Chapter 3: Missionary Claiming
The taste lingered. Bitter, metallic, intimate. It coated Derek’s tongue and throat, a tangible brand. He knelt on the rug, the rough fibers scratching his knees, head bowed as he tried to swallow past the thick residue of Peter’s release. His own need was a live wire, re-energized, buzzing under his skin with a vengeance that left him trembling.
Peter zipped his slacks with a soft, definitive click. The sound was obscenely normal. He looked down at Derek, a faint smile playing on his lips as he tucked in his shirt. “Up,” he said, not unkindly. He didn’t offer a hand.
Derek pushed himself up, his legs wobbling. He couldn’t meet Peter’s eyes. His gaze was fixed on the dark, damp spot on the rug between his feet. Shame was a cold nausea in his gut, but it was drowned out by the roaring fire in his blood. The heat wasn’t receding. It was plateauing at a vicious, demanding hum. He was painfully hard again, his body thrumming with unused tension.
“Still with me, pup?” Peter asked. He stepped closer, a finger under Derek’s chin, forcing his head up. Derek’s eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide. A fresh trickle of slickness escaped him, a warm slide down his thigh. Peter’s smile widened. “Oh, you’re very much with me.”
He guided Derek, a hand on the back of his neck, toward the large, upholstered armchair that sat perpendicular to the mirrored wall. It was deep, with a low, rolled arm. “Here we go,” Peter murmured, his voice a low purr. “Let’s try a different angle.”
Derek went where he was pushed. His mind felt foggy, disconnected, operating on a base instinct that recognized Peter as the source of relief, the anchor in the storm of his own biology. Peter turned him to face the chair, then placed both hands on his shoulders and pressed down.
“Over you go.”
Derek folded at the waist, his torso dropping over the wide, velvet arm of the chair. The position left his hips jutting out, his legs on the floor. Before he could adjust, Peter’s hands were on his ass, spreading him open. The cool air of the room hit his exposed, slick flesh, and he shuddered.
Then Peter lifted him. With effortless strength, he hoisted Derek’s hips higher, bending him further until his chest was pressed into the seat cushion and his knees left the floor. Derek’s world tilted. His head hung over the other side of the arm, blood rushing to his temples. He was completely suspended, supported only by Peter’s grip on his hips and the pressure against his abdomen.
“Look up,” Peter instructed, his voice tight with anticipation.
Derek forced his eyes open. From his upside-down vantage point, the room was inverted. And there, directly ahead, was the bottom edge of the massive mirror. By shifting slightly, he could see into it. He saw the chair, the dark velvet. He saw his own torso, the tense line of his back. And he saw Peter, standing behind him, fully clothed, his expression one of focused intent.
“Watch,” Peter said, the word a command that vibrated through Derek’s prone body.
He watched. In the mirror, he saw Peter guide himself, saw the head of his cock nudge against him. He saw the initial resistance, then the slow, breathtaking yielding. Peter didn’t slam home. He pushed in with agonizing, millimeter-by-millimeter slowness, making the stretch an event, a spectacle.
Derek’s mouth fell open, a silent gasp. The feeling of being filled so gradually was maddening. It was a thick, insistent pressure that unraveled him from the inside. He watched, hypnotized, as his body absorbed Peter, inch by obscene inch, in the mirror’s reflection. His own face, upside down in the corner of the glass, was a blurry mask of overwhelmed sensation.
“See that?” Peter grunted, pausing when he was fully sheathed. In the mirror, their joining was complete, a stark image of possession. “See how you take it? Like you were made for it.”
Then he moved.
The first thrust was a deep, testing roll of his hips. Derek’s body jerked with it, his dangling legs swinging slightly. A broken sound escaped him.
