Chapter 4: First Taste of Submission
Lucas sank onto the sofa beside him, the cushion dipping under his weight. Jake dog-eared a page and slid the manga onto the low table, turning his full attention to the catman. The easy silence stretched, comfortable.
“So,” Lucas began, stretching his long arms along the back of the couch. “You built all this. Tell me about the magic. The real stuff, not the parlor tricks.”
Jake’s eyes lit up. He launched into an explanation of thermodynamic conservation in enchantments, using the hearth as a live example. He conjured a small, twisting helix of blue light between his palms, demonstrating how he could draw heat from the fire, store it in a focused lattice, and release it as directed force. Lucas watched, his bright blue eyes tracking the shimmering energy, his expression one of genuine fascination.
“Most mages just throw bigger fireballs,” Lucas commented. “You’re engineering.”
“It’s more efficient,” Jake said, letting the helix dissipate. “Why waste ninety percent of your mana on atmospheric lighting and noise when you can just make the air inside someone’s lungs boil?”
Lucas let out a low whistle. “Dark. Practical. I like it.” He leaned back. “What about you? A kid with this much power… why a cottage in the middle of nowhere? No dreams of imperial courts or lich-slaying?”
Jake shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. “I had those. When I first got here, I mean. Thought I’d be the hero. Travel with a party, fight the Demon King, all that.” He paused, his soft face thoughtful. “Then I almost got disemboweled by a goblin scavenger because I was trying to cast a fancy area-of-effect spell instead of just setting the thing on fire. It’s messy. Unpredictable. And the food on the road is terrible. Here, it’s safe. Luna cooks. I have my projects. I go to the local dungeon when I need excitement or components. It’s… enough. The stories are better in the books.”
Lucas stared at him for a long moment, then threw his head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound that filled the room. “Gods, you’re a breath of fresh air. Every wide-eyed farm boy with a spark of talent wants to chase glory and die in a ditch. You want a well-stocked pantry and a good book. It’s the most sane thing I’ve heard in six years.”
Jake felt a warm flush of pleasure spread across his cheeks. Nobody had ever called him sane before. “What about you? Why retire?”
Lucas’s smile softened, turning reflective. “Saw enough ditches. Filled enough of them. You reach a point where the next treasure hoard just looks like heavy luggage, and the next monster just looks like a pain in the ass. Wanted a roof that didn’t leak, a bed that didn’t have lice, and people who weren’t trying to kill me or hire me to kill someone else.” He glanced toward the kitchen where the smell of stew was beginning to waft. “Wanted to come home.”
“Dinner!” Luna’s call was gentle.
The meal was a lively affair. Lucas narrated a condensed version of his fight with a swamp hag, his hands painting pictures in the air. Jake listened, rapt, his stew growing cold. He interjected with sharp, technical questions about the hag’s corrosive slime—“Was it a base or an acid? Did it compromise tempered steel or just the edge?”—that made Lucas grin and elaborate.
Jake thought, not for the first time, He’s really cool.
Luna watched from the head of the table, her smile serene, her hands resting on the gentle curve of her belly. She said little, just listened to her son charm the father of her child, her heart a quiet, aching knot in her chest.
Afterward, in the living room with mugs of bitter herbal tea, Lucas turned the conversation. “So. My mother. The baker’s daughter. The elf at the apothecary. Others?”
Jake, lounging in an armchair, nodded without shame. “Five. That I know of. Might be six, Marta’s cycle was irregular.” He counted on his fingers. “Luna, Eliza the elf, Marta, Kira the catgirl from the west ridge, and Beth, the blacksmith’s apprentice. She had amazing stamina.” He sighed, a sound of profound boredom. “But it’s all the same, you know? You do it, it feels good for a bit, then it’s over and you’re sticky. Lately it just feels like a chore. Like checking a box.”
Lucas absorbed this with a slow nod, his gaze intense. “Maybe you’ve been playing the wrong game.” He set his mug down. “You’re a hell of a lot prettier than any of the tavern wenches I’ve paid for. Smart, too. Powerful. Wasting that on someone who just lies there.”
Jake blinked, the blush returning full force, heating his ears. No one had ever… put it like that. Compliments from women were usually about his stamina or his cock. This was different.
Lucas moved, fluid and deliberate, from his chair to the sofa beside Jake. The cushion sank, pulling Jake toward him. A large, warm hand settled on Jake’s thigh, high up, the weight of it undeniable. Jake’s breath hitched.
Lucas leaned in, his voice a low rumble meant only for him. The scent of leather and sharp pine sap filled Jake’s senses. “Want me to show you something you won’t get bored of? A game where you don’t have to do any of the work?”
The intention was crystal clear. Curiosity, a sharp and thrilling spike of it, shot through Jake’s boredom. He’d never considered… but Lucas was cool, and confident, and he looked at him like he was a fascinating puzzle, not a convenient hole.
“Okay,” Jake said, his voice smaller than he intended.
Lucas stood, offering a hand. Jake took it, letting himself be pulled up. Lucas didn’t release his hand as he led him from the room. “Which way’s your room?” he asked, a sly grin on his face.
“Uh, left,” Jake mumbled, feeling strangely off-balance in his own home.
The door to his cluttered bedroom shut with a soft click. The world narrowed to the space between them, lit by the single lantern’s jumpy glow. Lucas crowded him back against the solid wood, his taller, broader frame caging Jake in. He didn’t ask, he simply took. His mouth found Jake’s, and the kiss was nothing like the pecks he’d tolerated from women. This was deep, claiming, all tongue and heat and dominant pressure. Jake moaned into it, his hands fluttering before settling on Lucas’s hard chest.
