Chapter 5: The Dinner Party
The apartment smelled of vanilla and fresh bread, a clean, warm scent that fought the ever-present damp of the old building.Paul moved through the small space, a flutter of purposeful grace. He had baked all afternoon—a tray of cranberry orange scones, a loaf of honey oat bread, delicate thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam. It was his offering, his way of weaving himself into the fabric of Riley’s other life.
For modesty’s sake, he’d foregone his usual lingerie set. Instead, he wore soft, white cotton shorts and a thick, oversized pink sweater that slipped off one shoulder, the collar of his silken pink collar just visible at its wide neckline. The clothes hid the matching pink panties and, more importantly, the silicone plug seated deep within him, a secret known only to the two of them.His socks were pink and fuzzy. He felt both modest and secretly, deliciously owned.
Riley’s classmates arrived in a burst of youthful noise—three of them, two women and a man. The man, Derek, was tall, with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his assessing eyes. He shook Riley’s hand, but his gaze instantly found Paul, lingering.
“You didn’t tell us you had a live-in chef, Flynn,” Derek said, his voice a smooth baritone.
“Paul,” Riley said, his arm slipping naturally around Paul’s waist, a claim staked in the casual gesture. “He just likes to keep things warm.”
Paul felt a blush rise on his neck. “It’s just some simple things. Please, help yourselves.”
He played the host perfectly, refilling coffee mugs, offering milk and sugar, clearing empty plates with quiet efficiency. Riley, amidst the spread of textbooks and notepaper, kept glancing at him. Every time Paul caught his eye, Riley’s stern expression would soften, just for a second. Once, when Paul brought a fresh pot of coffee to the table, Riley’s hand snaked out and squeezed his hip, hidden by the table.Paul felt a jolt of heat straight to his already-sensitive core.
During a lull in the debate over statistical significance, Riley stood abruptly. “Forgot a highlighter,” he muttered, and before Paul could react, Riley had taken his hand and pulled him, not towards the bedroom, but into the narrow, dim hallway just outside it.
He pushed Paul gently against the wall, his body caging him in. He didn’t speak, just dipped his head and captured Paul’s mouth in a series of deep, sucking kisses. His hands framed Paul’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
“My sweet angel,” Riley breathed against his lips, the words rough with affection.“Making this place a home. Fucking perfect.”
Paul cupped Riley’s jaw, his heart a wild, grateful bird in his chest. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, meaning it, meaning the studying, the socializing, this fragile, normal life he was building.
Riley groaned softly, kissing him once more, hard and promising, before releasing him. “Get back out there before I say fuck the study group and bend you over the couch.”
Paul smoothed his sweater, his lips swollen, and returned to the living room, his secret buzzing beneath his skin.But Derek’s eyes tracked him. They followed him from the sofa to the kitchenette, a heavy, unwanted weight.His touches became a pattern. A brush against Paul’s thigh as he reached for a cookie. A hand “steadying” itself on Paul’s hip as he passed behind him. A slow drag across Paul’s backside as Paul leaned over to retrieve a fallen pen. Each contact was a violation disguised as accident, a spark of disgust that somehow, shamefully, ignited a flicker of arousal deep in Paul’s belly. He hated it. And he hated the part of him that grew wet, that wondered if Riley could smell the intrusion on him.
When Derek excused himself to the bathroom—the only one, through the bedroom—Paul felt a cold trickle of dread. He waited a minute, then gathered a few empty cups to bring to the kitchen, needing to move. As he passed the bedroom door, it swung open.Derek was there, filling the doorway. He grabbed Paul’s wrist, his grip firm, and yanked him into the shadowed bedroom, kicking the door shut with his foot. The sound was soft, final.
“Finally,” Derek murmured, his other hand sliding down Paul’s side, palming his ass through the thin shorts. “All night, watching you in that cute little sweater. Playing house with Flynn.”
“Don’t,” Paul whispered, frozen, his body betraying him as his nipples tightened painfully against the soft cotton of his bra.
Derek pushed him against the wall by the dresser, his body pinning Paul’s. He rutted against him, the hard line of his erection obvious even through his jeans.“You like it, though. Don’t you?” He brought his hand between Paul’s legs, fingers pressing against the seam of his shorts, right over the damp spot that was already forming. He rubbed, a crude, circular motion through the fabric.Paul gasped, a sharp, traitorous sound. He was scared, yes, a cold fist of panic in his throat.But deeper, hotter, was a filthy thrill. The thrill of being wanted, of being taken, and the absolute, rock-solid certainty that Riley would come. Riley would save him. And then, Riley would punish him for letting it happen, for getting wet from it.The anticipation of that reckoning was its own dark, drowning arousal.
