Chapter 6: Denied
Typically, Dominic would have dressed in a full set of pyjamas, and kept the robe on until bed. But he was happy in this soft robe, feeling closer to his skin that still hummed with the memory of silk and sweat. The synthetic scent of fabric softener was already fading, already being replaced by the persistent, low thrum of his own musk, a scent he was startlingly reluctant to wash away entirely. He had spent so long automatically stripping his skin back and applying chemicals and scents. Now he felt conscious of his own perfume, the density and complexity of it. Like the smell of home. It's all he wanted to smell on himself.
By this time, hunger was beginning to bloom in his stomach. A ravenous need different to his recent sexual awakenings, but equally as fierce. Hilary allowed him one takeaway when she was away. And tonight's order would be big. He grabbed his phone, opened the delivery app and immediately saw an offer from Zenobia, Middle Eastern street food. He didn't second guess it, even though he'd never eaten that cuisine before. He was usually happy with anything on the bland side. Not tonight. There was a meal deal for two, so he ordered that. The app suggested a 40 minute wait. The quiet tick of the hallway clock, usually soothing, now tapped out a rhythm of restless energy against his skull.
He stared at the stack of gardening magazines on the side table. Hilary’s domain. Order. Control. He pushed himself away from the kitchen counter, the robe gaping open. The cool air of the living room touched his bare chest, a ghost of the freedom he’d felt, draped in emerald silk. That feeling, the rightness of it, it hadn’t just been the arousal, the release. It was the exposure. The lack of hiding.
Daveed’s photos flickered in his mind’s eye. Not just the breasts, the cock, the acts, but the sheer, unapologetic ownership of those bodies. Especially the softness. The yielding flesh celebrated, worshipped, not hidden. His own body, soft, heavy-breasted, had felt like a betrayal. Every day. A failure of masculinity he’d spent years camouflaging in baggy polos and loose chinos. But this afternoon? Wearing Hilary’s robe, seeing himself reflected in the screen’s glow, something had cracked open.
He needed... no, not the robe. Not again. Not right now. But something. Something that wasn’t this thick, concealing terrycloth. Something that didn’t feel like his old self. No, his usual self. Whatever, he thought.
A memory surfaced, dusty and faintly embarrassing. Years ago. Hilary, holding up a flimsy scrap of fabric in a department store. "Just try them, Dom," she'd laughed, a mischievous glint in her eye. "High-cut. Supposed to be flattering." He’d tried them on at home and blushed, the clinging fabric clearly showing his tiny bundle. He'd mumbled something about them cutting into his thighs, and shoved them to the back of his drawer. A failed experiment in spicing things up that had only highlighted his discomfort.
He padded upstairs on bare feet, the robe discarded unceremoniously on the landing. The master bedroom smelled faintly of Hilary’s perfume and he again found himself profoundly aware of his dislike for the smell. The taste, almost. He yanked open the top drawer of his dresser, pushing aside neatly folded boxers and undershirts. Right at the back, beneath a faded college t-shirt, his fingers touched cool, slippery fabric. He pulled them out. Two tiny triangles of white modal cotton, held together by a narrow strip at the sides to make the thinnest of waistbands. High-cut briefs. Ridiculously small. He held them up. They looked like they belonged to a teenager.
"Fuck it," he muttered, the words feeling strange and defiant in the quiet room. He stepped into them, pulling the delicate fabric up his thighs. They settled high on his hips, the waistband snug. The front panel cupped him tightly, the silk pressing against the soft mound of his pubic hair, outlining the small bulge of his flaccid cock and balls with startling clarity. He looked down. Exposed. Vulnerable. Slutty. The word echoed Daveed’s earlier text, but now it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt… accurate. The pictures were more than slutty enough for him. A shiver ran through him, part apprehension, part thrill.
