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5…4…3…2….
He gasps for air, but that makes him choke even more. He coughs up bile: it splatters on the hardwood floors, and the remains dribble down his chin. His throat burns from the acid that clawed its way up his esophagus. He’s glad he hasn’t had anything much to eat today.
Hands hold him in place. It’s brutal, unrelenting. He forgets how to breathe through his nose. He flails, eyes wide in panic. He thinks he might pass out from lack of oxygen.
…1
Air, again, finally. He takes shuddering, gasping breaths.
“Good boy,” Carlos whispers to him. It’s gentle yet condescending. He slaps the sides of Max’s face like punctuation on his praise. Max sits back on his heels and tries to recover. His chest is heaving. The plug inside him shifts, putting pressure in the right spot. His breath hitches.
Carlos squats to his level, knees creaking slightly.
“You good?” he asks. His breath is hot against Max’s ear, making goosebumps erupt across his skin. Max nods. He’s good. He wants to be good. Carlos lets him recover for another minute. They rest there, Max captured in an awkward half-hug, half-restraint. Carlos rubs his back soothingly. Max closes his eyes. It’s sort of nice. It could be romantic.
When Carlos finally stands, Max crawls closer to him. He wants to show him he’s ready to go again. He approaches the other man with his jaw slack—tongue on display. He wants it so bad, even after everything his throat has been through. Carlos slaps his heavy cock against Max’s face.
“You greedy little slut. You want more, don’t you?” More slaps. More degradation. Max nods sheepishly.
“Yes, please,” he manages.
Carlos reaches inside Max’s mouth and pulls his lip taut. He slides his cock in gently and groans.
“Ohhhh, yeah,” it’s a deep and guttural satisfied sigh. “That perfect velvet mouth. There we go.”
He uses his grip on Max as traction, fucking his face and coaxing disgusting gargling sounds from his body.
“Shhhh, just take it. Take it. Make me feel good,” he whispers it like a prayer, or a lullaby, sliding Max all the way on and off his dick.
His nose and eyes are streaming. It all adds to the disgusting wet mess he’s making with his saliva. He sort of wishes he were blindfolded. He’s too aware of all of his senses. It’s overwhelming—but maybe…Maybe Carlos wants it that way. He wants him trussed up, on the edge of disaster. He wants him so far gone that the only person who can bring him back is Carlos himself. He tries to cry out, but the sound that escapes him is whiny and sounds more like a moan than a sob.
His cock has gone untouched for far too long. It bobs stupidly between his legs, trying to fuck the air and get some sort of stimulation. Dewy precome drips from the head to the floor, falling in the puddle that’s already there.
“Pretty mouth,” Carlos taunts. He removes his cock and smears the head over Max’s lips, cheeks. He grabs a fistful of Max’s hair to set the pace now. “Fits so well. So fucking well. You were made for this.”
Carlos’s grip on him means he can’t turn away. He can’t stop it. And he wouldn’t want to even if he could. There’s no one around to hear them. The countryside is dead quiet. It’s weird how quiet it gets once you make that turn off the Merritt and into the sleepy towns of Connecticut. It feels even more desolate now that it’s winter. When he drove up that afternoon, the sky was a steely December gray. A perpetual dusk had settled, and the grass was crunchy with the beginnings of frost.
He gets into a good rhythm: pushing himself all the way down to the base and all the way back up to the tip. He lets his mind go cloudy and drift into hazy nothingness. He’s aware of his surroundings, but the sweet degradation from Carlos eventually gets drowned out by the fuzz in his brain. He just keeps working on autopilot: tongue, mouth, throat.
They’re downstairs in the finished basement that Ashley had converted into Carlos’s man cave not long after they settled in Greenwich. It stores all of Carlos’s gaming equipment, most of which Ashley deemed incongruous with the rest of the house’s aesthetic. They’re up against the back of an old sofa that Ashley also considered too shabby. Carlos leans against it for balance. There are scratches on its arms; memories of Chicago and Lefty’s puppyhood and the small-ish apartment on the South Side.
He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he started, but Carlos gets sporadic with his thrusts. It’s a telltale sign that he’s going to cum. Before he’s over the edge, he wrenches Max off his cock, exposing strings of viscous spit. Some of it hangs on his cock before dripping to the floor.
“Oh, my god,” Carlos growls. “Such a hungry boy. You did so well, letting me fuck your face like that.” Max whines at the words. He reaches down to fist his own cock, and squeezes a bit.
“No,” Carlos bats his hand away from his dick. “You’ll cum when I tell you to. Not before.”
It makes Max whine even more. He aches for friction. He wants to assuage the heaviness of the plug. He wants to get off. He wants this to last forever.
“You’re not going to be a brat now, are you?” Carlos asks.
Max shakes his head ashamedly, looking at the floor.
“I can’t hear you.”
Carlos tilts his chin upwards. Max meets his gaze: brown eyes that are so soft and warm and inviting sometimes. Other times, like now, they’re alight with a danger Max hasn’t really gotten used to yet.
