Chapter 2: The Digital Tombstone
The damp spot on the kitchen tile had dried into a faint, sticky smear. Charlie remained on the floor, his back against the cabinet, the coldness of the linoleum seeping through his sweatpants. The silence was a physical presence, thick and accusing. He could still hear the ragged echo of his own cries, Bernie’s guttural commands. Good boy. The words replayed, a phantom caress that made his spent flesh twitch.
He pulled the phone from his pocket. The screen was dark, a slate of potential condemnation. With a touch, it glowed to life, still open to the forum, to Bernie’s profile. The ‘Delete Account’ option lurked in the settings menu, a digital guillotine.
His thumb hovered.
He saw Sarah’s perfunctory pat on his head. Heard the deadbolt click in the bathroom door. Felt the vast, icy tundra of the king-sized bed.
His thumb moved, but not to delete. It tapped the chat history. He scrolled up, re-reading. “I’d never let a man like you go to bed hungry.” “Show me that pretty pink hole.” His body, traitorous and predictable, stirred again. A low thrum of interest, soft but undeniable, beneath the nausea. The shame was still there, a bitter coating on his tongue, but it was now fused with something hotter, more compelling. It was the memory of being seen. Not as a provider, a roommate, a disappointment. But as a body capable of inciting a raw, vocal hunger.
He was hard again. The towel was loose around his waist. He left the phone on the floor, screen-up, Bernie’s last message displayed, and walked to the sink. The breakfast dishes sat there, the plate from Sarah’s toast, his unused coffee mug. He ignored them. He turned on the shower in the nearby guest bath, the water pounding a steady, anonymous rhythm.
The workday passed in a blur of digital noise that meant nothing. Spreadsheets merged into a gray haze. Colleagues' voices were distant radio chatter. Charlie’s mind was a locked room, and inside, two images played on a loop: Sarah’s retreating back, and the pixelated, rhythmic stroking of Bernie’s cock.
At 3:17 PM, a notification vibrated in his pocket, muted for the office. His heart crammed itself into his throat. He waited until the guy in the neighboring cubicle left for a coffee run.
Bernie1972: Thinking about that tight little ass. You been good today? Or have you been touching yourself at your desk, wishing it was my hand?
Charlie’s face burned. He slid lower in his chair. He typed, his fingers clumsy.
Charlie: I haven’t.
Bernie1972: Liar. A slut like you gets off once and starts craving it. I bet you’re hard right now.
Charlie was. He adjusted himself under the desk.
Charlie: Maybe.
Bernie1972: Office bathroom. Now. Send me a picture. Prove you’re thinking of me.
The demand was absolute. Charlie’s blood pounded in his ears. He looked around. The office hummed with placid productivity. He stood, his legs unsteady, and walked with deliberate casualness toward the men’s room at the end of the hall. It was a multi-stall, rarely used on this floor. He pushed the door open. Empty. The silence was broken only by the faint drone of the vent.
He locked himself in the far stall. The air smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and stale piss. His hands were cold. He fumbled with his belt, his zipper, pushing his trousers and briefs down to his knees. The cooler air hit his skin. He was fully erect, jutting out, flushed and leaking. He took the phone, aimed it down.
The angle was crude, shameful. His pale thighs, the dark fabric pooled around his knees, his cock in his own fist. The sterile, beige stall wall in the background. He sent it.
The response was immediate.
Bernie1972: Good. Now spit in your hand and get it nice and wet. I want to see it gleam.
Charlie obeyed. He gathered saliva in his dry mouth, spit into his cupped palm. The sound was obscene in the quiet bathroom. He slicked his length, the wet heat a shocking contrast to the cool air. He took another picture. The glistening flesh looked foreign, owned.
Bernie1972: That’s my cock. You’re just borrowing it. Now fuck your fist. Fast. And don’t you dare come. You don’t come unless I tell you to.
A tremor ran through Charlie. He braced one hand against the metal partition. With the other, he began to stroke, the wet, rough friction making him gasp. His eyes were glued to the phone, waiting for the next command. He was a marionette, and the strings were pulled from some dim, wood-paneled room miles away.
“Charlie? You in here?” A voice. Paul from Accounting. Just outside the stall.
Charlie froze, his hand stopping mid-stroke. His breath locked in his chest. He stared at the latch on the door.
