Chapter 4: Stuffed and Satisfied
The tension had been building for a week, a palpable static in the air of the rectory. Paul, usually a bastion of calm, had become a live wire. He’d press against Riley while he washed dishes, his hands wandering. He’d steal kisses that lingered too long in the hallway, his teeth grazing Riley’s lip. He’d wake Riley in the deep night, already wet and rocking against his thigh, whispering please like a prayer.
Riley found it fucking magnificent.
So on Thursday morning, when Paul tangled his legs with Riley’s under the sheets and ground his ass back against him with a soft, frustrated whine, Riley made a decision. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, his other arm anchoring Paul against his chest.
“What are you doing?” Paul murmured, still moving that sweet, full ass in a lazy circle.
“Calling you in sick,” Riley said, his voice rough with sleep. He dialed Bev Keane’s number, the head of the parish council. Paul stiffened, but Riley held him tighter. “Bev? Yeah, it’s Riley. Paul’s… real under the weather. Fever. Chills. The whole thing. He won’t be any use today.” He listened, his hand sliding down to cup Paul between his legs, finding him already slick. “Yep. I’ll take care of him. Thanks.” He ended the call and tossed the phone aside. It thudded on the rug.
He rolled Paul onto his stomach, blanketing him. “Now,” Riley said into his ear, biting the lobe. “You’re mine. All day. And you are not getting off my cock. For any reason. You understand?”
A full-body shiver went through Paul. He turned his head, his eyes dark and gleaming. “What if I have to piss?”
“You’ll piss then.” Riley nudged his legs apart with a knee. He was already hard, his length pressing against the cleft of Paul’s ass. He reached down, guided himself through the wetness, and notched the broad head at Paul’s entrance. He pushed in without ceremony, a single, deep, reclaiming stroke that buried him to the root.
Paul cried out, fingers clawing at the sheet, his back arching. “Fuck! Riley…”
“That’s the idea.” Riley set a brutal, rolling rhythm immediately, fucking into him with long, deep drives. The room filled with the sound of their flesh meeting, the wet squelch of Paul’s cunt taking him, over and over. Riley leaned down, peppering his shoulders with bites. “This what you needed, baby? Needed to be fucked full all damn day?”
“Yes, god, yes,” Paul chanted, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Afterwards, still buried inside him, Riley carried Paul to the shower. He pressed him against the cool tiles, water sluicing over them, and fucked him again, slow and grinding, his hands gripping Paul’s heavy tits, thumbs circling the large, dark nipples until Paul screamed, his climax ripped from him, echoing off the porcelain.
They didn’t dry off. Riley laid him on the rumpled bed and took him again, Paul’s legs hooked over his shoulders, his gaze locked on where his cock disappeared into Paul’s swollen, reddened flesh. He came with a groan, pulsing deep inside him.
The kitchen was next. Riley bent Paul over the counter, a dish towel shoved under his hips. He fucked him from behind, watching the way Paul’s belly already had a soft, rounded promise to it, full of his spend. He reached around and pinched Paul’s nipples, hard, as he slammed into him. “Mine,” he grunted. “All day. This cunt is mine.”
“Yours,” Paul sobbed, his cheek pressed to the cold laminate. “Always yours.”
They stumbled against the hallway wall, Riley driving into him standing, Paul’s back scraping the plaster. They sank to the floor, Riley on his back, pulling Paul down to ride him, his tits bouncing, his face a mask of ecstatic exhaustion. Riley gripped his hips, controlling the bounce, forcing him to take every inch, over and over, until Paul collapsed on his chest, whimpering, so sensitive he trembled.
They moved to the living room couch as the afternoon light turned the dust motes to gold. Riley sat, his cock still wet and hard, and pulled Paul into his lap, guiding him down, sinking him slowly onto his length until Paul was fully impaled, his back to Riley’s chest. Paul’s head lolled back against Riley’s shoulder, a breathless sigh escaping him.
Riley reached for the remote, started some old movie they both liked, but neither watched. His hands smoothed over the distinct, tender curve of Paul’s abdomen. It was visibly rounded, a soft dome beneath his skin, stretched tight with the sheer volume of cum Riley had pumped into him. Riley pressed gently, and Paul moaned, his inner muscles fluttering wildly around Riley’s cock.
“This is what it must be like to be a housewife,” Paul murmured, his voice dreamy and slurred with pleasure. He turned his head, nuzzling Riley’s jaw. “Knocked up and happy. Just… full. And happy.”
Riley’s hands came up to cradle Paul’s breasts, weighing them, his thumbs rubbing slow, worshipful circles over the big, sensitive nipples. He felt them pebble instantly under his touch. He chuckled, a low, warm sound in Paul’s ear, and kissed his temple. “That’s not a bad idea.” He tugged gently on a nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp. “Maybe we should make it real.”
Paul went perfectly still, except for the frantic pulse of his cunt. “Riley…”
“I think about it,” Riley admitted, his voice raw. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed the full flesh of his tit. “All the time. How beautiful you’d be. These tits, heavy and leaking. This belly, round and tight with our baby.” He thrust upward, a slow, deliberate invasion that made Paul jerk. “Your body was made for this. Wasn’t it?”
A tear tracked through the sweat on Paul’s cheek. He wasn’t submissive. He was a force of nature. But this—this idea of being kept, of being so thoroughly claimed and cared for—it unraveled him. “I want to stay home,” he whispered, rocking gently on Riley’s cock. “I want to kiss you every day. I want you to come home to me… like this. I want you to take care of me like a princess.”
Riley’s breath hitched. He wrapped his arms around Paul, holding him as close as their bodies would allow, his cock nestled deep in that warm, fertile clutch. He nuzzled into Paul’s hair, inhaling the scent of sex and them. “Then that’s what you’ll be,” he vowed, his words a soft rumble against Paul’s skin. “My princess. My wife. The mother of my children.” He began to move again, a slow, possessive rhythm, a promise etched in flesh and motion. “Starting now.”