Peter set a rhythm. It was relentless, deep, each stroke a precise, grinding penetration that pushed the air from Derek’s lungs. The angle was brutal, hitting places that made white noise fill his head. He couldn’t look away from the mirror. He watched Peter’s clothed form, the powerful flex of his ass as he drove forward, the controlled strength in his movements. He watched his own body, jolting with each impact, his legs dangling helplessly on either side of Peter’s driving hips.
His feet, bare and vulnerable, twitched in the air with every deep penetration.
“You like this view?” Peter asked, his breath coming faster now. He leaned over Derek’s back, one hand bracing on the chair back, the other splaying across Derek’s stomach to hold him in place. His mouth was near Derek’s ear. “Watching my cock disappear into you? Watching how your body just opens up for me?”
Derek couldn’t answer. A stream of helpless, punched-out noises was all he could manage. His own erection strained against his belly, trapped, leaking onto the velvet. The dual sensation—the devastating fullness inside him and the frantic, ignored need between his legs—was pushing him toward a precipice with terrifying speed.
The sounds in the room were crude, wet, rhythmic: skin slapping against skin, Peter’s ragged breaths, the creak of the chair, Derek’s choked gasps. The smell of sex, of sweat and slick and musk, was overwhelming.
“You’re close,” Peter observed, his voice guttural. He pistoned into him, harder, faster, losing the last vestiges of his clinical control. The force of it shook Derek’s entire suspended body. “I can feel you clenching. You want to come? Come for me, pup. Come all over this pretty chair.”
The permission, the raw command in that growl, was the final trigger.
Derek’s world dissolved into sensation. A scream tore from his throat, raw and shredded, as his climax detonated. It was less a pleasure than a seizure, a violent, total-body release that left him convulsing over the arm of the chair. His vision whited out at the edges, the mirrored room swimming into a blur of shadow and motion. He felt his own release, hot and spurting, coating his stomach and the dark fabric beneath him.
Through the haze, he was dimly aware of Peter’s rhythm stuttering, faltering. A low, triumphant snarl echoed in the room, followed by the familiar, deep pulse of Peter finishing inside him. The heat of it was a distant echo amidst the fireworks still crackling along his nerves.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and discordant. Peter stayed buried within him, his weight a heavy comfort. Slowly, he lowered Derek’s hips, letting his knees settle back onto the rug. Derek slumped over the armchair, boneless, spent. He felt hollowed out and overflowing all at once.
Peter withdrew. The slow, slick sound made Derek flinch. Cool air replaced the heat.
A hand smoothed over his sweat-damped back. “Three times,” Peter mused, his voice regaining its casual, conversational tone. He sounded thoughtfully amused, like a scientist reviewing data. “And the heat hasn’t even peaked yet. You are remarkably responsive, Derek.”
Derek couldn’t form words. A deep, trembling exhaustion was seeping into his bones, but underneath it, like the persistent glow of coals, the need was still there. Dulled, but present. Waiting.
Peter stepped around the chair. He crouched, coming into Derek’s upside-down field of vision. He looked pleased. Truly, genuinely pleased. He reached out and thumbed away a tear or sweat from Derek’s temple.
“You did so well,” he said, and the praise, sickeningly, sent a weak thrill through Derek’s gut. “But we’re not done. The cycle needs to run its course. A few more rounds should do it.” He stood up, stretching his shoulders. “Rest for a minute. Catch your breath.”
He walked away, toward a small, dusty sideboard, and poured himself a finger of amber liquid from a decanter. He took a sip, watching Derek over the rim of the glass.
Derek closed his eyes. The inverted room spun. The physical memories played on a loop behind his eyelids: the taste, the stretching fullness, the image in the mirror. The cool, sticky feeling on his stomach and thigh.
He was ruined. He knew it. And the worst part, the part that curled like a worm in the wreckage of his mind, was the terrifying realization that a part of him didn’t care. That part only cared about the fire, and the only thing that momentarily quenched it was the man now calmly sipping whiskey across the room.
The coals in his gut flickered, warming again, already beginning to burn.