“Uh, yeah. Just a sec,” he called, his voice strangled.
“No rush. Left my phone on the sink earlier. Grab it if you see it?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He heard Paul’s footsteps recede, the door swoosh shut. The crisis passed, but the danger injected the moment with a terrifying, electric charge. He was hiding in a stall, jerking off for a stranger while a colleague whistled outside. The depravity of it should have sickened him. Instead, his cock jumped in his slick hand, harder than before. The risk was an accelerant.
His phone buzzed.
Bernie1972: You stopped. I didn’t tell you to stop. You think I don’t know someone just walked in? I bet that made you even harder, you sick fuck. Now move. And be quiet. Let me hear your breathing.
Charlie complied, his strokes becoming shorter, desperate, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He held the phone closer, his breathing ragged and hot against the microphone. He could hear Bernie’s own breath, faster now, and the soft, slick sound of his masturbation. Two men, hidden in separate bathrooms, connected by a stream of filthy data.
“You’re my secret,” Bernie whispered, his voice coarse with effort. “My married little secret. You’re gonna stay hard and aching for me all afternoon. You’re gonna sit in your meetings with my spit on your dick. And tonight, when your wife’s asleep, you’re gonna find a way to video call me. You’re gonna show me that ass again. And you’re gonna beg me to let you come.”
“Yes,” Charlie hissed, the word tearing from him.
“What do you beg for?”
“I… I beg for you to let me come.”
“Not good enough. Say it right.”
Charlie’s mind blanked, then filled with the crude lexicon Bernie had taught him. “I beg for you to let me empty my balls, sir.”
Bernie’s voice crackled through the phone, a low growl of pure authority. “No. From now on you call me Daddy.”
The word landed like a physical slap. Charlie flinched in the stall, his hand stilling on his wet cock. Daddy. It wasn’t a title; it was a collar. It implied a belonging, a twisted care, a hierarchy that made his brief “sir” sound like a childish formality. What was he doing? Giving this stranger, this pixelated specter with a kind face and a filthy mouth, this kind of power? Jacking off for him in a public bathroom stall, breath held, waiting for permission like a dog.
Bernie spoke like he owned him. And the most terrifying part was that in this silent, lemon-scented space, he did.
“I…,” Charlie stammered, his arousal momentarily stunned into submission by the sheer psychological weight of the demand.
“Say it,” Bernie commanded, the sound of his own stroking relentless in Charlie’s ear. “You want to empty those balls for me? You beg your Daddy for it.”
Charlie’s mind fractured. One part screamed in humiliation. The other part, the hollow, neglected part that had been fed crumbs for years, soaked up the absolute certainty in Bernie’s voice. This man saw his need, his desperation, and instead of turning away in polite disgust, he claimed it. He named it. He called it his.
“Please,” Charlie whispered, the stall walls pressing in. “Please, Daddy. Let me come.”
“Louder. And don’t stop moving your hand.”
“Daddy, please,” Charlie hissed, his grip tightening, the friction turning urgent. “Please let me come. I need to. I’m so close for you, Daddy.”
His own voice, raw and begging, echoed in the tiled chamber of the stall. The pressure built, a coiling, molten tightness at the base of his spine. His hips stuttered against his fist. He was right there, trembling on that razor’s edge, his breath coming in short, silent gasps as the orgasm gathered itself to tear through him.
Bernie’s voice cut through, cool and absolute, a bucket of ice water on the lit fuse. “No. Not yet. You don’t get to cum.”
Charlie whimpered, a pained, animal sound. His body revolted, muscles clenching in protest. He forced his hand to slow, to a torturous, teasing stroke, the swollen head of his cock leaking profusely.
“I want you horny and cock obsessed,” Bernie continued, his own breathing steadying, taking back control. “But you were a good boy. Maybe I’ll let you cum tonight.” The promise was a hook set deep. “Your ass, cock, cum and body belong to me, slut. Don’t you dare cum without my permission.”
The words belong to me seared into Charlie’s brain, more binding than any vow he’d ever taken. He nodded, frantic, as if Bernie could see him. “Yes. Okay. I won’t. I promise.”
“Put it away. Go back to your desk. Feel it throbbing in your pants all afternoon. Think about what I’m going to do to you later.”
The call disconnected.
