Page 23 of Coach’s Son (Twin Cities #2)

I shift my focus to the hole, adding burst after burst of saliva to make sure his arse is prepared to take my girth.

Once my cock becomes one with him, I know it in my bones that I won’t be able to pull out.

It will be impossible to stop fucking every tad of his warm insides that feel as hot as the pits of hell, plush and supple like the Devil himself sculpted this arse for my yearning.

Slurp after slurp I keep at it. I embrace the flesh, the fuzz, until I sense his hole loosening—becoming more pliant with each drill.

I grip his cock, pump him a few strokes, his member nearly seizing in my hand. “Oi lad you aren’t allowed to cum, not until I grant you permission,” I rumble out between greedy strikes of his sacred flesh.

He’s a man that deserves blind devotion. An angel that needs protection, even if it’s by a member of the underworld. I’ll cross that divide, wear the horns and carry the shadow. My soiled mouth will embrace his holy arse night and day.

“Yes King…” he cries out, throat raw. “Please—use me already.”

“Patience baby,” I murmur, savoring the desperation in his tone. “You’ll get what you need. Don’t you worry.”

I’ll give him everything he could dream of. Unrelenting worship, protection from the beasts of this world, and loads of bloody cream.

But he knows this comes at a cost, because he belongs to me—his faith, his body, his mind. Every fiber of Austin Schmidt is at my mercy.

And tomorrow, I’ll seal it. My mark carved permanently into his flesh, ink burned into his back where no mirror can let him forget. A signature etched like scripture, a reminder chiseled in blood and permanence of who owns him.

Every time he steps under a shower’s spray, every time he strips for practice or dives into a pool, my presence will rise with him. He’ll carry me into locker rooms, into bedrooms, into every quiet moment of his life. A brand for him, a warning for everyone else.

No matter where he goes, no matter who dares to touch him, they’ll all see it. They’ll all know he belongs to Drew Evans.

I take a final slurp, before crawling up his back. “You ready for my prick baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” he begs, his neck shaking in frenzy.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper, lips caressing his nape. “I’m here to answer your prayer.”

“Who’s your King?”

“You are.”

“Your master?”

“You.”

“Your God?”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, his mouth answers in harmony. “You are, Drew Evans—my God of the world.”

Those words are a decadent melody to my brain. Intoxicating my mind like a handle of vodka. A man that listens to his master. That knows his place in the world—in my bed, under my rule.

I drive the crown of my cock into his flesh, his warmth embracing my length without second thought. I drive deeper, gripping the bloody red straps, his divine arse sending sparks of lightning through every nerve of my prick.

The air of bedroom is filled by his guttural moans, a disciple earning his God’s favour.

I continue carving my path until I’m buried to my own pubes, letting his arse truly welcome my blessing.

“Thank you, King,” he whimpers out, letting a sigh of relief relax the tension in his body—submission flowing through his veins.

“My pleasure,” I grin, fully meaning every word. “I’ll take care of you to my last dying breath.”

I retract and thrust, giving him a hefty blow to sate his ache. But fuck does he feel immaculate. Like the stairway to heaven, blindfolded and wrists bound, every step at the mercy of his lord.

Each sound he makes is devotion, a prayer disguised as whimper, begging me not to stop. He hymns for me to go faster, fuck his arse into bloody scripture. Lead him to edge of salvation.

I’ll lead him to heaven and hell, show him the power that I hold. Nowhere and nothing is off-limits. Beyond the realms of what we can see, to the unimaginable lands of what I can make him feel.

I strike my cock against his prostate to hear more of those heavenly sounds, the bed shaking from our combined clamor. My sweat dripping onto his flawless back, pooling in the valley of his spine.

My heart aches in a weird sensation to witness his pleasure, watch the cream explode from his pulsing prick. Witness the revelation of conversion once again.

Every thrust of my cock is inching me closer to sublime release, ready to bless him with my holy cream.

“Cum for your God,” I rumble into his ear, granting him my consent.

