Chapter 6: The Throat Destruction
The hand in Hugo’s hair tightened, a sudden vise that erased any last thought of hesitation. Heitor didn’t guide him; he pulled him forward, impaling that warm, wet openness onto himself in one brutal, upward thrust.
Hugo’s world narrowed to a tunnel of burning pressure. His nose crushed into the coarse, sweaty thicket at Heitor’s base. The taste of salt and skin flooded his mouth, but deeper was the overwhelming sense of invasion, of being stretched around a hardness he could barely comprehend. He gagged, his body convulsing, his hands flying up to brace against Heitor’s hairy thighs.
Heitor held him there, buried to the root. The groan that echoed above him was one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. “Ai, caralho… finalmente.”
He held. Hugo’s eyes streamed, tears cutting tracks through the heat on his cheeks. His throat spasmed, desperate to reject the intrusion. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. Just as he thought he might pass out, Heitor yanked him back by the hair.
Air, sharp and blessedly cool, scraped down his tortured throat. He coughed, drool and bile stringing from his lips. Before he could even catch his breath, Heitor’s other hand swung. The heavy, wet slap of his own cock across Hugo’s cheek was a startling, degrading shock.
“Abre,” Heitor commanded, his voice a low growl. He tapped the throbbing head against Hugo’s parted, wet lips. “De novo. Mais fundo.”
And Hugo opened. Wider this time, jaw aching. He wanted the praise in that voice. He needed it.
“Isso. Tá vendo isso?” Heitor mused, beginning a slow, devastating rhythm. He watched, enthralled, as his own massive length vanished into Hugo’s face. “Vinte e cinco centímetros de carne brasileira. Desde o primeiro dia, eu vi essa boquinha e pensei: ‘ela vai chorar, mas vai engolir’.”
The words, filthy and triumphant, wrapped around Hugo as surely as the spit-slicked flesh pumping past his lips. Each forward push was a conquest. Heitor set a pace that was relentless, not frantic, but deeply assured. He fucked Hugo’s face like he owned it, which, in that moment, he absolutely did.
Hugo lost track of time. It became a cycle of choke and release, of burning lungs and watering eyes, punctuated by Heitor’s casual commentary. “Engole essa porra,” he’d grunt, a hot, bitter pulse of precum hitting the back of Hugo’s tongue. Hugo swallowed on instinct, the act itself a deeper submission.
The first proper climax came without ceremony. Heitor simply slammed in, buried himself, and groaned. The flood was hot and thick, a viscous rush that Hugo struggled to keep up with. He coughed, some of it leaking from the corners of his mouth.
Heitor didn’t let him pull away. He kept him there, softening for only a minute, his fingers still tangled in brown hair. Then, with a low chuckle, Hugo felt him begin to swell again against his tongue. “Ainda não, gringo. A noite é longa.”
And it was.
The neon glow from the bottle on the floor watched over a marathon of degradation. Heitor would roll onto his back, forcing Hugo to crawl over him, his face hovering above that impressive, musky bush. “Cheira. É o seu rei.” Hugo would inhale, the pungent, earthy odor searing his brain, before being pulled down again.
He came a second time across Hugo’s tongue. A third down his throat, held deep until Hugo had no choice but to swallow convulsively. The fourth, he pulled out and painted Hugo’s flushed face with streaks of grey-white, rubbing it into his skin with the head of his cock. “Marca.”
By the fifth, Hugo’s jaw was a unhinged, aching ruin. His throat was raw, every swallow a painful reminder. His knees were numb from the hard floor. Yet, a sick, electric current hummed through his exhaustion. He was being used, completely, and a part of him was singing with it.
The eighth time, as a faint, dirty light began to seep around the edges of the blinds, Heitor’s thrusts lost their imperial rhythm. They became ragged, brutal jerks. His grip on Hugo’s hair was iron. He shouted something in Portuguese, a raw, guttural sound that wasn’t words, and pulsed deeply, the release feeling endless, a final surrender from his own body.
He collapsed back onto the soaked sheets, his chest heaving. He released Hugo’s hair.
Hugo slumped forward, his forehead resting on Heitor’s sweat-slicked thigh. He trembled, every muscle shaking. The taste of Heitor was a permanent layer on his tongue, in his sinuses. The room stank of sex and salt and them.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then, Heitor shifted. He looked down at Hugo, his eyes heavy-lidded with satiated power.
He didn’t speak. He simply nudged Hugo’s head with his knee, guiding him lower, past his softening cock, to the heavy, tight sac beneath. The balls were thick, hairy, and smelled intensely of the long night.
A final command, understood without words.
Hugo’s movements were sluggish, automatic. He nuzzled into the coarse hair, his aching mouth placing soft, sucking kisses along the sensitive skin. He licked the salt from the crease of Heitor’s thigh, cleaning him with a tenderness that felt like worship. A thank you. A tribute to the new king.
Heitor sighed, a contented rumble. His hand came to rest, not gripping, but almost absently, on the back of Hugo’s head, a king petting a favored hound.
Outside, a car alarm wailed. The city was waking up. In the room, the only kingdom that mattered, Hugo continued to clean, lost in the stench and the silence.
Heitor, only speaks Brazilian. No English words from him, only Brazilian sentences. From Heitor in the next chapters, only Brazilian Portuguese sentences (Hugo globally understands it).