Chapter Text
Billy didn’t want him to ask how his last exams went. Didn’t want him to mention his classes at all—a complete erasure of the last few weeks of compulsive flashcards and study guides and late nights at the library. He’d been mumbling psych terminology in his sleep, tossing and turning, and gnawed on so many pencils his desk seemed occupied by a tiny beaver.
Over the past however long since Billy had become his… well, his—his good boy, his baby, his first thought on waking, his to have and to hold in a sense felt more deeply than tying the knot, in a sense that transcended all he’d ever known of how two people could be together and frankly still knocked him breathless when he thought about it too much—anyway, since all that began, Steve had come to view his life through this peculiar prism.
Certain facets were as they’d been before, like now: soldiering through the numbers at work, making nice with surrounding cubicles, acting the part of the straight-laced office drone, diligent and dull as dirt. He’d been voted Best Hair at the office Christmas party not just because his hair was objectively magnificent but also because that was all anyone knew about him. By design.
He did his work, got paid, and the moment he left the building, Office Steve shut off. Some people centered their lives around a vocation, and some joined the rat race, scrambling to pull even, pull ahead. Then there were people like his dad, where career success determined your entire worth—your net worth all that mattered.
Steve was none of those things. Swore to himself he never would be.
So Office Steve had already been separate from the rest, from the facets of himself he valued most: the person he was with friends, with family, with girlfriends. The person he was just hanging out at home.
And he’d been content with those facets for so long… until Billy. Until something about Billy turned the prism and a flash of light unveiled a side of himself he’d never known was there, alongside the others, patiently waiting for that beam of recognition at exactly the right angle.
Billy dropping to his knees, face angled up, lashes low, eyes locked where Steve’s cock strained the denim.
Standing there, towering like he’d never towered before—looming, imposing, imperative—Steve had never felt so firmly seated inside himself. In command.
It was hard to explain. He’d been puzzling it through for months, but all he knew was that, these days, with every step he took up the stairwell to their apartment, something in him shifted, bestowed this clarity of need and means, so by the time he reached their door, crossed the threshold, he practically thrummed with it.
That day, knowing what he might find upon entering, the thrum heightened to a subdermal buzz, so intense he had to pause on the Welcome mat, breathe deep and slow. In control.
Billy was inside, would have finished his last exam an hour ago. And last night, as they drifted to sleep, he’d mumbled what he wanted, what Steve had been probing him for—what he wanted to do, how he wanted to celebrate, once exams were over.
Could we do… you in charge?
Like that evening in late summer, he meant, when they’d toyed with total obedience, Steve at the reins of every decision, free to follow any whim—unless Billy signaled yellow, they’d decided. Yellow to slow down. Red to stop.
Me in charge tomorrow night? Steve asked, his blood already rushing at the thought, the memory.
Maybe. Billy had turned, nuzzled into Steve’s side, more snuggly under his arm. And maybe… try for longer? At Steve’s enquiring hum, a teasing lilt, he’d huffed, finally said it straight out: You in charge all day.
Steve hummed again, low rumble in the chest, and trailed fingers up Billy’s spine to hook in his necklace, twine the chain until it hugged his bobbing throat.
Saturday? Steve asked.
Depended on where his head was at, Billy said. If he was up for it, they could start early. Start Friday. And see how it went.
Baby’ll be honest?
Billy nodded—more accurately, rubbed his cheek at Steve’s ribs.
Baby’ll be where he wants? When I get home?
On his knees, if he wanted to start.
Billy nodded.
On the welcome mat, Steve exhaled once more. Unlocked the door.
Billy didn’t move from where he knelt on the floor, facing the couch, his shoulders at ease, hands on his thighs. He was in the same clothes from that morning—jeans and sweater. One of Steve’s.
The TV was on, volume low, a blurred murmur beyond the pulse pounding in his ears.
Steve closed the door behind him. Locked it.
“Look at me,” he said, and Billy did, turning his head, gaze skirting the floor to find Steve’s shoes. Watched as Steve toed off the shoes, as he approached, silent socks on the soft blue carpet.
Steve sank fingers into messy curls, angled the head to see Billy’s face. Thumb brushed beneath his eye, and though the lashes rose, the baby blues were soft and spacey.
“Color.”
Not a question. Billy blinked, slow to process. Steve stroked his hair.
“Green.” He said it quiet, on a breath.
Even unfocused, his boy had this ravenous quality, like his eyes, his ears, his every sense were sponges primed to soak it up, suck in Steve’s smile, the pleased curve, and Steve’s words, just as pleased, and soft.
“Good boy.”
~~~
The problem with having free rein over Billy’s body was similar to sitting down at one of those restaurants with the massive menus—too much to choose from, any of it yours with a word, and suddenly the concept of a craving was laughably simplistic because you wanted so much, and there was so much to want.
