Chapter 7: Another Package
The low, insistent buzz vibrated through the heart of him, a distant engine thrumming deep in the core of his sleep. Dominic swam towards consciousness, his body heavy, limbs leaden. His mind fumbled, disoriented. Where? What? The persistent hum pulsed against something sensitive, startlingly intimate. It wasn't unpleasant. Just there. Inside.
Memory crashed back in fragments: the silicone toy, the overwhelming pressure, the shattering release, the collapse into sticky, sated oblivion. He was still on the bed, sprawled naked except for the ludicrously oversized grey vest, now rucked up around his neck. The duvet was tangled around his legs. And the vibrator, it was still on. Still nestled deep inside his ass, humming its low, powerful frequency, sending subtle tremors through his relaxed muscles.
He groaned softly, shifting. The movement moved the toy slightly, intensifying the vibration against his so recently discovered, very sensitive, prostate. A rush of unexpected pleasure, fast and thrilling, rolled through him. His cock, soft and tiny, twitched against his thigh. Not arousal, exactly. Just sensation. Deep, resonant sensation. He lay still for a moment, letting it thrum through him, a strange, internal massage. It felt good. Possessive. Like it belonged there, filling him.
Carefully, slowly, he reached down between his legs. His fingers brushed the slick silicone base protruding from him. It was wet. Very wet. Coated in something thicker than the spit and precum he had used. He hooked a finger around the base and, with a slow, deliberate pull, eased it out.
The sensation was exquisite. The textured ridges dragged deliciously against his stretched, sensitized inner walls. He gasped as the widest part passed his rim, a fleeting pulse followed by a profound emptiness. He held the toy up in the dim bedroom light filtering through the bedside lampshades.
It glistened. Not just wet. Covered in a thick, slightly cloudy, milky-white slime. His slime. The viscous fluid clung to the black silicone, strands of it stretching between the ridges. The sight reminded him of the dryness of his mouth. If felt like oven-baked sandpaper. He brought it closer to his face. The scent hit him first – musky, earthy, sweet, deeply organic. Like rich soil after rain, like warm skin, like himself. A concentrated essence of his own arousal and release. Nothing foul. Nothing alien. Just… him. Intensely, undeniably him.
Without thinking, his tongue darted out. He licked a stripe along the side of the toy, gathering a thick glob of the slick fluid onto his tongue.
Flavour bloomed. Complex. Salty, creamy, with an underlying almost floral richness. Like his own essential oil. Like nectar. His own nectar. The taste resonated deep in his belly, a primal recognition. It was good. More than good. It was his. He sucked the length of the toy clean, eagerly swallowing the gelatinous fluid. It tasted of satisfaction, of abandon, of the raw, unedited truth of his body. He pushed the silicone length back into his warm, open hole and pulled it out, freshly covered in his juices. He explored every ridge, every curve with his tongue, savouring the unique flavour, the slick texture. He turned it, licking and sucking at every part that had been seated deep within him, tasting the echoes of his own hidden places. He dipped back into his anus twice more, until the essence dried up. It was an act of pure, unadulterated ownership. Devouring the proof of his own pleasure.
Finally, he set the toy aside on the nightstand, its hum now a distant memory. He felt clean. His thirst felt quenched. Dominic was very confused, slightly concerned but mostly just satisfied on a level he hadn't known was possible. Peaceful. He stretched languidly, feeling the pleasant ache between his legs, the slight stickiness on his belly and chest where he’d cum. He needed a shower. Not to wash away, though. To celebrate. To feel.
The shower was a revelation. He stood under the hot spray, letting it sluice over him, not scrubbing furiously like usual, but caressing. His hands moved over his skin with newfound reverence. Over the soft swell of his belly, the curve of his hips. He lingered on his breasts, cupping their heavy weight, feeling the water cascade over the pink, sensitive nipples. He massaged them gently, the touch not aimed at arousal this time, but at appreciation. They were part of him. Beautifully, undeniably part of him. His hands slid lower, over the soft skin of his inner thighs, to the still-loose, sensitive ring of muscle between his cheeks. He touched it lightly, feeling the residual thrum, the memory of being filled. It felt different now. A place of intense sensation, worthy of attention. Not hidden. Not shameful.
He dried himself slowly with a soft towel, patting, not rubbing. His skin felt alive, electric. He looked at the array of Hilary’s scented lotions and potions on the bathroom shelf. Synthetic, unnatural, chemical. He wrinkled his nose. No. Not today. Not ever again, maybe. He wanted something pure and simple. His skin craved care, but not disguise. He remembered the oils Hilary kept in the kitchen. The rich avocado oil he’d said was too indulgent and expensive. Wasn't that good for skin?
