesper couldn’t answer with words. He made a small sound in his throat instead.

Quillon reached down between them and wrapped his fingers around Vesper’s cock, testing the weight of it, the heat, the absolute rigidity.

"Good," he said. "You’re doing exactly what I told you. You’re going to keep doing it."

He pulled his own cock free of Vesper’s mouth and stood. The lounge pants stayed low on his hips. He walked past Vesper toward the bed, then glanced back over his shoulder.

"On the bed. On your back. Legs open. Cock up. Same position as before."

Vesper rose and obeyed. He settled against the pillows, thighs parted, hands once again open on the sheets. His cock stood tall and wet against his stomach.

Quillon climbed onto the mattress and straddled him the way he had earlier, this time facing him fully. He reached back, took hold of Vesper’s cock, and guided the head against his entrance. He didn’t take it inside. He simply held it there, the blunt pressure constant, while he looked down into Vesper’s eyes.

"Feel how ready you are," Quillon said. "That’s how I want you every hour of every day when we’re together. Hard. Leaking. Waiting for me to decide I want it."

He sank down just enough that the head breached him—slow, controlled, only the first inch—then stopped. Vesper’s breath caught hard in his chest.

Quillon’s voice dropped. "You don’t move. You don’t thrust. You stay exactly this hard while I sit on you and decide how much of you I want."

He stayed there, hovering, the tight heat of his body clenched around the head of Vesper’s cock and nothing more.

Vesper’s hands stayed flat. His hips stayed locked. His cock stayed rigid, throbbing inside the narrow ring of muscle that refused to take him any deeper.

Quillon stood up from his cock.

"Good boy," he said quietly. "Now put on your clothes. But make sure your dick stays hard underneath the clothes at all times, so that it can be ready when I need it."