But the trick Steve had developed for such situations applied here as well: self-imposed limitations. Pick a dish from one part of the menu; disregard the rest.
So now, with the whole menu of Billy kneeling at his feet, and given it was impossible to have all of him at once, Steve strove to set a limit.
For the time being, anyway. For the evening, let’s say.
He knew full well that when he traced his boy like this, his gaze lazy and lingering, it lit a fiery path along the skin, exposed or not, burning through his clothes. And the longer Steve looked, head tilted, contemplative, the shorter Billy’s breaths, tension winding, his lips parting, a seam of panting pink.
And there it was. The limit.
~~~
He settled on the couch without a word—just a contented sigh, elbows propped on spread thighs. A bare jerk of his chin, and Billy obeyed, shifting to kneel between his legs as though reeled in on a line, Steve’s dick the rod.
His lips twitched at the image, then Steve cleared his throat. Cupped the head of curls, fingers splayed, thumbing Billy’s jaw, tipping his face. Baby’s lids were heavy, half-mast.
Steve spoke to the slack mouth. “I remember the first time you went to your knees for me. Sucked me off by my bed. Remember wishing I could fuck this face forever.”
He kept his voice hushed, just talking to himself. Quirked a soft smile, and rubbed his thumb along the pouting lower lip, pulling at the round plush of it, then fed the thumb inside. Instantly, wet heat, tugging suction, lips puckered around him, lighting that freaky superhighway from cock to fingertips.
“Remember keeping you right here, nice and snug, and plugging your mouth just to keep it full. To keep me warm. And now and then you’d swallow spit, swallow what I was leaking, and I’d feel the back of your throat kinda… flutter against me.”
As though prompted, Billy swallowed, eyes closed, and Steve more felt than heard the faint whimper, shivering through the nerves, plucking at his gut.
“I fucking love this mouth,” Steve whispered. “Love fucking this mouth. And you love it, Baby. Your mouth does.”
Another swallow, warping the moan that rumbled from his chest.
“Mouth needs it, huh? Needs more than what you’ve given it today.”
Baby nodded, harsh breaths through his nose, and opened bleary eyes as Steve withdrew his thumb—not far. Smeared wet along his Cupid’s bow.
“Tell me what’s been in this mouth. Tell me what it’s been swallowing.”
The mouth seemed to move without active input from Billy’s brain. “Coffee. Water. Bagel. Apple. Sandwich. Lolly.”
That last as a treat after his last exam, Steve bet. Well-deserved treat for a good boy.
“Tell me what’s gonna be in this mouth. What you’ll be swallowing tonight.”
Corner of the mouth twitched. Hitched. "You." Breathed it. "You."
“That’s right.” Steve ducked to kiss Billy’s temple, murmur against the skin. “I’m gonna fuck this throat till Baby’s voice is hoarse. All raspy and rough.”
A fine tremor as Billy shuddered, leaning into him, longing to go limp. He would, soon.
“I want you to reach up,” Steve said, hushed, still cupping his head, holding it in place. “Undo my belt.”
Clumsy fingers found the buckle, tugged the leather until it hung loose.
“The button and fly.”
In moments, his pants gaped open, revealing the hard line of his cock trapped behind cotton, the white sodden and translucent at the head, clinging. Steve shifted to perch on the edge of the couch, stomach clenching with the urge to hump the flushed face, grind against his nose—
So he did. Crushed right where he wanted him, and felt the burst of hot breath bathe his dick, soak through fabric as Baby gasped. Steve dragged him back and forth, relishing the friction, then lifted him just enough to make room.
“Take me out. Open.”
Blunt hooks at his waistband, jaw already hanging loose, that tongue like a red carpet welcoming a star.
“Deep breath, Baby,” he whispered, and heard the ragged gust of expanding lungs, let them really fill before he plunged into exquisite heat, so tight and soft that his eyes rolled, only saw the lips stretched wide around him on delay.
He didn’t back up, didn’t let him adjust or coat the shaft in spit to ease the way. His boy could take it in one go, one long, insistent glide, a steady push, even as his cockhead met the spongy top of the throat, and Baby adjusted, spasmed just a moment, jerking between Steve’s hands before he swallowed like a snake and went still, air blocked by the cock in his windpipe.
“Tap,” Steve said, pausing his plunge, blood roaring in his ears, in his dick. Always wondered if Billy could feel Steve’s pulse beating alongside his jugular.
Baby tapped his leg. One tap for all good.
“Feel how much is left.”
Baby’s hand brushed Steve’s balls—could fit two fingers around the remaining thick.
“That’s what you're gonna take. Want your lips flush.”