Charlie slumped forward, his forehead pressing against the cool metal of the stall door. His cock was a furious, neglected ache in his hand, pulsing with denied release. The physical frustration was a sharp, singular pain. But beneath it, humming like a live wire, was a terrifying sense of order. Someone was in charge. Someone saw his chaotic need and was structuring it, directing it. He had a purpose: to be ready, to be owned, to obey.
With trembling, sticky fingers, he tucked himself away. The zipper was a minor agony. He flushed the toilet for the sake of sound, washed his hands at the sink, avoiding his own hollow-eyed reflection in the mirror. The walk back to his cubicle was an exercise in surreality. Every step sent a jolt of unsatisfied awareness through his groin. The rough texture of his trousers was a constant, maddening reminder.
The afternoon stretched into a form of exquisite torture. He attended a budget meeting, the drone of figures layering over the throbbing memory of Bernie’s voice. Cock obsessed. He was. Every shift in his chair, every cross of his legs, made him hyper-aware of the persistent, heavy fullness between his thighs. He’d been granted a stay of execution, but the sentence—the desperate need for release—was still in effect.
At 5:30 PM, Sarah texted: Running late. Don’t wait on dinner. The message was a relief. It carved a empty space in the evening, a blank canvas for whatever was to come.
He ate a tasteless sandwich standing at the gleaming, silent kitchen island. The house felt cavernous, every sound amplified. The tick of the clock was a countdown. He showered, scrubbing his skin until it was pink, a futile attempt to wash away the anticipation. He put on soft grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, the fabric a whispered promise against his sensitized skin.
By 9 PM, Sarah was home. She moved through the rooms like a polite ghost, dropping her briefcase, pouring a glass of wine. “Horrible day,” she sighed, not looking at him. “The Henderson settlement fell apart. I’m just going to crash.”
He murmured something sympathetic, his heart hammering against his ribs. He followed her upstairs, the routine achingly familiar. They brushed their teeth side-by-side in silence, their reflections strangers in the medicine cabinet mirror. She climbed into her side of the bed, her back already a smooth, unapproachable hill under the duvet.
“Goodnight,” she said, her voice already thick with impending sleep.
“Night,” he whispered.
He lay beside her in the dark, the gulf between them as wide as an ocean. He waited. He counted her breaths until they deepened into the slow, steady rhythm of escape. The red digits of the clock bled from 10:07 to 10:43 to 11:19. His phone, facedown on his nightstand, was a silent, gravitational pull.
At 11:34, it vibrated. A single, definitive buzz.
He slid out of bed, a shadow. He retrieved the laptop from his office, brought it into the walk-in closet, and closed the door. The small light was harsh. He sat on the carpet, his back against Sarah’s orderly row of blouses.
Bernie’s video call request appeared.
Charlie accepted.
Bernie filled the screen. He was in the same recliner, shirtless, a glass of amber liquid in one hand. His eyes traveled over Charlie, taking in the closet, the hanging clothes, the domesticity of his prison. “My little slut,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “In the closet. How fitting.”
“Hi,” Charlie breathed, his voice tight.
“You been aching for me?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Charlie’s hands went to the waistband of his sweatpants. He pushed them down, along with his boxers, exposing himself to the camera. His cock sprang up, hard and already wet at the tip, a visible testament to hours of denial.
Bernie’s gaze darkened with approval. “Good. Now turn around. Get on your hands and knees. Show Daddy what he owns.”
Charlie moved clumsily in the confined space, turning his back to the screen, presenting himself. The position was profoundly vulnerable, his ass in the air, his face toward the dark wall of suits. He heard Bernie set his glass down.
“Look at that,” Bernie muttered, a hungry noise. “Pretty fucking hole. All clean for me. You used your fingers? Stretched yourself open thinking about my cock?”
“A little,” Charlie admitted, his cheeks burning.
“I want to see. Do it now. Get it wet for me.”
Charlie’s hand shook as he reached back. He spit, wetting his fingers, then pressed against his own entrance. The touch was intimate and strange. He worked a finger inside, a sharp, full feeling. He gasped.
“Another,” Bernie commanded, his own hand moving in his lap, out of frame but audible in the soft, rhythmic sound. “Make yourself open.”
Charlie added a second finger, the stretch more intense, a dull burn. He fucked himself with them, the crude, wet sounds filling the closet. His own cock hung heavy and neglected between his legs, dripping onto the carpet.