He wrapped the towel around his waist, padding silently down to the kitchen. As he walked, his chest free to move with him, or on it's own course, he felt more whole than he had in, quite possibly, forever. The lingering scent of spices from his feast still hung faintly in the air, mingling with the cleaner smell of his showered body. He rummaged in the cupboard where Hilary kept baking supplies and condiments. There. A dark green bottle of cold-pressed avocado oil. He unscrewed the cap. The scent was subtle, grassy, nutty, rich. Perfect.
He carried the bottle back upstairs to the bedroom. He pushed open the door to Hilary’s walk-in closet, the one with the fold out, full-length mirror on the opposite wall. He rarely looked in here, preferring the wardrobe mirror which was small and narrow. Today, he needed the hidden one. The full-length, multi-angle one. The one that felt… open. Attentive. For once, he craved it.
He closed the closet door behind him, and turned the lights up full. He dropped the towel. The air was cool on his damp skin. He stood before the mirror, truly looking at himself for the first time since everything shifted.
He poured a generous pool of the thick, greenish-gold oil into his palm. It felt cool and dense. He rubbed his hands together, warming it slightly. Then he began.
He started at his shoulders, massaging the oil in with slow, circular motions. He worked down his arms, feeling the muscles, the skin soaking in the richness. He moved to his chest, his hands spreading the oil over the broad planes, then carefully, tenderly, over the swell of his breasts. He cupped them, oiling the undersides, the sides, the sensitive skin where they met his belly. He traced the rich, pink, puffy areolas with slick fingertips, feeling the goosebumps rise. He gently oiled the nipples, the sensation making him sigh. He wasn't hardening them, just caring for them. Honouring them.
His hands slid down his torso, over his soft belly, massaging the oil into the yielding flesh. He loved the feel of it under his palms. He oiled his hips, his thighs, his calves, his feet. Every inch. Then, turning slightly, he reached behind, oiling his back as best he could, the smooth curve of his ass. He took more oil, reached between his cheeks, and gently, carefully, massaged the warm liquid into the still-sensitive, slightly puffy rim of his asshole. The touch sent a low thrum of pleasure through him, a reminder of its new significance. It felt nurtured. Cherished.
He lost track of time. Standing in the quiet, dim closet, the only sound his own breathing and the slick slide of oil on skin, he worshipped his own body. He posed, turned, watched the light play on his oiled skin in the mirror. He saw the softness, the curves, the heaviness of his breasts, the slight swell of his belly, the vulnerable curve of his ass. He didn't see flaws. He saw sensation. He saw potential. He saw himself. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Beautiful in his own, unique, slutty way. The word didn't sting anymore. It felt like a badge. His thumb brushed over his hard nipple again, glistening with a light film of the oil. He smiled at his reflection, a slow, deep, satisfied smile.
The vibration was faint at first. A buzz from the bedroom. His phone, left on the nightstand beside the cleaned vibrator. He’d been submerged in his own world, the sound barely registering. It buzzed again. Insistent.
Reluctantly, he padded out of the closet. He picked up the phone.
A text notification. Daveed.
The peace of the last hour wavered. A flutter of anxiety, mixed with that old, desperate curiosity. He unlocked the screen.
"Yo. Sorry man. Didn't think you'd get that far. Folder locked? Yeah, my bad. The pw changes every week automatic."
A pause. The three dots telling Dominic he was still typing.
"New password is shwarma. All yours. Knock yourself out."
Dominic stared at the word. Shwarma. The rich, spiced scent seemed to ghost through the room again. Lamb fat, cumin, char. The taste of unbridled hunger. But how would Daveed know? Coincidence, surely? The oil on his skin almost completely absorbed already, the light barely showing a glisten. He felt the soft weight of his breasts, the faint, pleasant ache deep inside him. He thought of the milky slickness on the toy, the taste of himself, the hour spent anointing his body, claiming it in the mirror. He patted his well-nourished body down, just in case, he didn't want the oil getting everywhere, and walked back to the laptop on the desk in the study. He opened it. The screen glowed.
He paused. Shouldn't he have questions? The two impossibly handsome delivery men? Both full of masculinity and confidence. That wasn't weird? The delivery? Who was it from? Why didn't he care more? HIs mind was too focussed on other things. Namely those photos. He navigated to ssfarmdrop.cloud. He navigated to the usual place and the login prompt appeared.
Password: shwarma.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the lingering scent of spice and avocado oil, and pressed Enter.