Baby’s throat squeezed, an attempted moan, smothered, which made dragging his mouth in that last inch all the sweeter, dick sheathed in clutching heat. Steve jerked his hips, an aborted roll—tipped his head back with a groan.
“So good, Baby. So good.”
Lodged like this, stopping his air, Baby’s skin blooming redder with each passing second, closed eyes beading wet—Steve loved it. Loved that Baby let him do this, wanted him to, trusted him to let the air back when he needed it, to use him so well.
He could feel his baby’s very life, so close against him, wrapped around him, this writhing, encompassing throb. And on the one hand this was so mind-meltingly obscene, so dirty-bad-hot that it’d taken them loads of practice—so many loads down Billy’s throat—for Steve to build any endurance, to last and last, push their limits to such heights they cleared the stratosphere. But on the other, absurdly, being like this, his baby so vulnerable, so blissfully vulnerable in Steve’s hands—it tripped something in Steve, this mutual unguardedness, a tenderness so intense it turned his insides to mush.
Steve gazed at the curly head in his lap, stroking the hair, tracing the shell of an ear.
“You’re perfect. Such a good boy for me.”
And his good boy could go longer, but Steve liked to ramp it up slow. Couple more rounds, at least. He ground his hips once more, indulgent, then guided the head back and back, savoring the wet sucking sound as he pulled free. Not out—just resting the crown on Baby’s tongue, buffeted by heaving lungs.
“Lick.”
The tongue swirled, lit every nerve, and Steve hissed, hands tight in Baby’s hair. Lapping licks, luring him closer to the edge. Steve let him play, let Baby absently mouth at him while they recovered just enough go again. Baby’s cheeks were wet—his eyes always streamed when they did this.
Steve swiped gentle thumbs beneath leaden lids, lashes clumpy and spiked. He’d wring every teardrop from Baby, before they were through, and Baby wring every drop of jizz from him.
“Deep breath.”
Ribs rose and fell and rose, filling, and Steve filled him, too.
~~~
Steve held out longer than they'd ever managed previously, a slow stabbing roll, plugging Baby’s throat over and over, hugging his head close—Steve’s arms the straps, his dick the gag. The only kind of gag that got any action, since Baby’s gag reflex was practically nil and actual gags from the sex shop weren’t his cup of tea.
This was the only gag he’d accept: his breath, his voice stoppered by Steve. And Steve bore that responsibility with the care it deserved. Knew not to come when he was in too deep, for instance, after that time his spunk had gunked up Billy’s windpipe and his boy had an awful time coughing it clear. Steve had inwardly freaked out a bit, in the moment, pounding Billy’s back as he hacked and wheezed—certain that Jizz Lung was a thing, and it was fatal. Billy had laughed, once he got the last of it out, said it wasn’t any different than water down the wrong tube, but Steve had been hesitant to plow him to the root for a while. Plow his face, anyway.
It was just… he had to tread cautiously in this arrangement, where, if anyone got hurt—seriously injured—it was likely to be Billy, with Steve having done the harm. And that weighed on him. Quite a bit.
So, whenever they played, while one part of him gloried in the rush, the searing filth and carnal compulsions, another part would sink into that detached, calculating mindset, his every move calibrated according to an obscure data collection—What Baby Liked, Didn’t Like, Could Do, Couldn’t Do.
And yet a third part of him, as mentioned, just reduced to goo, this heightened sentimentality and consuming adoration and—reverence? Steve hadn’t been to church in ages, but what he felt for Billy, in the throes of closeness, of complete caretaking, was like your every cell reverberating during a hymn, the swell of voices thrumming through you, lifting you whether you believed or not.
Steve believed—in what, he still wasn’t sure. In them, though. That what they were for each other was—good. Was right. Because nothing had ever felt so right.
It was that third part of him, the lovesick babbling believer, who tended to hijack his mouth when he neared the edge. Of coherence, composure.
Of coming.
“My good boy,” he murmured, stroking Baby’s jaw, coaxing him to gulp around the obstruction, Adam’s apple bobbing. “So pretty like this. Made for this. For me.”
Baby’s skin was blazing red, gleaming with sweat and tears, droopy eyes all puffy. Well past dopey. Bending to whisper in his ear, Steve urged him to rise up on his knees, high enough to crane over the dick that skewered his throat. Baby knew what came next, but Steve told him anyway, leaning back on the couch, feet planted on the floor, the better to thrust up. Sort of a reverse pile driver.
His words were strained, despite his efforts—combination of his reclined position and the tightening that built and built before the finish: throbbing tight in his balls, his chest, his fingers in Baby’s hair, lifting his boy just enough to inhale through his stuffy nose.
His dick slid between swollen lips, both coated in precome and spit—truly a divine slime. So slick.