“You want this to be my dick, don’t you?” Bernie’s voice was rough now. “You want me to push all the way into that tight heat and own it.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Charlie moaned, fucking himself faster on his fingers, lost in the imagery, the submission.
“Beg for it. Properly.”
“Please, Daddy,” Charlie choked out, his forehead against the carpet. “Please fuck me. I need your cock in my ass. I need you to own it. I’ve been empty all day waiting for you. Please fill me up and use me.”
The words, filthy and true, tumbled out of him. They felt like the most honest thing he’d said in years.
On the screen, Bernie’s breathing hitched. “Okay, baby. Okay. Daddy’s gonna take care of you.” His voice shifted, a conductor readying the orchestra. “Take your fingers out. Arch your back more. Present that hungry hole to the camera. I’m gonna talk you through it. You’re gonna imagine my thick dick pressing right there, against your little slut pucker.”
Charlie obeyed, withdrawing his wet fingers, arching until his spine protested. He was completely exposed, displayed.
“You feel that pressure?” Bernie whispered. “That’s the head of my cock, right there, just nudging you open. You’re so tight, baby. You have to relax for me. Take a deep breath.”
Charlie inhaled, a ragged shudder.
“Now push back,” Bernie growled. “Imagine you’re pushing back onto me, forcing me inside.”
Charlie rocked his hips back minutely, a phantom penetration.
“Fuck, yes,” Bernie hissed. “There it goes. The first inch. Burning, isn’t it? Stretching you wide. You feel it splitting you open?”
“Yes,” Charlie sobbed, the vivid fantasy overlaying reality, his body clenching around nothing.
“Another inch. Deeper. You’re taking it so good. My good boy. Your hole is hugging my dick, so hot and tight.” Bernie’s narration was graphic, relentless. He described the slide, the fullness, the slap of his balls against Charlie’s ass, the precise angle that would brush his prostate. Charlie was trembling, a sweat breaking out on his skin, his untouched cock leaking a steady stream of pre-cum.
“You’re all the way in now,” Bernie panted, his own strokes audible, faster now. “I’m buried in your ass. You feel owned? You feel how deep I am in you?”
“I feel it, Daddy, I feel it!” Charlie cried, the fantasy so complete his body convulsed with a dry, wrenching spasm.
“Now I’m gonna fuck you. Hard.” Bernie’s voice lost all pretense of gentleness, becoming a guttural chant. “I’m gonna pound that ass until you forget your own name. Until all you know is my cock in your hole. You’re gonna take every thrust. You’re gonna beg for more. Aren’t you?”
“Yes! Fuck, yes! Please! Harder!”
Charlie mindlessly rocked back and forth on his knees, mimicking the brutal pace, his own need a screaming white noise. The closet walls dissolved. There was only the voice, the ownership, the profound, shattering emptiness being filled.
“I’m gonna cum deep in your guts,” Bernie roared, his climax imminent. “I’m gonna pump your ass full of my seed. Mark you inside. And you’re gonna take it. And then, then you get to cum. You hear me, slut? You get to ruin yourself all over your wife’s closet floor when I say.”
The permission was the final trigger. Charlie’s control shattered.
“Now!” Bernie shouted.
The permission shattered him.
“Now!” Bernie shouted.
And Charlie came.
It wasn’t a release. It was an expulsion. A violent, seismic jerk wracked his body, bending his spine as a ragged shout tore from his throat. His fist, which had finally flown to his own cock, barely managed three strokes before thick ropes of cum shot from him, splattering across the closet carpet in erratic, pearlescent stripes. The intensity stole his vision, replaced by white static behind his eyes. His muscles locked, then trembled uncontrollably.
It was one of the most intense orgasms he had ever had, a convulsive emptying that felt less like pleasure and more like an exorcism.
On the screen, Bernie groaned, his own face contorting in silent climax. The two of them hung there in the digital silence, panting, spent. Charlie slumped forward, his cheek pressing into the rough nylon fibers of the carpet, the smell of dust and his own spend sharp in his nose. The fantasy vanished, leaving behind the clinical reality: a middle-aged man on his knees in a dark closet, semen on the floor, a stranger’s face pixelating on a laptop.