The screen blinked, accepting the password. The TM folder opened instantly, no longer denying him. Relief washed over him, cool but exciting, making his oiled flesh feel clammy beneath the vest. He clicked it open.
He thought he was imagining it, but the pictures were now unblurred. Stark, high-definition clarity replaced the frustrating haze. The warm brown skin of a young man, noticeably hairy, the skin flawless and taut over thick, meaty muscle, pressed against the softer, paler flesh of a white man whose belly curved gently. Some chests in the images were smooth, gleaming, others were covered in a scattering of dark hair. All had man boobs – soft, rounded pectorals that wobbled slightly with movement or lay heavy against bellies, natural, unapologetic. The cock taking centre frame was impressive – above average, but not as monstrous after all, but thick, veins standing proud like cords under taut skin, the head flushed dark and wet. The penis Dominic had always wanted. There were no faces shown, just anonymous, hungry bodies captured mid-act. Dominic clicked the slideshow option, setting the pictures to play in a continuous loop, a slow carousel of flesh and abandon.
He slumped back in the desk chair, the worn leather sighing under his oiled weight. His eyes locked onto the screen, wide, unblinking. A low moan escaped his lips, unbidden, as the next image loaded: another of the thick cock, shiny and leaking, disappearing into a stretched, eager hole. His own body responded instantly – his small cock twitched to life, a tiny pulse against his thigh; his nipples hardened into sensitive peaks, his hands rubbing against the nourished skin; deep inside, his newly awakened prostate clenched hard, empty, aching. Spit pooled in his mouth, thick and sudden. He didn't swallow. A thin string of drool escaped the corner of his slack lips, tracing a warm path down his chin, dripping onto the soft swell of his oiled breasts, the valley between, and down over his belly, gleaming under the desk lamp. He fell into a moaning, drooling trance, the only movements his attentive hands to his tits and the involuntary tremors running through his slick skin as the relentless parade of anonymous perfection played on.
The seemingly endless slideshow danced across Dominic’s drooping, flickering eyes. Anonymous bodies merged, a carousel of that thick cock and those soft bellies, heavy man-breasts and stretched holes. His own slick skin trembled under the desk lamp’s glare. A low, continuous moan still vibrated in his throat, primal and unfiltered, echoing the thrumming ache deep inside him.
The image shifted: a close-up of a dark, veined shaft mid-plunge, relentlessly pushing between two full, fleshy, hairy man tits. Dominic’s small cock pulsed eagerly against his thigh. His soft hands, seemingly moving of their own accord, continued to work on his torso. Thick fingers continued to manipulate the heavy swell of his breasts, kneading the soft flesh. His thumbs brushed roughly over his nipples, already hard and sensitive. The touch sent electric jolts straight down his spine, converging in that deep, internal spot Daveed’s toy had awakened. His moan sharpened, becoming a choked gasp. He pressed harder, circling the puffy, pink areolas, paying deliberate attention to the softer skin surrounding the stiff peaks.
Sensation detonated. His head snapped back against the leather chair, a guttural bark tearing from his throat. His eyes entirely rolled back into his head, only the fluttering whites visible. His fingers pinched and rolled his nipples relentlessly. The ache deep inside his pelvis intensified, coiling tighter, a pressure building solely from the twin points of fire on his chest and the phantom throb in his prostate. He growled, a raw, animal sound, hips lifting slightly off the chair as if seeking penetration that wasn’t there. Whines escaped between clenched teeth. He was lost, riding the crest of sensation generated purely by his own hands on his tits and the memory of fullness. He was gooning, mindlessly chasing the peak.
The wave crashed over him violently. His spine arched impossibly, muscles locking. A thin, pearly strand of seed jetted from his untouched cock, splattering hotly onto his oiled belly, mixing with the drool. He roared, a sound ripped from his core, fingers still viciously working his nipples. The orgasm wasn’t sharp; it was a deep, rolling quake that shook his entire frame, radiating out from his chest and his ass. He rode it out, whimpering, fingers never leaving the tortured peaks, milking every last shuddering pulse from his untouched cock and his screaming prostate. Exhaustion hit him like a physical blow. He slumped bonelessly in the chair, breathing ragged, skin slick with drool, and his own release. His nipples throbbed fiercely. The deep ache inside him pulsed, a satisfied emptiness. The slideshow continued its silent, relentless parade on the screen, ignored now.