“Been so good, Baby,” he said, rough. “Letting me fill your throat.” Wet lashes waved, basked in the praise. “Now I’m gonna fill your belly.”
Holding his head steady, Steve drove into the enveloping heat, glide pristine, and the stoked coals in his gut flared, fuel for the engine that could—and would. And did: jackhammered into him, Baby taking it, groaning so loud they were in church again, vibrations shaking Steve apart as he panted good, good, good.
A final stab, and he emptied in Baby’s sucking mouth, clever tongue working the crown in a way that bowed Steve’s spine off the cushions. Baby moved with him, perfect dancer, and followed him as he collapsed flat, still working him, gulping down every pulse.
Steve—did not pass out. He didn’t. It was more like he… zoned out, for a bit, waiting for normal function to return, for his heaving gasps to quiet.
Little hazy on how long that took, but when he peered down, he saw that the prolonged floaty warmth, the periodic shocks twitching his nerves, were partly due to Baby’s dedication in following the letter of the law.
Steve didn’t tell him to stop, so he hadn’t. He knelt, back where he’d started, his head pillowed high on Steve’s thigh, suckling soft at the softened cock in his mouth.
His breaths were even, if snuffly. His eyes were closed.
It was that last part of Steve that swept him away, in that moment, dominating anything else. That overpowering tenderness, his hands itching to wrap Billy tight and squeeze.
He looked so peaceful, though, and the mere concept of Baby sleeping, sucking on him like a—like a binky. Holy fuck he’d burn in hell for that one.
Didn’t care, though. He and Baby would burn together, keep toasty warm for all time.
Steve sighed, shifting his shoulders, and settled in to wait.
~~~
One benefit of Baby napping: it allowed Steve ample time to plot. Plan out the rest of the night. Because even limiting himself to his boy’s mouth, there was plenty to do.
It was a very talented mouth.
So talented that even its unconscious sucking pull proved increasingly torturous, as the minutes ticked by. The years.
Quarter hour, according to the clock, and Steve was struggling not to nudge his hips into that tugging heat, biting his lip, fists at his sides, cock firming between lax lips.
There was something so brutally entrancing in it, though—the thought of allowing his primed muscles to flex just enough to minutely thrust, short stuttering jabs, like… petting the tongue inside. And maybe Baby could get him there, through that alone, a lulling roll till he spilled, coated that tongue in white.
He was so desperate for it that when Billy shifted, flicked sleepy eyes upward that were all Baby, Steve groaned, fumbling to smooth the curls on his brow.
“Want Baby to stay like this,” he panted. “So I can play with his mouth without—disturbing his rest.” Reflexively, the mouth sealed tight, then deliberately… relaxed. Still, Steve asked: “Tap.”
One, to his ankle, and Steve smothered a relieved moan, stomach tensing as he curled his hips up, almost imperceptible, and set the faintest rhythm known to man. Kept one hand in Baby’s hair, gaze locked where his cock speared chapped lips, a gentle sawing motion.
Baby’s eyes slid shut on a hum, and oh that was nice. That was—
“I wanna hear it,” Steve said, upping the pace only slightly. “When my good boy feels good.”
And Baby obeyed. Nuzzled into Steve’s leg as he rumbled his contentment—as he fucking purred.
Steve never lasted long against that maneuver—reduced him to choked-off ah, ah, ahs in no time, blurting his load onto Baby’s waiting tongue, and blurting, too, instinctive: “Hold it in your mouth.”
Baby froze, fighting not to swallow.
“Sit back.”
Pursing his lips to keep the come inside, Baby pulled free of his spent dick. Kept his eyes lowered. Steve’s blood was singing, every command prolonging the high.
“Open,” he breathed, and Baby did. Showed him his tongue all gooey. “Swallow.” And tracked the shift in his throat as Baby gulped. Imagined he could see it, the pearly white slipping through the plumbing to settle in his stomach.
“Come here,” he said, patting his lap, and Baby launched off the ground so fast Steve had to reach out and steady the landing, guiding Baby to straddle his thighs. Heedless of the sticky limp dick flopped between them, Baby plastered himself along Steve’s front, face buried in his neck, a low-grade shiver wracking his frame. Steve cradled him close, palms coasting his back, soaking in the warmth of his weight—dead weight, loose and lethargic—and sighed, Baby buoyed upward on the inhale, sinking down as Steve let it out.
There was something about these quiet moments, when Baby unspooled, floating free in the mind even as he clung, needy in a different way—needing Steve to anchor him here, in his skin. Baby could float for ages, not sleeping but not totally conscious, either. This strange foggy limbo.