“Fuck,” Bernie breathed, a slow, satisfied exhalation. “Look at you. My good boy.”
The words, usually a catalyst, now felt distant. The chemical haze was receding, and the cold air of the closet seeped into its place. Charlie stared at the mess he’d made. It was a violation of Sarah’s ordered space, a biological stain on the beige carpet she’d chosen.
“I have to go,” Charlie mumbled, not moving.
“I know you do,” Bernie said, his voice already shifting back to that familiar, almost paternal rasp. “You did so good. Sleep now. I’ll be thinking of you.”
The call ended. The screen went dark, reflecting Charlie’s own hollowed-out expression. The silence was absolute, and within it, the shame bloomed, vast and cold. He had begged another man to fuck him. He had chanted “Daddy” like a prayer. He had come harder thinking about a stranger’s imaginary cock than he had in years with his actual wife. The truth of it curdled in his gut.
He moved with robotic efficiency. He found a tissue box on Sarah’s shelf, used handfuls to blot and wipe the carpet. The stain would remain, a faint, guilty ghost. He cleaned himself with a damp washcloth from the ensuite, avoiding the mirror. He pulled his sweatpants up. The fabric felt alien against his oversensitive skin.
When he slipped back into bed, the clock read 12:07 AM. Sarah hadn’t moved. The space between them was a canyon filled with the echo of his own choked pleas. He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, the phantom sensation of fullness still haunting his body. Your ass, cock, cum and body belong to me. The claim echoed, a possession that felt more real than his wedding band.
Sleep, when it came, was thin and fractured. He dreamed of fingers that were not his own, and woke at 3 a.m. with a gasp, his heart slamming against his ribs, the dark room indistinguishable from the closet.
Morning was a gray punishment. Sarah was already moving, the smell of her perfume cutting through the stale air. She dressed in the walk-in, oblivious to the faint, cleaned spot on the carpet near her shoes. Charlie pretended to sleep until she left.
The workday was a drone. His body felt heavy, used. The buzz in his pocket at 11:04 AM didn’t spark the usual electric jolt. It felt like a summons.
Bernie1972: My ass is sore today from how hard I came thinking about you. How’s my property feeling?
Charlie stared at the word. Property. He typed back, his fingers numb.
Charlie: Tired.
Bernie1972: I bet. You emptied yourself good for Daddy. You need a reminder of who owns that tired body?
A familiar, weary throb answered between Charlie’s legs. It wasn’t excitement. It was a conditioned response, a Pavlovian ache. The hunger was there, but it was layered now with a deep, grinding fatigue. He was splitting in two, and the crack was widening.
Charlie: I don’t know.
Bernie1972: You don’t know? Look at your messages from yesterday. Look at the pictures you sent. You know.
He did. He navigated back, scrolling through the crude, hungry exchange. The bathroom stall photo. His own desperate, open-mouthed expression in the closet light. The evidence was incontrovertible. He was the man in those pictures.
Bernie1972: Hotel on 5th. The Royale. Room 712. 7pm. Key will be at the desk under the name Miller.
The world tilted. Charlie’s breath stopped. This wasn’t digital anymore. This was geography. Room numbers. Fake names. It was a door that could be opened.
Bernie1972: You’ll be there. You need this. I’ll make you feel real.
Charlie’s thumb froze. The office faded into a muffled hum. He saw the sterile hotel room in his mind. A different bed. A body that was not his wife’s. The ultimate line, not just crossed but obliterated.
He didn’t type yes. He didn’t type no.
He put the phone in his desk drawer and closed it. The thrum of his computer, the click of keyboards, it all sounded underwater. At 5 PM, he left. He drove past the turn for home. He found himself sitting in his idling car in a strip mall parking lot three blocks from The Royale. The building was bland, brick, anonymously mid-range. Room 712 would face the back, he imagined. Quiet.
His phone, on the passenger seat, was dark.
He thought of Sarah, likely still at her office, battling the Henderson case. He thought of the cold, white expanse of their bed. He thought of Bernie’s voice saying good boy and the terrifying, solid truth of it.
At 6:48 PM, he opened the glove compartment. He found an old pack of gum, a map, some napkins. He took a napkin and wiped his palms. They were dripping wet. His heart was a frantic bird in a cage of bones.
