Chapter 130: His Submissive dick -3

Vesper rose from the bed without a word. He found the soft grey joggers and the plain black T-shirt that had been left folded on the chair.

Dressing carefully, he eased the fabric over his still-rigid cock, tucking it upward against his stomach so the outline would be obvious if Quillon chose to look.

The waistband settled low. The pressure of the cloth was constant, a quiet reminder.

Quillon watched the entire process from the armchair, tea finished, expression unreadable.

"Go to the Kitchen," he said. "And make me a fresh cup of tea."

Vesper nodded and left the bedroom. The apartment was quiet except for the soft sound of his bare feet on the floorboards.

He filled the kettle, set it to boil, measured the leaves the way Quillon preferred.

Every few seconds his awareness snagged on the heavy ache between his legs, the way the fabric of the joggers dragged lightly over the head each time he shifted his weight.

He heard Quillon’s footsteps before he saw him. Quillon walked past on his way to the living-room window, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

As he passed, his hand reached out without looking and pressed firmly against the front of Vesper’s joggers, palm flat, fingers curling just enough to feel the thick shape underneath.

The pressure lingered for two full seconds.

Then Quillon continued on as if nothing had happened.

Vesper’s breath left him in a controlled stream. He stayed hard. The check had been brief, almost casual, but the message was clear.

He poured the water. Steam rose. He carried the mug into the living room and set it on the low table beside the window where Quillon stood looking out at the dark street.

Quillon didn’t turn. He simply reached back, found Vesper’s hip, and slid his hand around to the front again.

This time the touch was slower. Fingers traced the full length of the cock through the soft fabric, from base to tip and back down, confirming the rigidity.

"Still ready," Quillon murmured. "Good."

He released him and picked up the mug.

Vesper stayed where he was, waiting. Quillon drank in silence for a while. Then he moved again- across the room to the bookshelf, then back toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

Each time he passed Vesper he reached out. Sometimes it was only a brief press of the heel of his hand.

Sometimes it was a full-handed squeeze that made Vesper’s knees threaten to buckle.

Every time the answer was the same: hard, thick, waiting.

Until the fourth pass.

Quillon’s hand settled against the front of the joggers, fingers searching, and then went still.

The shape under the cloth was softer. Not fully soft, but no longer the rigid, demanding line it had been. Half-hard at best. Softening further under the quiet assessment of Quillon’s palm.

Quillon’s voice was very calm.

"Oh."

Vesper’s stomach dropped.

Quillon didn’t raise his voice. He simply kept his hand where it was, feeling the failure.

"You let it go soft."

"I..."

"Don’t speak." Quillon’s fingers gave one deliberate, almost thoughtful squeeze, confirming what he already knew.

"You had one instruction. Stay hard. Stay ready. And you let it drop."

He released Vesper and stepped back.

"Head to the bedroom. Now."

Vesper walked ahead of him on unsteady legs. Inside the bedroom Quillon closed the door with a quiet click.

"Clothes off. All of them."

Vesper stripped. His cock hung heavier now, only partially filled, the head no longer tight and dark.

Quillon looked at it for a long moment and then pointed to the centre of the bed.

"On your back. Open your legs. Hands by your sides. You’re going to edge yourself. Continuously. You will bring yourself right to the edge, over and over, and you will not come. If you come, the punishment changes. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Begin."

Vesper wrapped his right hand around his cock and started stroking. Slow at first, then firmer, the way he knew would bring him up fast.

Quillon sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed and watched without speaking.

The room was quiet except for the soft, wet sound of skin on skin and Vesper’s increasingly uneven breathing.

He reached the edge quickly. His hips wanted to lift. His hand slowed, then stopped, squeezing hard at the base until the sharp urgency receded. Then he started again.

The second time was harder. The third time his thighs shook. Quillon’s eyes never left him.

"Keep going," Quillon said when Vesper’s hand faltered. "Edge. Don’t stop for more than a few seconds. I want you right there, constantly."

Vesper obeyed. Stroke, build, stop. Stroke, build, stop. His cock was fully hard again, flushed dark, leaking steadily onto his stomach.

Precome smeared across his skin with every pass of his fist. His breath had gone ragged. The need to come sat heavy and urgent at the base of his spine.

He lost the rhythm on the seventh edge.

His hand moved too fast, the pleasure spiked too sharply, and before he could clamp down or squeeze the base the orgasm tore through him.

Thick ropes of come striped his stomach and chest. His back arched. A broken sound left his throat.

He kept stroking through it helplessly until the last weak pulses faded and his cock began to soften in his own hand.

Silence.

Quillon stood.

He walked to the side of the bed and looked down at the mess on Vesper’s skin, at the spent cock still loosely held in Vesper’s fingers.

"You came."

Vesper’s voice was rough. "I’m sorry..."

"I told you what would happen if you came." Quillon’s tone remained even. "Stroke yourself hard again. Now."

Vesper’s hand moved. It took longer this time. Sensitivity made every stroke sharp. Quillon waited without impatience until Vesper’s cock stood fully erect once more, shiny with residual come and fresh precome.

"Keep it hard," Quillon said. "Don’t stroke anymore. Just hold the base if you need to."

He left the room. Vesper heard a drawer open somewhere down the hall. When Quillon returned he was carrying a thin, flexible cane - dark wood, smooth, the length of his forearm.

He tested the flex once against his own palm. The soft whistle of air made Vesper’s stomach tighten.

Quillon stepped up to the side of the bed and looked at Vesper’s rigid cock.

"You will stay hard while I do this," he said. "If you go soft, we start the count over. Hands flat on the sheets. Do not move them."

Vesper pressed his palms into the mattress.

Quillon positioned himself carefully. He rested the cane lightly across the shaft of Vesper’s cock, just below the head, letting the weight of it register. Then he lifted it and brought it down in a sharp, precise stroke.

The sound was crisp. The sting was immediate and bright. Vesper’s hips jerked; his cock jumped against the impact but stayed hard.

"One."

Quillon waited three seconds, then struck again, slightly lower. Another clean line of fire across the sensitive skin.

"Two."

He continued without hurry. Each stroke was measured, never hard enough to truly damage, but sharp enough that the heat layered and built.

Vesper’s breathing turned harsh. His cock remained rigid, flushed darker with every impact, the head leaking steadily onto his stomach.

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes by the sixth stroke. By the tenth his thighs were trembling.

Quillon paused after the twelfth and ran two fingers lightly along the reddened shaft, feeling the heat radiating from the skin.

"Still hard," he observed. "Good. You’re learning."

He delivered three more precise strokes, directly on the tip of his cock. Each one landing with a soft, vicious sound, then stepped back.

Vesper’s cock stood rigid and marked, the skin hot and striped, still leaking.

Quillon set the cane aside on the nightstand.

"You will stay exactly like that," he said. "Hard. Marked. Waiting. I’m going to make another cup of tea. When I come back, I expect to find you in the same condition. If I don’t..." He left the sentence unfinished.

He turned and left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

Vesper remained on his back, palms flat, cock aching and upright in the centre of the quiet room, the thin red lines across it throbbing in time with his pulse.