Steve asked once, what it was like, mid-play, post-play—what went on his head—and Billy pondered it before answering: like I go from wandering around at the mall to wandering around in the woods. And Steve had pictured Starcourt, garish color and sound ricocheting off unforgiving tile and glass, and thought he understood. Wondered, too, if they should try an actual walk in the woods, some day. In the meantime, he was happy to relax while Baby wandered the trees on his own.
That night was a short hike. Soon enough, Billy shifted, lips pressed to Steve’s neck.
“Color,” Steve prompted.
A long, considering pause, and Steve smiled—bestowed an approving rub. They’d talked about the importance of taking time to assess, of being honest.
Billy coughed to clear his throat. “Green.” It sounded not quite hoarse, but… textured.
“Baby hungry?”
He shook his head. Typically, during extended play, Billy didn’t have much appetite. Like his stomach went on stand-by.
They should probably hydrate, though. Scene-change to a more water-based activity.
“Okay. You’re gonna go run the bath. Nice and steamy. I’ll be in soon.”
When Baby stood, careful on unsteady feet, Steve saw the wet spot in the crotch of his jeans. Blotchy, half-dollar of dark.
“Accident?” Steve asked, brow quirked, teasing.
Baby shook his head, insistent.
“Show me.”
Hands flew to button and fly, shoving the denim to mid-thigh. Baby hiked up the hem of his sweater, bare cock flushed red and rigid, pointed accusingly at Steve, who tsked, leaning in to lap at the gleaming slit.
Heard a grunt, smothered behind clamped lips—choked whine when Steve kissed the tip.
“My patient boy. Pull up your pants and do as you’re told. You can strip once the tub is full.”
Nodding, Baby went.
~~~
While the tap roared in the bathroom, Steve browsed the fridge for leftovers and Gatorade. Red for him, and blue he’d bring for Billy. He didn’t eat anything too heavy, nothing that would sit like lead in his gut—just something to tide him over.
He picked at the Tupperware of lemon chicken and rice, soldiered through the veggies. Billy had been stress-cooking all week between studying—they’d learned the hard way that certain kinds of stress were better released through mundane tasks and didn’t mix well with the sex play. That was better suited to once the stressor was past, to decompress, amplify the relief of what you’d dreaded receding behind you. To let loose.
On the spectrum of headspaces Billy slipped into during play, Baby was most intense, the most all-consuming, requiring a level of release he could only reach under the right circumstances. It was like… Billy was his boy, his good boy, all the time, as a given, an unconscious default position, whereas Billy was Baby only as needed, as wanted, when deliberately summoned.
Steve had started mentally capitalizing the B after Robin lent them this book, Coming to Power: Writings and Graphics on Lesbian S/M, which was part porn, part dissertation, part… instruction manual? A whole collection on the eroticism of consensual power exchange, which Steve had devoured cover to cover—the first time he’d done such a thing since leaving school—and then waited with baited breath while Billy did the same.
And what was funny was that they hadn’t actually… changed much in how they operated? They’d talked about it and used the official words for the first time—submission, Billy was Steve’s submissive, and Steve the dominant—and established official rules and signals, the traffic lights and taps, but… they mostly kept doing as they had before. What had been working for them right along.
The main difference, for Steve, was this… stabilizing, reassuring grasp of the bigger picture. That they weren’t freaks for thrilling at what was taboo—and not just because lots of people did, apparently—but because taboos were, by virtue of being forbidden, inherently thrilling.
What had really crystallized, though, with staggering clarity, were the inner unseen cogs of their dynamic, the perfectly interlinked gears that make them tick. A fair few passages had clobbered him flat, and there were a few he’d read over and over.
The apparent power relationship being enacted… is that the dominant person is in control, the submissive person completely vulnerable… but the reality behind the scene is more complex.
To paraphrase: the power underpinning everything they did wasn’t Steve’s—it was Billy’s power, willingly placed in Steve’s hands, entrusted with him for a time, and doing so… freed Billy of that weight. The weight of… having a will?
And Steve, wielding that power, Billy’s power, therefore wielded Billy’s will, directed first and foremost by Billy’s wants and needs—not his own.
It was a fucking trip, piecing it together that way, his brain twisting like a pretzel to comprehend. Because—when he thought he’d been puppeting Billy, it had been Billy puppeting him, tugging his strings so subtly and so right, signalling what he craved and Steve stuffing him full.
Steve reveled in those strings, now that he knew they were there. Felt them like a plucked bow, an inner twang he’d mistaken for butterflies.
So: that was the biggest change. The exhilaration of knowing the how and the why, instead of just the what. And now they could be more purposeful about the what: what exactly they wanted.
The rushing water in the pipes cut off with a dull thunk. The bath was ready.
Steve put away the leftovers, and grabbed Baby’s drink. And a straw.