His phone buzzed sharply on the desk beside the laptop, cutting through the heavy silence of his aftermath. The screen lit up, casting a harsh blue glow onto the mess on his belly. Dominic blinked slowly, his vision swimming back into focus. He wiped absently at the drool on his chin with the back of his softened hand, smearing it. His gaze drifted down to the notification.
"Yo. Still breathing? That pw work?" It was Daveed.
Dominic stared at the words. The scent of avocado oil, warm skin, and his own release hung thick in the air. The phantom throb deep inside him echoed the fading pulses from his nipples. He reached a trembling, sticky hand towards the phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, leaving a faint smudge. He typed slowly, deliberately.
"Yes. Still breathing. Haha. It worked." He hit send. Almost instantly, another buzz.
"Good. Listen. I know this is a lot. But I will be worthy of it. I promise. Sleep well."
Dominic stared at the phone screen, Daveed's words glowing in the dim study light. "Sleep well." A simple phrase, yet it landed with the weight of a benediction. The exhaustion, a deep, pleasant heaviness in his oil-slicked bones, suddenly intensified. He felt sated, truly sated, in a way that went beyond the physical tremors still echoing in his nipples and deep in his gut. Deeper and more certain than the previous post-exertional calm. The frantic energy, the desperate curiosity, the aching need – all dissolved into a warm, syrupy contentment. Daveed had seen him, pushed him, and now offered this quiet permission to rest. He typed back, fingers moving slowly through the contented fog in his brain.
"You too. Thank you."
He placed the phone down carefully beside the laptop, its screen still silently cycling through the gallery of taut skin and soft bellies, thick cocks and stretched holes. The images, so potent moments ago, now felt distant, like echoes of a storm that had passed directly over him. He reached over, his movements deliberate and weary, and closed the laptop lid. The sudden darkness in the room felt like a sigh. He looked down at himself. The gleam of his emissions caught the low light, the drying tracks of drool mixed with the thin, pearly streaks of his own release, drying on his belly. He needed to clean up. Not out of shame, not anymore, but because this profound, aching comfort demanded a certain respect. He deserved to rest clean.
Pushing himself up from the leather chair was an effort. His muscles felt liquid, uncoordinated. He padded slowly back to the bathroom, the cool air raising goosebumps on his oiled skin. He avoided looking in the mirror this time; the reflection wasn't necessary. He felt himself, completely. He grabbed a soft, damp washcloth from the rack. Running it under warm water, he began the slow, methodical process of wiping away the night's evidence. As he brought the cloth to his skin he realised there was suddenly nothing there. The saliva and sperm cocktail was all gone. Absorbed? Dominic wondered. The warm cloth still felt right and slid easily over his oiled chest and belly. He was gentle over his nipples, still sensitized and throbbing faintly. He cleaned between his legs, washing away any potential stickiness that still might be there with the same detached care. There was no rush, only the soothing rhythm of warm water and soft cloth on skin that hummed with memory.
Back in the bedroom, he picked up the slick silicone toy from the nightstand. Its surface was clean now, just slightly tacky from his earlier ministrations. He washed it, nonetheless, drying it on his bath towel. He found its charging cable, coiled neatly in the box sitting on the floor next to the bedside table. He plugged it in, the small LED blinking red. Always be ready. And he was so ready for next time. The thought didn't spark urgency, only a lazy warmth. He had wiped his smudged phone screen and the laptop lid with a cloth from the studies ensuite. Rinsing and repeating until he'd fully restored his working area. Tidying. Preparing the space for tomorrow. His own space again, in this moment, defined by his own needs.
He dropped the damp towel by the hamper and grabbed the oversized grey vest, now imbued with the scent of his own sweet musk. It felt soft, familiar, almost like a second skin itself. He left it on. The bed was a tangle of duvet. He climbed in, the cool cotton sheets a shock against his warm, nourished skin, instantly soothing. He burrowed down, pulling the duvet up to his chin. He'd forgotten to wash the linens. The scent of clean cotton had been overwritten with the smell of his sex. A deep, sensual, sweet musk that made him feel cocooned in his own correctness. He was grateful for his forgetfulness. His body sank into the mattress, every muscle releasing tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. The pleasant ache deep inside, the faint thrum in his nipples, the memory of Daveed’s text, "I will be worthy of it." Everything coalesced into a single, glowing ember of contentment in his chest. He closed his eyes. Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, there was only the slow, steady rhythm of his own breathing, the soft weight of his own body, and the profound, enveloping silence of a mind finally, blessedly, still. Sleep took him instantly, a deep, dreamless plunge into pure, sated darkness. No thoughts, no images, just the warm, heavy comfort of being utterly spent and completely, unexpectedly, okay.