Chapter 2: The Morning Ritual
The first thing Hugo knew was the suffocating heat, and the weight. Then the pressure, insistent and blunt, against his parted lips. He didn’t need to open his eyes. The stale, musky scent of Dimitri’s sleep-filled groin filled his nostrils, a perfume he’d learned to crave. He made a small, sleepy sound and obediently opened his mouth wider.
Dimitri’s thick cockhead pushed past his teeth, already half-hard and leaking. “Suck, baby,” Dimitri grunted, his voice rough with sleep. He hadn’t even moved from where he’d collapsed hours before, one heavy arm thrown over Hugo’s chest, pinning him.
Hugo’s tongue moved on instinct, lapping at the slit, swallowing the bitter precum that greeted him. He wrapped his lips around the girth and began to work, his jaw already aching in anticipation. Dimitri’s hips gave a shallow thrust, fucking into the wet warmth of his throat. The rhythm was lazy, possessive. A morning ritual.
Hugo’s eyes watered as Dimitri hardened fully, the veined shaft stretching his mouth until his lips strained. He breathed raggedly through his nose, the air a mix of sweat, semen, and the unique, potent scent of Dimitri’s skin. His own body responded, a weak throb between his legs, irrelevant. This wasn’t about his pleasure. It was about service.
“That’s it,” Dimitri murmured, his fingers tangling in Hugo’s dark hair, not guiding, just holding. Owning. “Swallow it all down. Clean your breakfast.”
The thrusts grew deeper, more demanding. Hugo gagged, tears tracking through the grime on his cheeks. He relaxed his throat, submitting to the invasion, letting the thick head bump against his soft palate. The sound was obscene, wet and choking. Dimitri loved that sound.
He came without warning, a hot, pulsing flood that coated Hugo’s tongue and throat. Hugo swallowed convulsively, his throat working, not missing a drop. He kept sucking, milking the last spurts, lapping at the sensitive head until Dimitri shoved him away with a grunt.
Hugo collapsed back onto the pillow, gasping, strings of saliva and cum on his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, then brought his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them. Dimitri watched, his dark eyes slitted with satisfaction.
“Turn over,” he said. “On your knees. Now.”
His body protested, sore from the night, but Hugo moved quickly, the fear of disappointing him a sharp spur. He got onto his hands and knees, presenting himself. The sheets beneath him were damp, cold in some places, stiff in others. He heard the rustle as Dimitri moved behind him, felt the mattress dip under the immense weight.
A calloused thumb, slick with spit, rubbed over his hole, which was still loose and tender. “Look at this,” Dimitri muttered, almost to himself. “Worn out and gaping for me. My little used-up rabbit.”
Hugo buried his face in the pillow, its fabric smelling of salt and sex. He braced himself.
Dimitri didn’t use spit. He leaned over, his chest a hairy blanket on Hugo’s back, and guided his cockhead to the pucker. He pushed, a relentless, brutal pressure. Hugo cried out, his knuckles white as he clutched the sheets. The stretch was agonizing, a white-hot tear that went on and on as Dimitri sheathed himself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming stroke.
“Fuck!” Hugo sobbed, the air driven from his lungs.
“Shut up,” Dimitri growled, but there was no real anger. It was a command of pure focus. He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm that shook the entire bed frame. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a full, devastating re-occupation. He set a pace that was mechanical, endless, his balls slapping wetly against Hugo’s skin.
The pain blurred, transmuting into a deep, internal battering that found his prostate with unerring accuracy. Hugo’s cries turned ragged, broken. “Please… Dimitri… please…”
“Please what, baby?” Dimitri’s voice was a strain of exertion. He gripped Hugo’s narrow hips, his fingers digging into the bone, surely leaving bruises. “You want me to stop?”
“No! God, no…”
“Then take it. Your hole belongs to me. It’s just a fuck-hole. Say it.”
“It’s your fuck-hole,” Hugo whimpered, the words muffled by the pillow.
“Louder.”
“It’s your fuck-hole!” he screamed, as Dimitri pistoned into him, the force driving him forward with every slam.
“Damn right it is.”
The room filled with the sounds of their collision: skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, Dimitri’s ragged breath, Hugo’s choked sobs of overwhelming sensation. It went on forever. The light through the grimy window shifted. Minutes or hours, it didn’t matter. Time was measured only in thrusts, in the building tension in Hugo’s gut, in the tightening of Dimitri’s grip.
Dimitri’s pace became frantic, animal. He was slamming into Hugo now, fucking him like he wanted to break through to the other side. “Gonna fill you up,” he snarled. “Gonna pump this worthless cunt so full of my cum you’ll taste it for days.”
The vulgar promise tipped Hugo over. His own orgasm ripped through him, dry and shattering, his body seizing around the massive intrusion. He screamed, a raw, torn sound.
Feeling Hugo clench and spasm, Dimitri roared. He drove in one last, devastating time and held, his body locking. Hugo felt the hot, deep pulses inside him, flood after flood, marking him internally. Dimitri collapsed forward, crushing him into the mattress, his sweaty, hairy body a smothering, perfect weight.
They lay there, a heap of spent flesh. Dimitri’s breath was hot on Hugo’s neck. Slowly, he pulled out, a slow, wet withdrawal that made Hugo gasp at the sudden, aching emptiness.
Dimitri rolled off, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked at the clock, then at Hugo, who lay trembling, leaking onto the stained sheets.
“Clean me,” Dimitri said, his voice already shifting from the beast to the man who had to catch the tram.
Hugo crawled to him. His movements were shaky, ruined. He took Dimitri’s soft, spent cock into his mouth, tenderly cleaning the mess of sweat and their mixed fluids with his tongue. He nuzzled into the dense, sweaty hair of his groin, inhaling deeply, worshipfully. He cleaned his heavy balls, saccharine and musk.
Dimitri looked down, his hand resting on Hugo’s head, not petting, just possessing. “Gotta work,” he muttered. “Food’s in the fridge. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I won’t,” Hugo said, his voice hoarse.
Dimitri stood, a giant stretching. He pulled on his work clothes, the fabric straining over his shoulders. At the door, he paused, keys in hand. He looked back at Hugo, who was still kneeling on the wrecked bed, a pale, marked thing in the dim light.
“Be good, baby,” he said, and then the door clicked shut.
Silence, broken only by the distant sound of the city. Hugo slowly lowered himself back onto the sheets. He felt the thick, wet proof of Dimitri’s ownership seeping from him. He brought his fingers to the mess, then to his mouth.
He was good. He was home. The day stretched before him, an empty vessel waiting to be filled again when the beast returned.