“Yes master,” he whimpers, his quads quivering, cheeks flush with heat the shade of beets. “Please stroke me… Just once or twice.”

“Oi Lover Boy, you think you deserve my help?”

“Only if you approve sir.”

“I suppose I can make an exception this once.”

I grab his cock that’s squished beneath his weight, pulsing with its own heartbeat, awash with his precum. Stroking his length in cadence with the rhythm of the pulse. “Does that feel swell baby?”

“Yes, yes, yes—just like that!” he whines, his body tensing, shaking like a volcano before its penultimate explosion.

My palm grips his prick harder, stroking with fury to witness the detonation. Thrusting in and out his plush arse, savouring every second of his glorious flesh.

“I’m abo—” he wails, voice cracking, his cock seizing in my clasp. Loads of viscous cream bursting out from his head, saturating the sheets with his milk.

His cries echo through the air like a psalm on Easter.

The vision of watching him lose it in my grip drives me mad, I pound his arse with vehemence, the image of his cream pushing me to the precipice.

“Take it,” I snarl, voice crazed with frenzy. “Every drop. Take your God’s gift.”

Then it comes—the flood. My cock vibrates violently inside, as if the heavens themselves have split. Spurt after zealous spurt filling his insides, the way God once flooded the world to lift Noah’s Ark into the storm.

After the last rage of my prick, I land beside him, our pants exhaling in sync, admiring his beauty. The instance of how he’s tied up, begging for more. I suppose we could go another round… Give him some more holy milk, but that would be cruel.

I’m a man of reason and logic—but these weird flutters of empathy keep crawling up from my depths. The desire to ask him how he feels, what I can do for him.

Is this normal?

I want to nurture him. Christ, even make him some dinner, he must be famished. He needs some nutrients to replenish all those fluids he’s lost.

But what is wrong with me?

I want to hold him tight, cuddle with him. Am I satisfied?

Definitely not, I want more of him, every ounce of his flesh. I can’t get enough. My ears ache for his prayers.

Usually after a fuck or two I don’t give a rat’s arse about anybody. They become soiled goods in my eyes, but there’s something drawing me into this man that won’t allow me to toss him onto the street.

I thought maybe after I ruin him for Charlie, my obsession would fade, but it’s only intensified with a vengeance.

“Let’s get you untied baby,” I purr into his ear, plopping a kiss onto his cheek. My hands undoing the twisted knots. “You were so fucking grand. A masterpiece.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “But you were amazing, I’ve never been worshipped like that.”

His words shatter through me, splitting me open like no one ever has. He understands that he’s my sanctuary. My altar. My Eucharist to consume. The bread for my mouth, the wine for my veins.

“Of course you haven’t,” I snicker, tracing his jaw, ripping off the blindfold so his chestnut irises meet mine. “Because no else knows how. No one else can. Only me. Only your King can worship you the way you deserve—raise you to your full potential.”

His lips spread into a wide grin, radiating the room with the light it shines.

A smile so bright, it brands itself in my brain, searing deeper than any tattoo I’ve ever gotten.

Is this what love feels like? The strange twisting of your gut, an urge to make him feel good rather than torture him into oblivion.

Or is this obsession to the next level?

My brain has never known love. I haven’t seen my parents in nearly a decade. My agent wires them money to keep them whisked away on the other side of the Atlantic.

My father taught me torture and fear, indulged me with so much of it I became immune.

Since then, my blood has only adored two things: the taste of sweaty fists and shattered teeth on the ice, and the thrill of tormenting my baby brother until he went mental. I’ve only let violence and cruelty lead my moral compass.

This is something different—the light sucking me into it’s blissful rays. Destroying the shadows I’ve thrived in. And maybe it doesn’t feel so bad. Tonight, I’m not going to fight it.

“You down for some takeout?” I chirp at him.

“Possibly after a shower,” he laughs.

His innocent laugh simmers in the air, and for a moment I imagine what it would be like to live with the sun, embrace the strange, warm comfort of him under the ultraviolet rays.