The coals in his gut flickered, warming again, already beginning to burn.
It was a quiet, insidious return. A fresh prickle of sweat at the small of his back. A new, aching emptiness that clenched deep inside him, a muscle memory of being filled. He lay over the armchair, spent and sticky, listening to the soft clink of Peter’s glass across the room. The silence felt heavy, a waiting thing.
He was so focused on the internal slide back into need that he didn’t register the movement of his own hand at first. It was a unconscious seeking of pressure, of friction, anything to soothe the returning ache. His fingers, trailing through the mess on his stomach, slid lower. They brushed through coarse hair, then lower still, probing past his own softened length to find the swollen, oversensitive flesh between his legs.
Two fingers slipped into himself, into the slick, used heat, with a quiet, shameful ease. He let out a shaky sigh, eyes closed, his body instinctively arching into the shallow touch. It wasn’t enough, but it was something. A tiny, secret rebellion against the overwhelming emptiness.
The clink of the glass stopped.
“Derek.”
Peter’s voice was flat, devoid of its earlier amusement. Derek’s eyes snapped open. He froze, his fingers still buried inside himself. Peter stood by the sideboard, watching him, his head tilted. The look on his face wasn’t anger. It was something colder: pure, analytical disappointment.
A sharp, clicking sound echoed in the quiet room. Peter had clicked his tongue.
“Well,” Peter said, placing his glass down with deliberate softness. He began walking over, his footsteps slow and measured on the rug. “Look at that. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
Derek tried to pull his hand away, but it was as if his muscles had locked. He was caught, exposed in the most pathetic way.
Peter stopped beside the chair, looking down at him. “Did I say you could touch yourself?” he asked, his voice deceptively light. “Did I give you permission to try and get off on your own fingers?”
“I… I didn’t…” Derek’s voice was a ragged scrape.
“You did,” Peter corrected him calmly. He reached down and wrapped his hand around Derek’s wrist, pulling his fingers free with a wet, audible sound. He held Derek’s hand up, examining the glistening digits. “You’re a bad girl, Derek. A very bad girl.”
The word ‘girl’ landed like a slap. It was infantilizing, emasculating, stripping him of any remaining dignity. Derek flinched, a fresh wave of shame heating his face.
“No,” he whispered, but it was meaningless.
“Yes,” Peter said, dropping his wrist. “And bad girls get punished.”
Peter’s movements became efficient, purposeful. He undid the buttons of his ruined dress shirt, shrugged it off, and let it fall. His slacks and briefs followed, pooled around his ankles, and he stepped out of them. He stood there, fully nude, a portrait of casual power. The sight of him, fully erect again so soon, sent a confusing jolt through Derek’s exhausted system.
“Up,” Peter commanded, pointing to the floor before the long, low sofa that faced the mirror.
Derek pushed himself off the armchair, his legs unsteady. He stood, head bowed, unable to look at Peter or his own reflection.
Peter sat on the middle cushion of the sofa, settling back. He patted his thigh. “Over here. Now.”
The walk was short, but it felt like a mile. Derek moved on numb, heavy legs. When he stood before Peter, the man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Derek’s arm and yanked him forward, pulling him effortlessly across his lap.
The position was abrupt, disorienting. The world tilted again. Derek’s upper body was sprawled across the cool leather of the sofa, his hips angled over Peter’s hard thighs. His face was turned toward the floor. He could see the dust motes in the rug fibers.
“This is for touching what isn’t yours to touch,” Peter said, his voice conversational.
The first spank landed with a loud, sharp crack. It wasn’t a playful slap. It was a hard, stinging impact that burned through Derek’s skin and jolted his entire body. He gasped, shocked by the force.
Another one followed, on the other cheek. Then another.And another.
Peter established a steady, rhythmic punishment. Each blow was deliberate, spaced just enough for the sting to peak before the next one landed. The pain was bright and shocking, a sharp contrast to the deep, throbbing need still pulsing inside him. They mixed, blurring into a singular, overwhelming sensation.