~~~
Bathing together, showering—it wasn’t always about sex, per se, though sex did happen often enough, the inevitable result of combining naked Billy and naked Steve with elevated temps and slick skin in an enclosed space. Whether in the midst of play or not, it was the natural habitat of orgasms.
That night, Steve entered the bathroom with a different kind of bath in mind—one that more prioritized pampering Baby until he reduced to tears for reasons other than physical overstimulation. Emotional overstimulation wrung him out just as well, Steve had found.
And maybe it was good to target a variety of areas for wringing. Overwrought, but in a well-rounded way.
The air in the bathroom was muggy, heavy on the skin, humid warmth with every inhale. Baby’s clothes sat neatly on the vanity, Baby himself patiently kneeling on the bathmat, bare except for the pair of necklaces—one resting at his sternum, a Saint Christopher pendant on a thin chain, and the other clasped close at the base of his throat, the Figaro links Steve had bought him in Chicago. Worn as a choker, the excess chain dangled behind, tickling his spine between his shoulder blades.
Steve sat on the closed toilet and held out the Gatorade, straw angled at Baby’s lips.
“Drink.”
The lips pursed around the straw, sucking, throat working as he gulped, and Steve swept his gaze from one to the other—lips and throat—unblinking, and that alone, the back and forth of his eyes under heavy lids, was friction enough to draw a blush.
“Okay,” he said, when the bottle was half drained, and Baby pulled back, lips parted, a bead of wet left behind by the straw.
Leaning down, Steve cupped his chin, moved in slow, and licked that lower lip. Nipped it, gentle. Again, less so, and Baby’s breathing hitched.
“Who loves you?” Steve asked, soft, hovering close so that Baby could only curl in on himself so much, forehead arrested by Steve’s jaw. Angling to kiss his brow, speak against the skin, Steve asked again. “Who loves you, Baby?”
He heard a click as Baby swallowed. “You.”
Steve nodded, lips tracing down Baby’s temple. “And who’s so proud of you, for working so hard?”
Baby huffed, still cringing, though he answered more readily. “You.”
“Yeah.” Steve kissed his cheek. “Who deserves to feel good?”
Stuck on repeat, he caught himself halfway through the you—“Yuh”—and ducked his head, bashful.
Steve pressed the prompt into his cheek. “Who?”
“Me.” Squirmed as he said it, and Steve’s smile was so fond it ached.
“Get in the tub, Baby.”
~~~
At Steve’s direction, Baby submerged enough to wet his hair, then stretched out, head pillowed on a rolled up towel wedged where tub met tile, his knees poking out of the water, eyes closed. Steve took his time at the vanity, brushing his teeth, shedding his clothes, collecting supplies from the toy drawer. He lit the lavender candles clustered by the sink, dimmed the lights, then ran the hot water tap until it steamed. Wet a washcloth, folding it lengthwise.
“Gonna drape something warm over your eyes.”
Soft gasp as the heat settled, concealing the top half of his face. Baby bit his lip, exhaling through the nose.
Leaving the supplies on the bathmat, Steve carefully climbed into the tub, sitting at the opposite end, cross-legged much as he could, hemmed in by the porcelain walls. The image was a bit comical—two grown men crammed into a narrow bath, displaced water rising with his arrival.
Soon as they could swing it, they were moving somewhere with the biggest tub money could buy. Full-on jacuzzi. He daydreamed about it.
Not that he was complaining about the close quarters, requiring the careful Tetrising of interlocking limbs. Using both hands, he cradled Baby’s left ankle, tugging to rest a limp foot in his lap, nudged alongside Steve’s semi.
Then he picked up the other foot, thumbs pressed under the balls of the sole, and Baby smothered a whine.
Steve chuckled. “Relax.”
Holding him so his toes just breached the water, Steve set to smoothing firm pressure along the arch, the heel, the thick padding at the base of the toes, and didn’t restrain the maniacal smile as Baby melted, sinking so low the water lapped at his jaw.
Steve had zero expertise in massage, had no real attraction to feet in general, but discovering this trick—Billy’s total undoing when Steve pushed in just the right places—had him appreciating the humble foot in a whole new light.
Baby was a puddle, mouthing at the air, long before Steve finished with the right, setting it in his lap only to take up the left for similar treatment.
“Suck on your fingers, Baby,” he said, and the mouth bit down on middle and forefinger. “Use your other hand to cup yourself. You can press. Don’t rub.”
Slight disturbance underwater as Baby obeyed, craning his neck with a whimper, fighting not to buck his hips. The foot in Steve’s hold flexed once—relaxed with obvious effort.
“Good boy,” Steve whispered, bending to kiss beneath the big toe, knowing the tickle would make Baby shiver. And it did.