“No, sir. I’m not going to be a brat,” Max answers him. It hurts a bit to speak after his throat has been ravaged, and he has to clear it a few times before he can fully get the sentence out. The humiliation goes straight to his dick, making it twitch.
Carlos smirks at him. “That’s better.”
He offers his hands, pulling Max up from the carpeted floor. There are small divots in his knees from the impression of the fabric. Carlos kisses him, winding his fingers into Max’s hair and tugging. Max sighs happily into his mouth. They stand there, bodies flush together, just kissing. Max wants to drink him in. Savor the moment before it’s over, and their worlds become separate again. Max bites Carlos’s lip, dragging it back a bit and sucking. Carlos makes a growly moan.
“I want to fuck you,” Carlos says between breaths.
“God, please,” Max begs.
Carlos spins him around and pushes him over the back of the couch. It’s not comfortable, but it isn’t supposed to be. Max braces himself as Carlos’s fingers circle the plug. He pulls it out of him slowly, tantalizingly slow. He whines as his muscles release the biggest part of it, and sucks in a breath when he’s finally empty.
It isn’t for long, though. Carlos slathers his cock in lube and lines himself up. He grabs Max’s shoulder with his sticky fingers for leverage. Max cries when Carlos bottoms out. Carlos pauses before he starts thrusting, allowing Max to adjust to the fullness. The plug has stretched him out somewhat, but Carlos is big, and it always takes a moment for Max to settle.
Carlos leans over and snakes his arm up Max’s body. His hands grip just under his sharp jawline, fitting perfectly like it was always meant to be there. He starts to thrust, gentle at first, but Max knows it’s only a matter of seconds before he attempts carte blanche.
His air is restricted as Carlos squeezes his throat, perfectly in time with the start of his thrusts. It gives Max that dizzying feeling again, like he’s floating through this moment. Carlos bends him backwards, arching his back. He shuts his eyes to focus on the slide of Carlos’s thick cock inside him, incessantly nudging against his prostate. He feels the warm air of Carlos’s breath ghost his earlobe.
“You like getting fucked? You like it when I treat you like a worthless cockslut?”
Max lets out a sob. He can’t think, let alone form words. His cock rubs against the roughness of the couch fabric. He’s so desperate—he could probably cum from the feeling of the fabric alone.
“Answer me,” Carlos insists, grabbing his hair and wrenching his head back even further. Max gasps, breathing stuttered.
“Y-yes,” he manages. It’s not the most eloquent answer, but Carlos lets him get away with it this time.
Carlos slams into him again and again. There’s no relief, no reprieve as he’s shoved against the couch. He feels the spark begin to build inside him, a lowlit flame threatening to catch fire.
“Los,” Max’s voice is barely a whisper, breaking through the gruff sounds of Carlos thrusting and the smack of balls slapping against skin.
“Los, I’m gonna cum,” Max tries again, louder and more assertive this time.
“Fuck,” Carlos pulls out of him suddenly. He wipes his brow with the back of his arm. It makes Max think of work: Carlos in his high socks, limbs elongated by the pinstripes. Thick thighs accentuated by the hemline at his knee.
“Sit,” Carlos motions to the couch. Max scrambles over the edge of the sofa. He swallows thickly.
“Knees up,” Carlos commands. “Use your hands.”
Max wraps his arms around his legs, tucking them all the way up to his chest. Carlos kneels between his legs. He spreads Max’s cheeks further apart, stretching the skin and revealing more of his puckered hole.
Carlos draws in a breath. “So fucking pretty,” he mutters to himself. He smooths his hand over Max’s ass, drifting down to the border and then back up again. He spits a few times before sinking his fingers in. He doesn’t have to go slow, but Max knows he’s doing it to keep him on right on the edge and no more.
Max squirms underneath him, and he lets out a frustrated whine. He earns a sharp smack on the thigh for that.
“I thought you weren’t going to be a brat,” Carlos says to him. Max just thrashes his head from side to side. He knows it won’t do him any good to beg, but he can’t hold the pleading sobs back anymore.
“Please, make me cum. Please.” He hopes Carlos will take pity and just let him.
“Shhh,” Carlos soothes. “I’ll make you cum. Just count down for me.”
He continues fucking him with his fingers, thrusting and spitting as he wraps his other hand around Max’s cock. It makes him writhe, spitting profanities like they’re the only words he knows.
“Ready?”
He’s so close, and Carlos knows it. He doesn’t know how he’ll find the effort to obey this one last demand.
5…4…3…2….
He’s panting, fighting the wave that’s about to crash over him. He shuts his eyes and squeezes them shut, as if that will help him last.
…1
He cries out when he cums in thick ropes over his belly. He doesn’t even fully register the weight of Carlos on top of him, pressing gentle kisses to the hollow of his throat, up to his jaw, and eventually finding his lips.
Max curls into him. He smells like sweat and pine. There’s a faint sweetness there, too, something that Max can’t quite place.
“You were perfect for me,” Carlos whispers. His mouth is at Max’s forehead now, speaking the words into his skin.
Max feels a sick sense of delight spreading through him. He knows Carlos can feel him smile, and that’s enough of a response for now.