“Such a pretty little thing for a guy,” Derek breathed, his mouth near Paul’s ear.The door opened. No knock, no sound of a handle turning. It was just suddenly open, and Riley stood there, a silent statue etched in fury. His eyes, dark and flat, went from Derek’s hand between Paul’s legs to Paul’s flushed, guilty face.
“Time to go, Derek,” Riley said.His voice was quiet, lethally calm.
Derek jerked back, his confidence evaporating. “Hey, man, it’s not—”
Riley was across the room in two strides.He didn’t shove or yell. He simply placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the clavicle with a pressure that made Derek wince. He leaned in close. “You put a finger on him again, you even look at him with that fucking hungry face again, and I won’t tell you what I’ll do. You’ll just wake up in the hospital wondering what happened. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
It was more terrifying than any shout. Derek stumbled back, muttered an apology that sounded like a whimper, and fled the room.The study session ended soon after, awkward and subdued. Paul stayed in the kitchen, washing already-clean dishes, his hands shaking.
When the final guest left, Riley locked the door.The click of the deadbolt was loud in the silent apartment. He walked to the kitchen, his footsteps slow and deliberate.Paul kept his back to him, staring into the soapy water.
Riley’s arms came around him from behind, not in an embrace, but in a trap. His hands slid under the big pink sweater, finding the bare skin of Paul’s waist. They were cold.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” Riley’s voice was a low rumble against his ear.“You got wet when he touched you.I can smell it on you. His cheap cologne and your fucking arousal.”
Tears welled in Paul’s eyes. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t deny it.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” Paul choked out, the confession a relief and a shame.Riley spun him around, his eyes blazing. He grabbed a handful of Paul’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, his collar.“Then I’ll remind you who you belong to. Who fills this cunt.” He pulled Paul towards the kitchen table, sweeping the leftover tray of sweets to the floor with a crash of ceramic.“Bend over.”
Paul obeyed, his tears falling freely now, his sobs silent. Riley yanked down the white shorts and the pink panties in one vicious pull. He didn’t bother with the plug. He just unzipped his own jeans, freed his huge, already dripping cock, and shoved inside.The invasion was brutal, no preparation, no kindness. Paul cried out, his body stretching violently around the monstrous girth. Riley fucked him with a hard, punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the plug deeper, then pulling it almost out, the brutal pistoning a raw claiming.
“You’re a stupid girl,” Riley grunted, his hands gripping Paul’s hips hard enough to bruise.“A stupid girl who opens her legs for anyone. Letting that piece of shit grind on you. Getting wet for him.”
“I’m sorry!” Paul wept, the pleasure-pain of the fucking a dizzying whirlpool. “I’m sorry, Riley, please!”
“You belong to me,” Riley snarled, his pace becoming erratic, deeper, harder.“This cunt is mine. This belly is mine to fill.” He slammed home and came with a guttural roar, a hot, seemingly endless flood that pumped into Paul’s depths, a violent, claiming injection. Paul felt his already-rounded belly swell further, tightening against the table’s edge. He came a second later, his orgasm ripped from him by the sheer overwhelming force of Riley’s possession, his vision spotting.
Riley pulled out, a thick stream of come following.He didn’t pause. He turned Paul around, shoved him to his knees on the crumb-littered floor, and fed his still-hard cock into Paul’s mouth.“Clean it,” he ordered, his hand fisted in Paul’s hair. “Taste what belongs in you, not on you.”
Paul obeyed, sucking, licking, tasting his own salt and Riley’s bitterness until Riley groaned and pulled him up. He took him on the living room floor, then again, an hour later, in their bed. Each time was a re-conquest, rough and deep, Riley’s knot swelling and locking inside him, sealing every fresh load. Each time, Riley called him names—stupid girl, needy slut, a fuckhole for anyone—but his hands, once the frenzy passed, would cradle Paul’s swollen stomach, would stroke his hair back from his sweaty forehead.
After the third time, in the deep silence of the night, Paul lay spent, his body a map of aches and fullness, his belly a taut, rounded dome under the sheets. Riley was still inside him, his softening cock nestled deep, his knot a persistent, comforting pressure. Riley’s arm was around him, his lips pressed to Paul’s damp shoulder.“You okay?” Riley whispered, the fury gone, replaced by a raw, vulnerable tenderness.
Paul, floaty and ruined, turned his head. In the moonlight, he saw the fear in Riley’s eyes—the fear of having gone too far, of having broken this fragile thing they’d built.Paul nuzzled against him, a drowsy, contented sound escaping his throat. He was a drooling, happy mess, stuffed and claimed and profoundly safe.
“Yes,” Paul breathed, his voice hoarse from crying. “I’m perfect.”