He needed something for his top half. A vest. He rummaged through another drawer, rejecting the usual soft, baggy cotton ones. Too much coverage. Too familiar. Then he saw it, shoved in the corner. A vest he’d bought on impulse years ago during a sale, thinking it was ‘relaxed fit’. It was enormous. Made of thin, drapey black jersey. He pulled it on over his head. The neckline plunged wide, showing his collarbones and the top of his chest. The armholes were huge. He looked in the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.
The effect was jarring. The tiny, obscenely revealing white briefs. The massive vest hanging off his shoulders. The armholes gaped, exposing the curve of his torso, the swell of his side-boob, the lower curve of his substantial breasts. The thin jersey clung slightly to their fullness, outlining them, but the deep armholes meant his nipples were perilously close to being exposed with any movement. The vest’s hem hung loosely, ending just below the briefs' waistband. He looked ridiculous, surely? Like a parody. A walking contradiction of too much fabric and not enough. Baggy yet revealing. Modest yet indecent.
He smoothed the jersey over his belly. Traced the deep curve of the neckline where it framed his chest. Moved his arm, watching the armhole gape, revealing the soft, pale skin of his side, the soft swell of his breast. He inhaled deeply, feeling the cool air brush his exposed skin beneath the vest. A flush spread across his chest and neck. Ridiculously slutty. The thought came again, but it was tangled with something else. A sense of permission. He wasn’t hiding. He was showing. Maybe not well. Maybe not conventionally attractive. But he was here, in this strange, vulnerable state, and it felt like the most honest thing he’d done in years.
As he turned and posed, Dominic realised he wasn't rushing away. Usually mirrors were to check for composure, cleanliness and camouflage. As quickly as possible. Be neat, don't offend. But today he was languishing there, watching the straps of the vest caress over his nipples as he swayed, hypnotized by the novelty and the lightly thrilling sensation. Suddenly the doorbell rang. His food! Had it been that long already? He rushed out of the bedroom and had a sudden thought. What if I just opened the door like this? Proud, unabashed. Maybe it will be a hot middle eastern man, who would look him up and down and judge him. Maybe be turned on by him? "Rubbish," he mumbled out loud, "Stop being ridiculous. You'll only humiliate yourself and then you'll just feel terrible." The potential emotions already started to creep into his body, his face beginning to flush. He grabbed his robe from the landing and rushed to open the door for his food.
He stood framed in the doorway, looking like a modern-day gladiator caught between worlds. His shaved head gleamed under the soft light, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the intensity of his dark eyes. A meticulously groomed beard framed his strong jawline, adding a touch of primal masculinity to his refined features. Small hoops adorned his ears, catching the light.
He wore a grey t-shirt with an intricate, almost tribal pattern around the deep V-neck, the soft fabric clinging to his sculpted chest. The open collar offered a tantalising glimpse of dark, wiry chest hair. His shoulders were broad and powerful, leading to arms that were thick with muscle. The sleeves of the t-shirt strained against his biceps, showcasing the impressive definition beneath. His forearms were strong and veined.
His white trousers were tight, molded to his body like a second skin. The fabric emphasized the hard lines of his thighs and the unmistakable bulge of his cock, a blatant display of virility that demanded Dominic's attention. His hands were holding two bags of food. Dominic wasn't entirely sure what hunger he should be paying attention to at this moment.
He exuded an air of quiet confidence, a man comfortable in his own skin. His gaze was direct and unwavering, almost a silent invitation. "Mr Wheatley?" His voice enquired, the thick accent giving unusual emphasis to his very workaday name.
The scent hit him then. Rich, smoky, deeply spiced – cumin, cardamom, charred meat. Zenobia. His food. His stomach growled, a loud, insistent rumble cutting through the fog of humiliation. He was starving.
"Yes", Dominic responded. "Dominic" he added, blushing, unsure why had said that. "Dominic", he repeated, smiling broadly. "I have your food. I hope you are hungry?"
