Page 15 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)

"May I watch?" I asked, giving him the choice rather than assuming the right. The illusion of choice was a powerful tool, one I wielded with care.

His cheeks flushed darker, but he nodded, hooking his thumbs under the elastic and sliding the pants down his thighs. His cock was still half-hard, glistening with his release. A strand of cum connected the tip to the soiled silk as he stepped out of the pajamas.

"Turn around. Bend over the arm of the sofa."

Confusion flickered across his features, quickly replaced by curiosity and a hint of trepidation.

He obeyed, turning to present his back to me, bending at the waist over the padded arm of the sofa.

The position displayed his perfect ass, pale and unmarked, the dip of his spine, the light dusting of hair on his thighs.

Another canvas offered up for my art. Another blank space waiting to be filled with new experiences, new sensations.

The privilege of being the first to mark him in this way was not lost on me.

First impressions become the standard against which all future experiences are measured.

I would ensure his first time was unforgettable, embedding myself into his very concept of pleasure.

I moved behind him, running my palm down the curve of his back, feeling the ridge of his spine, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin. "There's another kind of pleasure I want to show you. Something you've likely been taught is forbidden. Sinful."

His breath hitched. "What is it?"

"Patience," I murmured, my hands moving to cup his ass, thumbs spreading him slightly to reveal the pink hole between his cheeks. "Has anyone ever touched you here before?"

He shook his head, forehead pressed against the sofa cushion. "No. Never."

"Not even yourself?" I pressed one thumb lightly across his entrance, feeling the muscle contract at the unfamiliar touch.

"I tried once," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But it felt so good I got scared. Thought it was wrong to enjoy it that much."

The confession made my cock throb painfully. The image of a younger Micah, exploring his body in secret, too frightened by his own pleasure to continue, was oddly arousing. So much potential, constrained for so long by fear and shame. Soon, I would help him shed those limitations entirely.

"Nothing about pleasure is wrong," I assured him, continuing my gentle exploration. "Especially this kind of pleasure. This part of your body is rich with nerve endings designed for nothing but enjoyment."

I reached for the small bottle of lube I'd placed beneath the coffee table earlier in anticipation of the evening's activities.

"I'm going to show you something new," I explained, coating my fingers. "A kind of pleasure many men never experience. If at any point you want me to stop, just say so."

"I trust you," he said simply, words that sent a fresh surge of heat through my groin. Trust was the most powerful tool of manipulation, and he offered it so freely, so completely.

I began by tracing circles around his entrance, not penetrating, merely acquainting him with the sensation.

His muscles tensed initially, then gradually relaxed as I maintained the gentle pressure.

His cock, which had begun to soften after his first orgasm, hardened again, hanging heavy between his spread legs.

"Breathe," I reminded him, noting how he'd begun to hold his breath in anticipation. "Relax into the pleasure."

When I finally breached him with a single finger, his back arched, a strangled sound escaping his throat. I proceeded carefully, mindful of his inexperience, watching his body for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Only wonder and rapidly mounting pleasure.

"There," I murmured, locating his prostate and applying gentle pressure. "Feel that?"

His response was inarticulate, a high, broken sound as his body jerked. His cock leaked steadily now, a string of precum connecting the tip to the sofa beneath him.

"That's your prostate," I explained, continuing to massage the sensitive gland with small, circular movements. "A part of your body designed specifically for pleasure. Something Pastor Morris likely never mentioned in his lessons."

"Oh God," Micah gasped, pushing back against my hand unconsciously. "It's... I can't..."

"Yes, you can," I assured him, adding more lubricant before introducing a second finger. The tight ring of muscle resisted briefly, then yielded, accepting the intrusion. "Your body can take so much more pleasure than you've ever allowed it."

I worked him carefully, stretching and preparing him while stimulating his prostate with increasingly firm pressure.

His cock leaked continuously now, fully hard again despite his recent orgasm.

The sounds he made—half-gasps, half-sobs—were music to my ears, each one a testament to the pleasure I was giving him.

To the control I was exerting. To the transformation taking place beneath my hands.

"Please," he begged, though I doubted he knew what he was asking for. "Please, Daddy, I need..."

"I know exactly what you need," I assured him, withdrawing my fingers. His entrance gaped slightly, pink and vulnerable. Exposed to me in a way no one else had ever seen.

I freed my cock, hissing as the cool air hit my overheated skin. I was painfully hard, the head dark and swollen, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. I stroked myself a few times, spreading the moisture, eyes fixed on Micah's exposed hole.

"I'm not going to fuck you tonight," I told him, my voice rough with arousal. "That's for another time. But I am going to mark you. Claim you."

He made a small, questioning sound, twisting to look back at me. The sight of him—face flushed, eyes glazed with pleasure, lips parted and swollen from sucking my nipples—pushed me dangerously close to the edge.

"Stay still." I positioned myself behind him, the head of my cock resting against his entrance without pushing inside. "This is going to feel strange, but good."