On the other side of the wall, in the silent living room, Luna listened to the muffled sounds of movement, of soft moans and Lucas’s deeper chuckle. She sat perfectly still for a full minute. Then she stood, walked to the pristine, untouched bedroom that was nominally hers, and closed the door. She lay on the cold quilt, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling. “It’s fine,” she whispered to the empty room. “Everything is fine.”
Lucas stripped Jake with efficient hands, calloused fingers skating over his smooth skin, tracing the jut of his hip bones, the softness of his belly. Jake, in turn, fumbled with the buckles on Lucas’s leathers, his fingers clumsy until Lucas batted them away and undid them himself, revealing a torso carved from hard travel and conflict, and below, the thick, heavy curve of his erection. Jake stared. It was… bigger. Different.
“On the bed. On your knees,” Lucas instructed, his voice husky.
Jake obeyed, the command sending a jolt through him. The quilts were rough under his palms. He felt exposed, the air cool on his ass. He heard the slick sound of oil, then a warm, broad fingertip was circling his tight entrance, pressing, testing.
“H-hey,” Jake giggled, the sensation utterly foreign. “That’s weird.”
“Just relax,” Lucas murmured, his other hand stroking Jake’s flank. The finger pushed in, past the initial tight ring of muscle. Jake gasped, then shivered as the intrusion deepened, a strange, full feeling. Lucas worked him open with a single finger, then two, scissoring gently. Then he brushed against something deep inside.
A spark of pure, white-hot pleasure erupted in Jake’s core, racing up his spine. “Fuck!” he yelped, his back arching.
“There it is,” Lucas said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. He pressed against that spot again, and Jake pushed back against his hand, a low whine escaping his throat. All giggles were gone, replaced by ragged breath.
The fingers withdrew. Jake heard the wet sound of Lucas slicking himself. Then the blunt, broad head of Lucas’s cock was nudging against him, demanding entrance.
“Breathe out,” Lucas ordered.
Jake exhaled, and Lucas pushed forward.
The stretch was immense, a burning, overwhelming pressure that stole the air from Jake’s lungs. He clenched his eyes shut, fingers fisting in the sheets. It hurt, a sharp, blunt ache, but beneath it, that incredible spark flared as the thick shaft rubbed deep inside him. Lucas sheathed himself to the hilt with a low, guttural groan, his hips flush against Jake’s ass.
“Gods, Jake,” Lucas rasped. “Your ass is fucking perfect. So tight. Hot little vice grip.”
The words, crude and vivid, went straight to Jake’s own cock, which was now fully hard and dripping onto the sheets. Lucas began to move, pulling back and thrusting in with a smooth, powerful rhythm. The initial pain receded, burned away by the relentless friction and the shocking, electric jolt every time Lucas’s cockhead rammed into his prostate.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” Jake babbled, his arms trembling, struggling to hold himself up. A part of his brain, detached and amazed, thought, Why did I only fuck women? This is… this is everything. The thought was obliterated by another deep, perfect thrust.
Lucas set a brutal, steady pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by Jake’s high, broken moans and Lucas’s deep grunts. Lucas leaned over him, his chest plastered to Jake’s back, one hand snaking around to fist Jake’s leaking cock in time with his thrusts.
“That’s it, take it,” Lucas growled in his ear. “Your hole’s swallowing me whole. Best fucking sheath I’ve ever had.”
The dual sensations—the deep, filling penetration and the tight, urgent tug on his cock—drove Jake wild. He came with a shattered cry, his orgasm ripped from him so violently his vision whited out, his channel clamping down in rhythmic spasms around the massive cock still pistoning inside him.
Lucas swore, his rhythm faltering for a moment at the intense squeeze. “Fuck, yes. Milk it.” He didn’t stop. He kept fucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks, making Jake sob with overstimulated pleasure, until finally, with a final, driving thrust, Lucas buried himself deep and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside Jake’s clenching heat.
They collapsed forward, a sweaty, panting heap. But Lucas wasn’t done. After a short while, he rolled Jake onto his back, his blue eyes dark with renewed hunger. He hooked Jake’s legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half, and pushed back inside the slick, used hole with a groan of satisfaction.
“Mine,” Lucas stated, plain and simple, before starting again.
The night dissolved into a sweaty, primal marathon. Lucas possessed an adventurer’s stamina, and Jake, his body singing with newfound sensitivity, was a eager, vocal receiver. Lucas took him in every position the bed allowed, his words a constant, filthy, praising litany. “Look at you,” he’d grunt, as Jake lay beneath him, glazed-eyed and wrecked. “Pretty boy taking this big cock so well. You were made for this.”
Jake came again, and again, until he was a shivering, boneless thing, his hole swollen and well-used, every nerve alight. He had never felt so thoroughly occupied, so completely out of control in the best possible way. He didn’t have to think, or perform, or lead. He just had to feel.
Exhaustion finally claimed them as the first grey light touched the window. Lucas pulled the rumpled quilts over them and dragged Jake against his chest, one heavy arm curled possessively around his slender waist. Jake nuzzled into the warmth, a profound, sated contentment settling in his bones. He fell asleep to the sound of Lucas’s steady heartbeat, thinking that he never wanted to move.