Derek squirmed, a low groan escaping him. His hands clenched into fists against the leather.
“Stay still,” Peter said, delivering two more swift, hard spanks to the same spot. The pain blossomed, hot and intense.
The tears came then, hot and sudden. They weren’t just from the pain, but from the sheer, total helplessness of it. He was naked, bent over his uncle’s lap, being spanked like a child while his body burned for more. A sob broke from his throat.
“Please,” he choked out, the word muffled against the sofa.
“Please what?” Peter asked, not breaking rhythm.Crack. Crack.
“Please, stop,” Derek begged, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please…”
Peter paused. The absence of the next blow was almost worse. Derek’s entire backside felt like it was on fire, a uniform, throbbing ache. He trembled violently over Peter’s lap.
“Are you sorry?” Peter asked, his hand resting lightly on the heated skin. “Or are you just sorry you got caught?”
Before Derek could answer, Peter’s hand moved. It wasn’t a spank this time. His fingers slid between Derek’s thighs, through the slickness, and pressed shallowly inside him. Derek cried out, his back arching.
“You’re still dripping,” Peter murmured, twisting his fingers. “Dripping for me. Even while you’re being punished. You’re a greedy, desperate thing.”
He withdrew his fingers, and without ceremony, positioned himself. He didn’t guide Derek up or shift him. He just pushed in, right there, from this awkward, vulnerable angle.
The penetration was a deep, blunt shock. Derek screamed, his fingers scrabbling against the leather. It was different—less controlled, more raw. Peter fucked him with short, punishing strokes, the angle brutal and perfect. The heated, stinging flesh of his ass jarred with every thrust, a dual symphony of pain and blinding pleasure.
“You want to come, don’t you?” Peter grunted, his pace relentless. His own breathing was harsh in Derek’s ear. “I can feel you shaking for it. Beg for it. Properly.”
Derek was beyond pride, beyond thought. The need was a frantic animal clawing its way out of his chest. “Please, Peter, please let me come,” he babbled, the words tripping over each other. “Please, I need it, I need to, please—”
Peter chuckled, a dark, rich sound. He delivered a few more sharp, open-handed smacks to Derek’s already sore flesh mid-thrust. The mixture was electrifying. Derek groaned, a long, broken sound, and begged harder, his words dissolving into a stream of incoherent pleas.
“Please, please, just let me, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, please—”
Peter’s hand suddenly fisted in his hair. He wrenched Derek’s head up and back, forcing his spine into a painful arch. “Open your eyes,” he snarled.
Derek’s tear-blurred vision focused on the mirror. He saw himself, face flushed and wet, mouth slack, body draped obscenely over Peter’s lap. He saw Peter’s torso behind him, the powerful muscles of his abdomen clenched with effort, his face a mask of fierce concentration.
“Watch,” Peter commanded, thrusting up into him hard. “Watch yourself get what you’re begging for. Now come.”
It was the final permission, the visual catalyst he didn’t know he needed. His orgasm ripped through him with a violence that bordered on pain. A raw, ragged scream tore from his throat as his body locked, convulsing around Peter’s driving cock. The world fractured into blinding white light, the mirrored room dissolving into a meaningless swirl of color and shadow. He felt himself falling away, consciousness fraying at the edges.
He came back to the feeling of Peter still moving, but erratically now, losing his precise rhythm. Peter’s grip on his hair was iron-tight, holding his head up, forcing him to watch his own ruined, twitching reflection in the dim glass.
The world bled back in fragments. The smell of leather and sweat. The sharp ache in his scalp. The blurry, trembling image in the glass. His own breath, hot and ragged against the sofa cushion. His body felt hollowed out, a vessel scraped raw, yet the dull, ember-like pulse of the heat still smoldered in his core, unextinguished.