I stroked myself, the head of my cock rubbing against his hole with each movement. The dual sensation of my hand and the contact with his ass quickly built my pleasure to a critical point. My free hand gripped his hip, holding him steady as I worked myself against him.

Like any artist, I understood the importance of timing, of capturing the perfect moment. I held myself there, suspended between control and abandon, savoring the exquisite tension.

"You're mine now," I growled, feeling my orgasm approach. "This part of you belongs to Daddy. No one else."

"Yes," he gasped, pushing back against me. "Yours. Only yours."

Those words pushed me over the edge. My orgasm tore through me with unexpected force, pleasure radiating outward from my cock as I painted his hole with my release.

The first jet hit directly on his entrance, stark white against the pink flesh.

The second and third coated his ass cheeks and lower back, marking him as mine in the most primal way possible.

As the final pulses subsided, I used the head of my cock to smear my cum around his entrance, then slowly pushed two fingers inside him, carrying some of my release into his body. A primitive ritual of possession transformed into art.

"Good boy," I praised, fingers finding his prostate again, now slick with my cum. "The canvas of your skin wears my signature so well."

His entire body trembled, caught between intrusion and rising pleasure. His cock hung heavy and dark between his legs, leaking continuously onto the sofa below.

"I'm going to make you come again," I told him, establishing a rhythm with my fingers that directly stimulated his prostate. "But this time, it will be different. More intense. A prostate orgasm is unlike anything you've experienced before."

"I don't think I can," he protested weakly. "Not again. It's too much."

"You can and you will," I said firmly, increasing the pressure and speed of my movements. "Because I want to see it. Because it will please me to watch you come apart from my fingers inside you."

The invocation of my pleasure changed something in his resistance.

His body yielded, accepting the intrusion, welcoming the stimulation rather than fighting it.

His breathing deepened, muscles relaxing even as the pleasure built visibly within him.

Each new surrender was a victory, a step closer to complete dependency.

"That's it," I encouraged, my fingers moving in precise circles against his prostate. "Let it build. Don't fight it."

Minutes passed, his body trembling continuously now, small sounds escaping his throat with each press of my fingers. Unlike a traditional orgasm, which built quickly to a peak, this pleasure seemed to expand within him, radiating outward from the center in ever-widening circles.

"I feel strange," he gasped. "Like I'm going to... but not... I don't know what's happening..."

"Surrender to it," I instructed, maintaining the steady rhythm. "Let it take you."

When it finally happened, the transformation was beautiful to witness. His entire body went rigid, back arching sharply, a cry tearing from his throat that sounded almost like pain. His cock jerked, spilling in slow streams. He shuddered with wave after wave of pleasure.

It was like watching a death in reverse—that moment of profound change, of crossing from one state to another.

The orgasm seemed endless, his muscles contracting around my fingers in rhythmic pulses as his cock continued to leak. His hands clutched desperately at the sofa cushions, knuckles white with tension. The sounds he made were broken, almost inhuman in their raw intensity.

When the final tremors subsided, he collapsed bonelessly across the arm of the sofa, utterly spent. I withdrew my fingers gently, aware of his sensitivity, and gathered him into my arms. His body was limp, eyes unfocused, breath coming in ragged gasps.

"There," I murmured, cradling him against my chest. "Now you understand. Now you know what your body is capable of."

He couldn't speak, could only nod weakly, his face pressed against my shoulder. I could feel the rapid flutter of his heart gradually slowing, his breathing becoming less ragged.

"So good for me," I praised, stroking his hair. "Such a perfect boy."

We remained entwined for some time, his breathing gradually steadying, body occasionally twitching with aftershocks. He was utterly exhausted, physically and emotionally drained from the intensity of his multiple orgasms and the psychological barriers we'd broken through.

"I didn't know," he whispered finally, hoarse. "I never knew it could be like that."

"This is only the beginning," I promised, kissing his forehead. "There's so much more to show you."

It was evident he wouldn't be able to walk unassisted. I lifted him easily, cradling him against my chest as I carried him toward the guest room.

In the guest room, I cleaned him gently with a warm cloth before helping him into bed.

"My moth," he murmured sleepily.

I retrieved the forgotten toy and placed it in his arms. He hugged it to his chest, reactivating its gentle glow.

"Sleep now," I murmured, tucking the covers around him. "Your body needs rest after what it's experienced."

He was asleep almost before I finished speaking, exhaustion claiming him completely.

In sleep, his face looked younger, the lines of worry and shame that usually creased his forehead smoothed away.

The moth's soft light cast a gentle glow across his features, highlighting the curve of his lips, the dark lashes fanned over his cheeks.

I studied him for a moment, this canvas I was gradually transforming. Not through destruction, but through a different kind of art.

"Goodnight, sweet boy," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me.

As I closed the door, leaving him to dreams that would no doubt feature the pleasures we'd shared, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction at how perfectly everything was progressing.

The programming was taking hold with remarkable speed.

The chrysalis was cracking. What emerged would be magnificent in its transformation.

And entirely mine.