The air was thick with the scent of cedarwood and leather as Jake stepped into the dimly lit loft, his boots scuffing against the polished hardwood floor. The space was a study in contrasts—industrial exposed brick walls softened by the warm flicker of Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling, and beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the jagged glitter of the city skyline pulsed against the night. It was late, nearly midnight, and the distant hum of traffic filtered up from the streets below, a muted soundtrack to the tension coiling in Jake’s chest. He’d come straight from the bar—a dive joint called The Rusty Anchor where he tended nights, pouring shots of whiskey for dockworkers and burnouts. His black T-shirt still clung to his broad shoulders, faintly damp with sweat and the faint tang of spilled bourbon, but his focus was singular now, locked on the figure sprawled across a plush velvet couch in the center of the room.
Ryan lounged there like he owned the place, his lean frame draped over the deep emerald fabric, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black briefs that hugged his hips like a second skin. His hair—dark, tousled, still damp from a shower—fell into his hazel eyes, and a sly grin curled his lips as he twirled a pair of handcuffs around his finger. The metal caught the soft glow of a brass floor lamp beside him, glinting with every lazy spin. He’d been waiting, clearly—Jake could tell from the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly, betraying the calm he was trying to project. Ryan worked days at a tattoo parlor downtown, inking skulls and roses onto bikers and hipsters alike, and his forearms bore the evidence: swirling black lines and faded script that flexed as he toyed with the cuffs.
“Thought you’d never show,” Ryan teased, his voice low and dripping with intent, roughened by the cigarettes he smoked out back between clients. He stretched one leg out, toes brushing the edge of the coffee table—a slab of reclaimed wood littered with an ashtray, a half-empty beer bottle, and a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Jake smirked, tossing his leather jacket onto the arm of a nearby chair as he crossed the room in three deliberate strides. The loft wasn’t his—Ryan had been crashing here for weeks, subletting from some artist friend who’d skipped town for a residency in Berlin—but Jake didn’t care about the details. Not tonight.
He didn’t waste time. Grabbing the cuffs from Ryan’s hand with a quick snatch, he pinned Ryan’s wrists above his head, the movement swift and practiced. Jake leaned in close, so close their breaths mingled—his sharp with the mint gum he’d chewed on the walk over, Ryan’s laced with the faint bitterness of hops. “Patience isn’t your strength, is it?” Jake murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Ryan’s ear, his voice a gravelly drawl honed by late nights and barked orders over bar noise. Ryan squirmed beneath him, a half-laugh, half-moan spilling out as Jake tightened the cuffs just enough to make the metal bite into his skin, the edge of control slipping from Ryan’s grasp.
Jake’s grip tightened as he secured Ryan’s wrists to the wrought-iron headboard bolted above the couch—a relic from the loft’s previous tenant, now repurposed for their game. The clink of metal echoed in the stillness, sharp against the distant city hum. Ryan tugged against the restraints, testing them, his lean frame arching off the couch. His chest rose with shallow breaths, ribs faintly visible under taut skin, and a mix of defiance and anticipation flickered in his hazel eyes—eyes that caught the lamplight and turned molten. Jake towered over him, all coiled muscle and quiet menace, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across Ryan’s exposed torso. The briefs clung to Ryan’s hips, the fabric stretched tight over the growing bulge beneath, but Jake wasn’t here to rush—not yet. He savored the buildup, the way Ryan’s bravado frayed at the edges under his stare.
“You think you’re in charge here?” Jake’s voice was a low growl, laced with the authority he wielded like a weapon—on drunks at the bar, on Ryan now. He trailed a calloused finger down Ryan’s chest, tracing the faint line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband, stopping just short of dipping lower. Ryan’s breath hitched, his abs tightening, but he didn’t answer—his silence a challenge Jake was all too eager to break. With a swift, practiced tug, Jake yanked the briefs down, the elastic snapping as he peeled them past Ryan’s thighs, leaving him bare and vulnerable. Ryan’s cock sprang free, already hard, flushed dark against the pale skin of his stomach. He squirmed, a flush creeping up his neck to his ears, but Jake’s hand pressed firmly against his chest—fingers splayed wide, pinning him in place.
“Stay still,” Jake ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument, honed by nights of shutting down bar fights with a look. He stepped back, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, letting Ryan’s eyes trace the lines of his frame—broad chest, thick arms, the faint scar across his left pec from a broken bottle years back. When Jake shed his jeans, kicking them aside with a rustle of denim, Ryan’s gaze dropped—and widened. Jake was massive, thick and heavy, the kind of hung that made Ryan’s throat tighten with a mix of dread and hunger. Fully erect, it jutted out intimidatingly, veins prominent under the skin, a promise—or a threat—of what was to come. Jake caught the flicker of uncertainty in Ryan’s expression and grinned, all teeth.
“Too much for you?” he taunted, stepping closer until the head of his cock brushed Ryan’s thigh, warm and insistent. Ryan’s lips parted, a shaky breath escaping, but before he could reply, Jake grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his stubble, forcing his head back against the couch. “You don’t get to decide that tonight.”
Ryan’s pulse hammered under Jake’s grip, his body trembling with the thrill of being overpowered—a sensation he craved, even if he’d never admit it outright. Jake released him only to reach for a bottle of lube on the side table—an unassuming plastic bottle, cap worn from use, sitting next to a dog-eared paperback Ryan had been reading earlier. He squirted a generous amount into his palm, slicking himself up with a slow, deliberate stroke, his eyes never leaving Ryan’s. The air crackled with tension as Jake positioned himself between Ryan’s legs, gripping his knees to spread them wide with a roughness that made Ryan gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that hung between them. He pressed the tip against Ryan’s entrance, not entering yet—just teasing, letting the sheer size of him register, the blunt pressure a silent question.
