Chapter 11: Workshop Discipline
The kitchen floor still felt etched into his knees. The taste, the scent of what they’d done lingered on Taichi’s skin like a second layer, buzzing beneath his clothes. He’d showered, but it was just water over a permanent stain. He wandered the quiet house, the silence now a different creature—not empty, but charged, waiting.
He found himself pulled toward the detached garage, toward the low, steady hum of machinery. The workshop. Ethan’s sanctuary.
He pushed the side door open. The air was warm, thick with the scent of pine resin, sawdust, and the faint, sharp tang of machine oil. Dust motes swirled in the slanted bars of late afternoon sun cutting through the high windows. Ethan was hunched over the long central workbench, his back to the door, his broad shoulders rolling with the rhythmic, back-and-forth motion of hand-sanding a long curve of oak. The shush-shush-shush of the sandpaper was a meditative sound. He was lost in it. Or pretending to be.
Taichi padded across the concrete floor in his socks, the coolness a shock. He moved silently, a ghost in this temple of tangible things. He stopped just behind Ethan, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to see the tiny flecks of wood dust caught in the silver strands of his hair.
He didn’t speak. He simply pressed the length of his body against Ethan’s back, his chest to Ethan’s spine, his forehead coming to rest between his shoulder blades. He slid his hands around Ethan’s waist, palms flat against his stomach at first, then drifting lower, his fingers tracing the buckle of his belt before cupping the heavy bulge beneath his jeans.
Ethan froze. The sanding stopped.
“I’m working, Tai.” The voice was low, rough, a forced calm over a tremor.
Taichi ignored it. He nuzzled into the sweaty cotton of Ethan’s t-shirt at the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent—sawdust, salt, pure Ethan. He let his lips brush the skin there, feeling the man shudder. His hand kneaded firmly over Ethan’s cock, feeling it twitch and swell to full hardness under his touch.
“I need you,” Taichi whispered, the words a hot breath against Ethan’s ear. He let a beat of silence hang, then pushed the final, devastating button, the word he’d been saving, the one he knew would atomize any last pretense. “I need your cock, daddy.”
The effect was instant and electric. Ethan’s whole body went rigid, then spun with a furious, controlled violence. He grabbed Taichi by the shoulders, whirling him around, and shoved him forward, bending him face-down over the smooth, finished oak of the workbench. Tools rattled. A clamp clattered to the floor.
“You little shit,” Ethan breathed, the words hot against Taichi’s ear. One large hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him. The other yanked at Taichi’s sweats and briefs, dragging them down to his knees in one sharp pull. The cool air of the workshop kissed his exposed skin.
Taichi heard the spit, a wet, deliberate sound. Heard the slick, crude slide of Ethan’s palm over his own erection. He braced himself, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the wood grain.
There was no gentle press, no slow burn of entry. Ethan guided the blunt, wet head of his cock to Taichi’s hole and drove forward with one relentless, brutal thrust.
The cry that tore from Taichi’s throat was raw, ripped from his chest—a sound of shock, of blinding pleasure-pain, of absolute fulfillment. He was stretched, filled, split open on the thick length of him. He was pinned, utterly claimed.
“Fuck,” Ethan groaned, his voice a shattered thing. He didn’t pause, didn’t allow for adjustment. He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a punishing, rhythmic pace. The workbench creaked in protest with every powerful drive of his hips. The slap of skin on skin, heavy and wet, echoed off the high ceiling, mixing with the ragged symphony of their breathing.
Taichi’s vision swam. Sawdust danced in the sunbeams. His own cock, hard and leaking, rubbed against the smooth oak with every thrust. He was unmoored, completely at Ethan’s mercy, and it was everything he’d ever fucking wanted.
Ethan leaned over him, his chest damp with sweat plastering to Taichi’s back. His hand left Taichi’s shoulder and fisted in his hair, pulling his head back. “This what you came in here for?” he growled, his voice thick with a dark, possessive heat. “You needed this? To get bent over and fucked like a cheap whore?”
“Yes,” Taichi gasped, the word punched out of him.
“You’re a needy little slut,” Ethan snarled, his thrusts becoming deeper, more focused, hitting a spot that made Taichi see white. “Aren’t you? Taking daddy’s cock like a good boy. Using that pretty mouth in my kitchen, now presenting this tight little ass in my workshop. You’re fucking insatiable.”
The filthy words, the degradation, wrapped around the core of tenderness they both knew was there and set Taichi on fire. He was hurtling toward the edge, his balls drawing up tight.
Ethan’s hand snaked around his hip, his calloused fingers wrapping around Taichi’s cock, stroking him in time with his deep, driving thrusts. The dual sensation was too much. Taichi’s body arched, seized. A broken, sobbing cry ripped from his throat as he came, hard stripes of white cum painting the sawdust-strewn floor beneath the bench. His inner muscles clenched and fluttered around Ethan’s cock in violent, rhythmic pulses.
The sensation tipped Ethan over. With a final, guttural roar that was half agony, half triumph, he buried himself to the root and came. Taichi felt the hot, sudden flood deep inside him, pulse after pulse, a claiming more intimate than any word. Ethan held himself there, hips grinding shallowly, milking his own orgasm, his body trembling with the force of it.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths, the slow drip of sweat from Ethan’s chin onto Taichi’s back.
Then Ethan pulled out, slowly. The loss was profound. Taichi heard him step back. He stayed bent over the bench, spent and trembling, feeling the slow, warm trickle of Ethan’s release begin to seep down the inside of his thigh.
Ethan zipped his jeans with a definitive, metallic sound. He looked down at Taichi, his expression unreadable, a mask carved from stone and want and simmering guilt. His eyes traced the line of Taichi’s back, the red marks from the wood grain on his cheek, the mess on the floor, the seed already cooling on his skin.
His voice, when it came, was flat. Cleared of passion. A dismissal.
“Now get cleaned up.” He turned back to his bench, picking up the sandpaper, his movements deliberate. “I’m not done working yet.”
Taichi pushed himself up, his legs weak. He pulled his clothes up, the fabric clinging unpleasantly. He didn’t look back. He just walked to the door, each step a silent echo in the vast, dusty space. The shush-shush-shush of sandpaper started again behind him, steady, relentless, a wall being rebuilt grain by grain.