"Starving", Dominic mumbled, trying to pull his gaze away from the man's chest. So firm, so full, so masculine. He started as a line of drool fell from his lips and disappeared under the robe, onto his now-aching breasts. He tried to casually wipe it away, but he caught his robe and, to his utter humiliation, it fell open. The loose folds of the vest revealing the fleshiness of his chest and the pert puffiness of his nipples. The underwear, like second skin, clearly damp around his cocklet. "Oh, Mr Wheatley. Let me help" he said, as he put the food down and reached out to pull the robe closed. He carefully folded it neatly, not rushing, being thoughtful and gentle. He tied it closed collected the food and passed Dominic the bags with a pleasant, unphased smile. "Please enjoy your food whilst it is hot. Have a wonderful evening, Dominic". Walking away, Dominic was treated to a lengthy display of the full, fat ass, swaying inside the loose pants.
As he locked the door, the need to remove the robe was so strong. He felt trapped, smothered. He put the food down and dropped the terrycloth to the floor. He wished he had answered the door like this. He wanted that man to see him as he now was. Next time, he thought. Next time, he'd be brave.
He pushed off the door, the oversized vest billowing. He didn’t pull it back into place. Let it gape. Who cared now? He strode into the kitchen, The large brown paper bag sat on the counter, grease already blooming through the bottom. He ripped it open. Steam escaped, carrying an intoxicating wave of warm spices, earthy lentils, and tangy yogurt. He hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was until that smell hit his nostrils. Ravenous.
He pulled out the containers. The ‘Meal for Two’. A hefty portion of rich lamb shawarma, fat glistening, piled high. A generous tub of creamy, garlicky hummus dusted with paprika. A salad of chopped tomatoes, cucumber, parsley, sharp with lemon. A stack of soft, pliant flatbreads wrapped in paper. A container of deep purple baba ghanoush, its smoky aroma intense. Crispy falafel balls nestled in another. And a tub of thick, pungent toum. Enough for two, easily.
He didn’t bother with a plate. He cleared space on the small coffee table, shoving Hilary’s crossword and magazines aside with a sweep of his arm. He sat cross-legged on the floor – the position felt grounding, primal – surrounded by the open containers. The aroma was overwhelming, delicious. He tore off a piece of flatbread, warm and slightly chewy. He scooped up a huge glob of hummus, then layered on shredded lamb, dripping with its juices. Folded it clumsily.
He shoved it into his mouth. Flavours exploded. The earthy creaminess of the chickpeas, the rich, fatty, spiced lamb, the tang of lemon in the salad bits he’d scooped up. A low moan escaped him, muffled by the food. He chewed with abandon, juices escaping the corners of his lips. He licked them away with no thought to manners. This was sustenance. Deep, uncomplicated satisfaction.
He reached for the baba ghanoush next, dipping another piece of bread deep into the smoky eggplant puree. The texture was smooth, rich, addictive. He alternated: a falafel ball, crunchy outside giving way to herby green inside, dunked fiercely into the potent, garlicky toum that made his eyes water and his sinuses clear. More lamb, this time piled directly onto bread with a smear of hummus and a dollop of the yogurt sauce that came with the salad. He ate with his hands, grease slicking his fingers, spices clinging to his chin. The vest gaped wider, exposing the soft flesh of his belly as he leaned forward, utterly absorbed.
He didn’t think about the day's events. Didn’t think about the mess he'd made. Didn’t think about Hilary’s perfume or the silk robe. There was only the immediate, visceral pleasure of taste and texture and filling the cavernous hunger inside him. The intense flavours – the sharp garlic, the warming cumin, the charred meat, the cool yogurt – demanded his full attention. He consumed everything. Every shred of lamb. Every smear of hummus scraped from the tub with a piece of bread. Every last falafel ball. He drank the remnants of the sauces directly from their containers, tipping them back. He finally sat back, breathing heavily, licking the grease and spices from his fingers with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue. The containers were empty. Wiped clean. The coffee table was a battlefield of crumbs, grease spots, and discarded paper. He felt… full. Deeply, satisfyingly full. Not painfully stuffed, just profoundly content. A warm, sated heaviness settled in his belly, radiating outwards. The frantic energy, the shame, the desperate need, all momentarily dissolved in the aftermath of sheer, uncomplicated consumption. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, catching a stray fleck of parsley.