He got out of the car. The evening air was cool. He walked the three blocks without feeling his feet touch the pavement. The hotel’s automatic doors hissed open, swallowing him. The lobby smelled of artificial flowers and vacuumed carpet.
He approached the desk. A young clerk looked up, smiling with professional vacancy.
“Key for Miller,” Charlie said. His voice didn’t sound like his own.
“Of course,” the clerk said, turning to the slots. He handed over a single key card in a paper sleeve. “Seven-twelve. Elevators are around the corner.”
“Thanks.”
The elevator was mirrored. He watched his reflection: a clean-cut man in chinos and a sweater, holding a hotel key. He looked ordinary. He looked like a ghost. The climb to the seventh floor was silent. The hallway was a long, muffled tunnel of numbered doors.
712.
He stood before it. The key card was slick in his hand. He could turn around. He could walk back to the car, go home, and tell Sarah he’d worked late. He could live inside the crack forever, a digital phantom in a physical world.
But the hollow ache was a compass needle, and it pointed straight through this door.
He slid the key card into the slot. A green light blinked. A soft click.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on a desk. It was exactly as anonymous as he’d imagined: generic art, a king-sized bed with a burgundy spread, the faint hum of central air. And there, sitting in the armchair by the window, was Bernie.
He was larger in person. The salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, the kind eyes were sharper, more assessing. He wore a simple polo shirt and jeans. He looked like a retired engineer, a friendly neighbor. He didn’t smile. He just looked at Charlie, taking him in from head to toe, a slow, claiming survey.
“You came,” Bernie said. His voice was the same, that low, gravelly rumble, but it vibrated in the quiet room, a tangible thing.
Charlie couldn’t speak. He let the door swing shut behind him. The click of the latch was deafening.
“Come here,” Bernie said, not unkindly.
Charlie took five steps into the room. He stopped near the foot of the bed.
“You’re scared,” Bernie observed. He stood up. He was an inch taller than Charlie, broader in the shoulders. “That’s okay. You’re here because you need to be. You need to stop thinking.”
He closed the distance between them. Charlie flinched, but didn’t retreat. Bernie’s hand came up, not to hit, but to cup Charlie’s jaw. His palm was warm, rough. He tilted Charlie’s face up, forcing eye contact. The kindness in his eyes was still there, but underneath it was something hard, possessive, utterly certain.
“Your ass, cock, cum and body belong to me,” Bernie said, repeating the digital promise into the physical air. “Say it.”
Charlie’s lips parted. A tremor ran through him. “They belong to you,” he whispered.
“Good boy.” Bernie’s thumb stroked Charlie’s cheek. Then his hand moved to the hem of Charlie’s sweater. “Take this off.”
Charlie obeyed, pulling the sweater over his head, letting it drop to the carpet. The cool air pebbled his skin. Bernie’s gaze traveled over his chest, his stomach. His hands followed, mapping the territory he’d already claimed online. The touch was clinical, appreciative.
“Now the rest.”
Charlie toed off his shoes, fumbled with his belt, pushed his chinos and briefs down. He stepped out of them, standing naked in the dim light. He felt hyper-real, every pore screaming.
“Turn around,” Bernie said, his voice dropping. “Let me see what I bought.”
Charlie turned, presenting his back, his ass. He heard Bernie’s sharp intake of breath. Then, the touch. Not a hand. Bernie’s lips, pressing a soft, shocking kiss to the center of his left buttock. Then a nip of teeth. Charlie gasped.
“So perfect,” Bernie murmured against his skin. His hands gripped Charlie’s hips, holding him in place. “All this, and she didn’t want it.” He said it not as a question, but as a damning verdict. His mouth traveled lower, kisses becoming open-mouthed, wet. He licked a broad, slow stripe from Charlie’s perineum up the cleft of his ass.
Charlie cried out, his hands slapping against the mattress for support. The intimacy of it was devastating. Sarah had never— would never—. The wet heat of Bernie’s tongue circled his entrance, probing, insistently intimate. It was obscene. It was worshipful. It was everything he’d been starved for.
“Daddy…” The word fell from Charlie’s lips, unbidden, a sob.
“That’s it,” Bernie growled, his tongue pushing inside, just a little, making Charlie shudder. “You taste clean. You taste like mine.” He worked him with his tongue, slow and thorough, until Charlie’s legs were shaking, until soft, broken noises were the only language he had left.