“Whenever I do this, I think of that night, after trying it the first time, kind of as a joke. No idea what I was doing. And then I toweled you off, and you remember what I said?”
The nod jerked as Steve pressed on the tender arch.
“Said guess this means I love you head to toe. And you rolled your eyes like a brat.” His words rolled, too, with fondness, belying any indignation. A pause while he kneaded, waiting until his boy was putty again, threading fingers between Baby’s toes to work out every kink. “But it came back to me later, what it really meant. How true it was. That I do love every single part of you. All of you. Inside and out. Top to bottom. Every bit of you.”
Baby’s hand at his mouth had shifted, more covering than sucking, his breaths uneven.
Steve lifted the foot, kissed the heel, and rested the calf on the lip of the tub, making space for him to scoot forward, slow so the water didn’t slosh, and hooked Baby’s other leg on Steve’s shoulder.
This time, Steve felt it when Baby shivered, goosebumps prickling under palms, smoothing down inner thighs to where Baby still cupped himself.
“Take off the washcloth,” Steve said.
Wet splat as it hit the water, slipped below. Blurry eyes blinked, brilliant blue framed by reddened lids, lashes clumped dark.
“You’re beautiful. My beautiful boy.”
The flush of Baby’s cheeks deepened, hand fisting by his collarbone, uncertain. So Steve gave him something to do.
“Touch your chest that way you like. Your pecs.” And as he did, Steve stroked the downy plush of his balls. Kept stroking as his free hand traced Baby’s taint to his hole. “Pinch your nipples. One at a time.”
Baby’s hole clenched with each pinch, and on the second release, Steve probed with his pointer—breached him to the first knuckle.
“Bite your lips,” he urged, hearing the gasp, his gaze locked where he worked. “I want them bitten all pillowy pink.”
Baby’s breathing stuttered, raised foot flexing. He hadn’t moved the hand covering his poor dick beyond an occasional quelling press.
“When I’m in to the last knuckle, I’m gonna reach back and unplug the drain, and Baby’s gonna rub himself good. No finishing until I say. Okay?”
Both lips pinched between his teeth, Baby nodded. Nodded and nodded, eyes slipping shut as Steve slid deeper into clinging heat by increments, crooking his finger to find that spot that made him quiver.
He found it, and delegated his free hand to grope behind him for the drain, the metal ring. One tug set the pipes rushing.
Baby’s hand was a blur underwater, jerking it—squeezing to a stop when he got too close, the water hardly receded past his chest.
“Keep going,” Steve said, rubbing at his insides, feeling him flutter and freeze.
Baby’s fist splashed, the head of his cock cresting the air, gleaming wet with more than water, dewy with precome.
“Keep going, Baby. Little longer.”
Baby sobbed, seizing around Steve’s finger, fist choking his dick, desperate, as Steve murmured, Little more. That’s it. So good.
A few inches of water was all that remained, drained to Baby’s pelvis, cock and balls fully exposed, when Steve finally gave the command, and Baby spurted with a shout, spattered his heaving chest with release.
“Good boy,” he soothed, withdrawing as slow as he’d entered, circling the rim. “Good boy.”
Before Baby’s lungs had calmed, goosebumps rippling the expanse of wet skin, Steve had the supplies standing by on the bathmat prepped and positioned, bulbous glass coated with slick, tip brushing the furl. Needed no prompting to bear down—his hole opened wide for the tip, gobbled it, and as it widened beyond Baby’s ability to easily take, Steve applied only enough pressure to hold it in place, holding him open, stretched around the glass.
It did him good to draw it out, sometimes, prolong the stretch, toying with his nerve endings. A tremor shook his splayed thighs, found voice in a guttural hum.
Steve upped the pressure, watched him bloom wide, so wide, and the hum pitched higher.
“Good,” he said, hushed and approving, as the rim cleared the bulk of the plug, closing at the base in an arrested O that mirrored Baby’s lips, shocked silent and gaping. While Baby adjusted, Steve dug out the washcloth from the small of Baby’s back and gently wiped his chest, mopping the streaks of spunk.
“Color,” he inquired, lightly.
Baby sighed, downright dreamy, lashes fluttering. “Green.”
~~~
Steve helped him stand, step onto the mat. Swathed him in fluffy towels and patted him dry—his hair, his body. While Baby brushed his teeth, Steve combed his hair, careful to unknot the tangles.
After Baby spit and rinsed, Steve rested his chin on Baby’s shoulder, staring at their reflection in the mirror, framed in the section wiped clear of fog, cloaked in flickering shadows. Nudged Baby’s head until he looked up, expression soft and knowing. A whispered word from Steve, and Baby stooped to blow out the candles.