Rubbing his belly, his hands inevitably started towards his tits. They seemed... fatter? Fuller? More buoyant. His body was reacting so unusually, but he was starting to like it. A strange, quiet pride bloomed alongside the fullness. He’d devoured it all. He’d taken what he needed. And he would do it again. He needed Daveed’s pictures. Needed that validation, that roadmap of desire. That reminder of what bodies like Dominic's could be. Could be attended to. Could be pleasured. Could be worshipped. He needed to see the focus, the intensity on that softness. The password had worked before. It had to work again.
He padded back to the hall, the oversized vest fluttering around his breasts, the silk briefs brushing over his ample buttocks with each step. He felt hyper-aware of the air moving over exposed flesh beneath the huge armholes, the tight cradle of the briefs, the way his breasts shifted under the loose jersey. He went straight to the study, sat in his clean office chair, the leather cool against his barely-covered backside. Opening the laptop, he launched the browser, typing `ssfarmdrop.cloud`. The simple screen of folders flashed onto the screen. He found the folder he needed quickly, double clicking, the prompt materializing, `Enter Password`. He typed, fingers confident: `password`. A red error message flashed. `Incorrect Password. Please try again.` He blinked. Typed it again, slower. `p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d`. `Incorrect Password. Please try again.` His heart thumped against his ribs. No. That didn’t make sense. He’d used it just hours ago. He tried `Password` with a capital ‘P’. Red error. He tried variations. `password1`. `Passw0rd`. Nothing. The folder was locked. Barred. Had Daveed changed it? A cold wave of panic washed over him, instantly followed by a surge of hot, frustrated anger. Why? Had Daveed known he'd looked there? How? Had he set this up because he'd sensed Dominic's frantic need? Was this a game? Punishment? Or just… coincidence? He slammed a hand down on the desk.
"Fuck!" The word ripped out of him, loud and raw. He grabbed his phone. Scrolled to Daveed’s number. His thumb hovered. What could he say? 'Hey, changed the password? Need to see those pics again, thanks.' Casual? Pathetic? He typed a message, deleted it. Typed another, "Hey Daveed. One of the folders I was looking in now has a password. Did you add one? Or am I doing something wrong? Could you send the new one?" He tried some emojis. Prayer hands. Angel face. Thumbs up.
He stared at the words and icons. Too casual? Too needy? He added, "Need to reference something in there."
He hit send before he could overthink it. The message whooshed away. Silence. The laptop screen mocked him with its login prompt. The locked treasure. He leaned back in the chair, the movement making the vest gape wider. He caught a glimpse of his own nipple in the reflection of the dark monitor screen, pale and hard. Exposed and useless.
He jumped as the doorbell rang – a harsh, electronic chime that shattered the tense quiet. Shit. Who? Hilary wasn’t due back. He froze, instinctively pulling the vast expanse of the vest across his chest, a flimsy shield. The bell rang again, insistent. Panic flared. He couldn’t answer like this. He was half-naked in slutty underwear and a giant, revealing vest. But if he didn’t answer... what if it was important? What if they looked through the window? He saw the shape of someone on the porch, blurred through the frosted glass of the front door. He'd made this mistake once already this evening, he wasn't doing it again. He took a shaky breath. Fuck it. He was in his own house. He stood, the vest hanging loosely, the briefs feeling impossibly tight and conspicuous. He walked to the hallway, every step a gamble against gravity and exposure. He pulled the vest as closed as possible over his front, but the deep armholes still revealed flashes of his sides, the curve beneath his breast. He unlocked the door, opening it just a crack, peering out, his body angled awkwardly behind it.