Peter’s thrusts had lost their punishing rhythm, devolving into erratic, deep plunges. A low, guttural snarl built in Peter’s chest, vibrating through Derek’s prone form. With a final, brutal push, Peter stilled, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside with a shudder that felt like a minor earthquake. The hot rush was a familiar, degrading fullness. Peter held there for a long moment, panting, his fingers still twisted in Derek’s hair.
Then, the grip released. Derek’s head dropped, his cheek pressing into the cool leather. He heard Peter shift behind him, the sound of his body separating, a soft, wet noise that made Derek flinch. Weight lifted from him.
Peter stood up. Derek saw his shadow move across the floor, then heard his quiet footsteps circle the sofa. He didn’t have the strength to lift his head. He simply waited, spent and trembling, for whatever came next.
It came as a new pressure, a different angle. Peter’s hands gripped his hips, yanking him back off the sofa and onto his knees on the rug. Before Derek could process the movement, Peter was behind him again, pushing into him in one smooth, relentless stroke. Derek groaned, a raw, open-throated sound. There was no resistance left in him. His body simply accepted it, the stretched, used ache blooming anew.
Peter set a steady, deep pace, almost conversational in its rhythm. His palm connected with Derek’s ass, not with the earlier punitive force, but with a series of casual, stinging smacks that jolted him forward with each thrust. “That’s it,” Peter breathed, leaning over his back. His voice was a hot, intimate whisper against Derek’s ear, laced with dark amusement. “Just take it. You don’t have to think, do you? Your body knows what it’s for now.”
Derek clenched his eyes shut, but the words coiled inside him, poisonous and true. Another slap landed, sharper this time.
“Look at you.So open. So messy.” Peter’s thrusts deepened, each one punctuating a phrase. “Dripping with me. You can feel it, can’t you? My cum from the last round, and now this.” He snapped his hips hard, wrenching a choked sound from Derek. “You’re just a warm, willing hole now. A perfect little receptacle.”
The degradation was a current under his skin, both scalding and electrifying. He nodded helplessly, his forehead resting on the sofa seat, each of Peter’s words layering onto his shattered control.
“You please me like this,” Peter murmured, his tone shifting into something almost affectionate, which was worse. His hand, which had been spanking, now soothed over the heated skin, a rough, petting gesture. “You take everything I give you. You’re so good like this.” He drove in once, twice more, his rhythm fracturing. “My good girl.”
The new endearment landed like a brand. Derek whimpered, his fingers clawing at the leather.
“That’s how you please your master,” Peter growled, his voice tight and final. He buried himself to the hilt and held, his body bowing over Derek’s. The release seemed to go on forever, a hot, claiming flood that Derek felt to his bones. Peter slumped against him for a second, his breath loud in the quiet room.
Then he pulled out. The emptiness was a yawning chasm. Derek stayed on his knees, forehead against the sofa, feeling the slow, inevitable trickle begin its path down his inner thigh. Peter’s hand gave his ass one final, almost dismissive pat.
“See?” Peter said, his voice returning to its normal, light cadence as if commenting on the weather. He stepped back, and Derek heard the soft rustle of him pulling his clothes back on. “It’s easier when you stop fighting it. Just be what you are.”
The sound of a zipper was the loudest thing in the world. A door opened somewhere down the hall, and a slice of brighter hallway light cut across the dim room. Peter didn’t look back. “The cycle’s not broken. It’ll build again. I’ll be in the study when you need me.”
The door clicked shut.
Derek collapsed sideways onto the rug, curling in on himself. The heat was already gathering again, a low, insistent throb. He stared at the closed door, then at his own trembling hands. The words echoed, cementing themselves in the new, hollow spaces inside him.
Good girl. That’s how you please your master.
A deep, shuddering breath racked his body. Outside, the moon was rising. He could feel its pull, a sickening tide synchronizing with the one in his blood. He pressed his face into the wool rug, which smelled of dust and sex, and waited for the need to become unbearable again.