There was something so spine-curling divine about cuddling in bed post-bath, still warm and damp, wrapped in towels that inevitably tangled at their ankles as they shifted and squirmed, entwined.
Whenever Baby’s mouth was needy, Steve ended up on his back, lovely writhing weight draped on top, and arched under the featherlight path of lips that meandered from throat to abs, silently pleading.
“Mark me up,” he murmured, giving in, and Baby bit into the meat of his pec, tongue lapping skin. Steve gasped a chuckle. “Mark a trail, Baby.”
On one memorable occasion, he’d given Billy open access to his person, no limits, and that roaming mouth turned him into a treasure map: love bites littered from neck to thighs, and all roads led to Rome—his dick.
A last nip to the lurid red patch drew a hiss, the bright sting of busted blood vessels, the pooling bruise, and the mouth moved to his sternum—latched on. As Baby settled in, his bobbing cock brushed against Steve’s leg, smearing wet.
“Hump the bed,” Steve said, spreading to accommodate Baby between his knees. “Don’t come.”
Baby’s lips dragged heavy, hips rolling, careful—knew to avoid sharp movements with the plug. The resulting mark was more an archipelago, a pulsing cluster dotted toward his stomach.
While Baby humped the bed, Steve humped Baby, grinding into the press of a warm chest, into Baby’s hand, as Baby worked his way lower, skirting Steve’s cock, propped upright in his fist.
“Suck the lolly,” Steve whispered, teasing—and choked on a laugh when Baby swung to lap lazily at the flushed crown. Long, languid licks, up and around, the kind designed to drive Steve mindless quick. Every muscle coiled, primed. “Baby,” he panted, pawing at his head. “Baby.”
Humming, Baby rose up on all fours, ass in the air. Not for the first time, Steve wished he could split himself in two, fuck his boy at both ends. A Billy spit-roast.
In lieu of cloning, the plug would have to do.
The new position on elbows and knees allowed Baby the angle and leverage to sink and rise, sink and rise, each pass lowering further, lips sliding on saliva. Pillowed on folded arm, Steve watched, rapt, as Baby swallowed him for… fuck, the third time that evening?
Truly, a sight, sensation, that never got old. If only his energy could keep up with his appetites.
“All you,” Steve said. “Running me ragged.”
Despite the full mouth, Baby’s lips quirked in a smirk. He closed his eyes, breathed deep through his nose, and Steve grinned. Braced for the ride.
~~~
No matter Billy’s insistence to the contrary, he’d need more than jizz in his belly before they fell asleep. Which they soon would, given the length of Baby’s breaths puffing against Steve’s hip—given the struggle to lift his own lids with each blissed-out blink.
He kept replaying Billy's words, or not the words but the sound, after Steve had emptied in him, deeper than he meant with his boy controlling the plunge, and commanded, wheezing: Speak.
Despite a cough, the reply was gravel. Pure rasp. And say what?
How’s the throat? Steve tried.
Sandpaper.
Sounds sexy.
Feels sexy.
The burn?
Luxuriant hum, relishing the rumble.
And here they were, content in a floaty haze, until Steve heard a rumble of a different sort.
“Get up here,” he said. Repeated the order over a responding whine until a grumbly lumbering weight flopped alongside. Turning, Steve levered himself up to yank the blankets free, and tucked them around Billy’s torso. “Be right back.”
He donned a bathrobe to combat the chill of the kitchen, returned bearing a plate of peanut butter toast and a glass of water. Correctly interpreting the scowl upon prodding him upright, Steve preempted the complaint: “I know you already brushed your teeth. If you really don’t want to eat it now, leave it on the bedside table in case you wake up hungry.”
Billy did, but drank half the glass. Said he didn’t have to pee, when Steve checked.
“How’s the plug feel?” he asked, climbing back into bed. His boy had slept with it before—liked to—but sometimes they needed to re-up the lube. Lightly groping Baby’s ass, he found the round glass base, warmed with body heat.
The glass shifted under his touch as Billy clenched. “It’s good.”
“Take it out if you need to.”
He nodded, nuzzling under Steve’s chin. Hummed, content, as blunt fingers raked up his spine.
“Gonna fuck you good tomorrow.”
Billy squirmed, pleased huff buried between them.
“So good you won’t sit easy for a week.” Steve kissed his ear, then, hushed: “Unless Baby’s had enough. We’ll see.”
“I’m good.”
“You are,” he agreed.
~~~
Sometime around dawn, Steve half-woke to Billy crawling back into bed, the pipes still gurgling in the bathroom. Rather than lie down again, Billy sat against the headboard. Reached for the toast.
“Good boy,” Steve mumbled, faint.
The toast crunched loud in the quiet, plate held close to his chin to catch the crumbs.
~~~