Dominic's jaw nearly dropped. Standing there was a UPS guy, but not like any he'd ever seen before. He was a mountain of a man, his blonde hair neatly styled, a charmingly boyish grin on his face.
He was wearing the uniform, sort of. The brown shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, revealing a chest that was a landscape of soft muscle. His pecs were huge and round, straining against the material, the nipples, barely hidden in the folds of fabric, hard and pink. A scattering of blonde hairs trailed down between his pecs, disappearing beneath the closed buttons. He was wearing incredibly short matching brown shorts. They left little to the imagination, outlining the obvious bulge of his cock. His arms were thick and powerful, veins bulging beneath his skin.
The young delivery guy stood there, holding a small parcel, scrolling on his phone. He looked up, an eager expression on his face. "Package for..." His eyes flicked to the name on the device, then up at Dominic. "Mr Wheatley" he beamed. His gaze darted – the deep vee of the vest revealing Dominic’s chest hair and soft upper torso, the huge armhole exposing the pale, heavy curve of Dominic’s right breast and nipple in stark, unavoidable clarity, then down, taking in the way the vest clung to his hips, then down to the tight briefs beneath. His tiny bulge outlined so perfectly, the shortness of his cock making the head point forward. The guy blinked, his mouth opening slightly, then snapping shut. A flush crept up his neck. Dominic felt his own face burn. He could almost see the man’s thoughts, "What the actual fuck is this guy wearing? What an embarrassment. I hope I never end up like that." He managed a tight nod, his throat dry. "Yeah. That's me." His voice sounded strained. He reached out a trembling hand for the parcel, deliberately keeping his arm close to his body to minimize the gaping armhole. The delivery guy fumbled the scanner, nearly dropping it. "Sign... uh... sign here," he mumbled, holding out the device, his eyes firmly fixed on the screen now, avoiding looking at Dominic’s chest. Dominic scribbled illegibly. The guy took the device back, handed the package to him. "Have a good evening," he muttered, already turning away, practically jogging back to his van.
Dominic stayed pressed against the cool wood, the small parcel digging into his palm. His heart hammered like a trapped bird against his ribs. The delivery guy’s face, that flicker of something... confusion? Disgust? It played on a loop behind his eyes. His assumptions of the young man's thoughts continued, "What a fucking weirdo. Pathetic. Stupid, fat, perverted loser." Heat flooded his cheeks, down his neck, spreading across his exposed chest beneath the gaping vest. Slutty. Exposed. Ridiculous. He looked down. The thin black silk briefs left nothing to the imagination, the now soft bulge of his cock and balls clearly defined, almost insignificant. The huge grey vest hung like a collapsed tent, one armhole gaping obscenely, revealing the full, pale curve of his right breast, the nipple still tight and visible. Humiliation curdled in his gut, thick and sour.
He pushed off the door, stumbling slightly. The urge to rip the stupid clothes off, to find his baggiest sweatpants and hide, was overwhelming. He clutched the parcel tighter, its plain brown cardboard surface rough against his skin. He should go upstairs. Put on proper clothes. Forget this ever happened. Clean up the mess from his feast. But his feet felt rooted. Shame warred with a strange, prickling defiance. That look in the guy’s eyes… it hadn’t just been disgust, had it? There’d been a flicker. A second of… what? Dominic traced the deep neckline of the vest with a trembling finger. The air felt cool on his damp skin. Maybe… The thought snaked in, tentative. Maybe it wasn’t revulsion. Maybe he was surprised. Maybe… maybe he liked it. The idea was absurd, laughable. Him? Like this? Soft belly, man boobs and tiny cock in this slutty get up? But the image of the delivery guy’s sudden flush, the way his gaze had darted away after taking him in head to toe... Maybe he'd gotten hard, Dominic thought, a spread of warmth working it's way out from his perineum. Maybe he rushed back to his van to hide a massive fucking boner. Maybe he's out there now somewhere, pulled over, jerking his fat dick, thinking about my soft titties and little dicklet...
His free hand drifted, almost of its own accord, down his body. Fingers brushed the thin material stretched over his groin. He pressed lightly. The soft mound beneath yielded, and he felt the familiar tiny nub of his cockhead beneath the fabric. A faint pulse answered the touch. He swallowed. His other hand rose, slipping easily through the enormous armhole of the vest. Cool air met his skin as his fingers found the heavy, soft weight of his left breast. He cupped it, the flesh warm and yielding in his palm. His thumb sought the stiff peak of his nipple. He circled it slowly, the rough pad of his thumb dragging deliciously across the sensitive nub. A soft gasp escaped him, loud in the quiet hallway.
Why shouldn't someone look? Why shouldn't they want this? The smooth silk, the soft flesh, the sheer audacity of wearing it? The humiliation began to twist, morphing into something hotter, more daring. Maybe he did want to touch me, massage my tits, suck on my nipples...? He giggled suddenly. Churlishly. Slutty wasn’t shameful. Not right now. It felt powerful. Exhilarating. His cock twitched again, more insistently, under his palm. He pinched his nipple firmly through the grey cotton, an instant, bright spark of pleasure-pain that radiated straight down to his groin. "Fuck," he breathed, letting his head fall back against the door. His hips shifted minutely, pushing his cock into his cupping hand. then it sprang up to massage his breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the hard nipple between thumb and forefinger. He thought about the delivery guy seeing him like this, seeing all of him. Seeing his tits hanging out, seeing the outline of his little cock. Imagined the guy’s hand flying to his own crotch, trying to hide the hard-on straining against his shorts as he practically ran away.
Dominic moaned softly, arching his back slightly, pressing his breast more firmly into his own hand. The sensation was dizzying. He was doing this. Right here. Touching himself, half-naked in the hallway, thinking about turning some stranger on. The absurdity only fuelled the heat. He alternated rubbing the head of his cock through the fabric, the friction delicious, building a low thrum deep inside, and working his nipple harder, the sharp pleasure blurring the edges of thought. He was close, so close, riding the wave of this strange, exhilarating slutty power… when the parcel slipped from his suddenly lax fingers, thudding softly onto the worn hall rug.
The sound pulled him back, just for a second. He blinked, breathing hard, staring down at the small box. He laughed to himself. Not mockingly, but recognising how silly this all was. Wonderfully silly. But where had this parcel even come from? He had no memory of ordering anything. Tipsy Amazon browsing? One of those bleary-eyed late-night clicks he never remembered? He bent, the movement making his breasts sway heavily under the vest. He paused briefly to enjoy the feeling of the swaying mounds, the air circulating around them, the weight of them. He picked up the parcel. Plain brown box. No sender label he recognized. Just his name and address printed neatly. Lightweight. He shook it gently. A faint rustle, maybe? No distinct sound. Curiosity, a welcome distraction from the electric buzz still humming under his skin, nudged him.
Turning, he padded up the stairs, the oversized vest billowing around him, the silky briefs whispering against his skin. His nipples were still hard, sensitive peaks against the jersey fabric. His little cock throbbed, trapped and slick in its silk cradle. He felt thrillingly exposed, climbing the stairs half-naked, clutching a mystery box, but the shame was gone, replaced by a vibrant, building energy.
He pushed open the bedroom door and went straight to the bed, dropping the box onto the duvet. His fingers fumbled slightly as he tore at the tape, ripping it away. Inside was a plain, unbranded white cardboard box. He lifted the lid. Nestled inside white tissue paper was… a device. Sleek, smooth, black silicone. He lifted it out. He recognised it as a vibrator. Hilary had been given one as a joke once. She'd thrown it out soon after. It was small, discreet, maybe six inches long, curved slightly, with a pronounced, bulbous head and textured ridges along the shaft. Simple. Elegant. Utterly alien. He turned it over in his hands, the silicone cool and yielding. How? Why? Who sent this? The questions flitted through his mind but were instantly drowned out by a much louder, more insistent need. That buzzing energy under his skin intensified, zeroing in on his groin, his ass, the raw sensitivity of his nipples. He’d been right there, on the edge, in the hallway. This… this felt like permission. An invitation. Fuck the questions.
He didn’t hesitate. He kicked off the briefs, letting them pool around his ankles. The vest he left on; he liked the way the armholes framed his breasts, the way the fabric brushed against his sides. He climbed onto the bed, the cool cotton of the duvet cover soft against his bare legs. He lay back against the pillows, his legs falling open almost automatically. The black silicone glinted in the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. As he examined it, he found a small, almost invisible button near the base. He pressed it and a low, powerful hum filled the quiet room, vibrating through his fingers. The sensation was immediate, intense.
He brought it down, the humming head hovering just above the flushed skin of his inner thigh. The vibration was a tangible buzz in the air. Slowly, teasingly, he dragged the tip up, grazing his balls. A jolt shot through him. "Oh god," he gasped. He traced the tiny length of his cock, the vibrations making it jump and twitch, already slick with precum. It felt incredible, but it wasn’t the target. Not yet.
Remembering how he'd used his precum earlier, Dominic made sure to liberally coat the prostate massager with his renewed juices. With his fingers still sticky, he reached down and gently coated his hole with the remaining fluid. It already felt amazing, his eyes rolling back into his head at the thought of more pleasure. He slowly circled his sphincter with his sticky fingers, adding some spit to really get him wet, each time checking for any unwanted smells. But, as it was earlier, he smelled, and tasted, nothing but his sweet, warm musk. His other hand moved the toy lower, the humming head circling his perineum, the intense buzz sending shocks through his core. His hips lifted off the bed involuntarily. His free hand went back to his chest, fingers finding his right nipple, pinching and rolling it hard. The dual sensations – the deep, buzzing pressure below, the sharp, electric pull on his nipple – were overwhelming. He was panting now, breath coming in short gasps.
He shifted the angle. The vibrating head pressed firmly against his asshole. He sucked in a sharp breath. He hadn’t planned this, hadn’t consciously thought about it, but the memory of his finger earlier, the strange, intense pressure, flooded back. The silicone was slick with his own precum. He pressed. The tight ring of muscle resisted for a second, then yielded surprisingly easily to the smooth, humming pressure. He pushed slowly, carefully, feeling the thick head stretch him, the vibrations turning into a deep, internal thrum that resonated through his pelvis. It felt huge. Filling. Unbelievably intense. He moaned, long and low, his head thrashing back against the pillow. His fingers twisted his nipple viciously. The vibrations seemed to amplify every sensation – the stretch, the internal pressure, the frantic pulse of his cock against his belly.
He pushed the toy deeper, the textured ridges dragging deliciously inside him. He allowed his hips to release, using the pressure of the bed to keep the toy in place. The deep hum filled him, vibrated through his bones. His now free hand scrambled, finding his small, hard cock. He gripped it, the slick flesh hot against his palm, pumping out bead after bead of precum, letting him again bring his juices up to his tits. "Fuck… fuck… fuck…" The words were a ragged chant. He was losing himself, drowning in the overload of sensation – the buzzing filling his ass, his fingers torturing his nipple, the huge vest gaping open, his breasts heavy and bouncing with each desperate thrust of his hips. The edge was right there, a white-hot precipice. He couldn't stop pinching and pulling his nipples, harder and tighter, the intensity pushing him onwards. He shoved the vibrator in deep, pushing down hard into the mattress, grinding it against that spot inside that made stars explode behind his eyelids. "Yessss!" The cry tore from him, raw and guttural, as his body arched off the bed, convulsing, his release hitting him like a freight train, hot stripes painting his belly and chest as the vibrator hummed relentlessly inside him, dragging the orgasm out into an endless, shattering wave.