“Beg for it,” Jake demanded, his voice a command wrapped in silk, smooth but unyielding. Ryan’s pride warred with his need, his lips pressing into a tight line, jaw clenching. Jake smirked, pushing forward just enough to stretch him—the tight ring of muscle resisting, then yielding slightly—intense but not quite breaching. Ryan’s resolve cracked, a whimper escaping as his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation despite himself.
“Please,” Ryan muttered, barely audible, the word muffled against the velvet cushion. Jake’s hand shot to his throat, squeezing lightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the rapid thud of his pulse, a reminder of who held the reins.
“Louder,” Jake snapped, his patience thinning, eyes dark with intent. Ryan’s gaze locked with his, defiant even as his body betrayed him, hips shifting restlessly.
“Please, fuck me,” Ryan said, voice raw and desperate now, cracking on the last syllable. That was all Jake needed. With a single, unrelenting thrust, he sank into Ryan, the stretch brutal and overwhelming, tearing a cry from Ryan’s throat—high and jagged, echoing off the brick walls. Pain and pleasure collided, his limits tested in an instant as Jake filled him, heavy and unyielding. Jake didn’t pause, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, claiming every inch of Ryan’s submission with a force that rattled the headboard against the wall.
Ryan’s moans turned into broken gasps, sweat beading on his forehead as Jake’s size pushed him beyond what he thought he could take. His wrists strained against the cuffs, the metal scraping faintly against the iron, leaving red marks he’d feel tomorrow. Jake’s hands gripped his hips, fingers bruising as he pulled Ryan down to meet every thrust, the slap of skin on skin drowning out the city noise. The power dynamic was absolute—Jake controlled the pace, the depth, the everything, and Ryan was helpless beneath him, lost in the intensity of being so thoroughly dominated.
“You’re mine tonight,” Jake growled, leaning down to bite at Ryan’s collarbone—a sharp nip that drew a hiss, marking him as he drove harder. Ryan’s body shook, teetering on the edge of too much, but the way his cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking steadily, told Jake he was loving every second of it. Jake reached down, wrapping a rough hand around Ryan’s length, stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him closer to collapse.
“Tell me how it feels,” Jake demanded, his voice rough with exertion, breath hot against Ryan’s neck. Ryan could barely form words, his mind a haze of sensation—heat, pressure, the relentless stretch—but Jake’s hand tightened around his throat again, coaxing it out of him.
“Fucking huge—too much—don’t stop,” Ryan choked out, his voice a wrecked plea, syllables tumbling over each other. Jake grinned, feral and triumphant, and doubled down, driving Ryan past his limits into a shuddering, screaming release. His body clenched around Jake, a vise grip that pulled a low groan from Jake’s chest as Ryan came, hot and messy across his own stomach, trembling and spent.
Jake wasn’t done. He pulled out with a wet sound, leaving Ryan gasping at the sudden emptiness, only to flip him onto his stomach with a rough shove. The velvet scraped against Ryan’s cheek as Jake uncuffed one wrist—just long enough to yank his arms behind his back, re-binding them there with a practiced twist. Face-down, ass up, Ryan’s breath came in shallow pants, his body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pace Jake had set earlier. Jake’s hands gripped his hips again, fingers digging into the flesh as he positioned Ryan exactly where he wanted him—vulnerable, open, and trembling. His cock, still impossibly thick and hard, rested against Ryan’s entrance, a silent promise of more.
“You think I’ve pushed you far enough?” Jake’s voice was a low rumble, dripping with menace and amusement, the kind of tone that dared you to say yes and mean it. Ryan didn’t answer—couldn’t, really—his mind too scrambled, his cheek pressed into the damp fabric, the faint musk of sweat and sex filling his nose. But Jake didn’t need words. He slid back in, slow this time, deliberate, letting Ryan feel every inch as he stretched him open again. The initial burn was familiar now, a sharp ache that melted into heat as Jake’s girth filled him, but this time, Jake didn’t stop at the usual depth.
Ryan’s body tensed as Jake pressed deeper, past the tight ring of muscle that had already yielded to him earlier. There was a sudden shift—a subtle give, like a lock turning—and then a new sensation hit, raw and uncharted. It was the "second hole," that elusive point beyond the outer sphincter, where Jake’s cock nudged into the deeper, softer space inside. Ryan’s breath caught, his eyes widening as a wave of pressure rolled through him, different from anything before—not just fullness, but an overwhelming, primal invasion that made his whole body feel claimed in a way he couldn’t articulate. His legs shook, his bound hands clenching into fists behind his back as he tried to process it.
“Fuck—” Ryan gasped, his voice breaking, a ragged edge to it as Jake held himself there, letting the sensation settle. It was tight—tighter than the first stretch—but softer too, like his body was molding around Jake’s size in a way it hadn’t before. The tip pressed against something deep—maybe the prostate, maybe just the curve of his insides—and it sent a jolt through Ryan, a mix of sharp pleasure and a dull, aching stretch that danced on the edge of unbearable. Sweat trickled down his spine, pooling at the small of his back, and his cock, trapped against the couch, twitched despite his exhaustion.
Jake felt it too—the way Ryan’s body resisted, then surrendered, the heat and grip intensifying around him. “There it is,” he growled, his hands tightening on Ryan’s hips as he rocked forward, testing the depth. “That’s your second hole, baby. Feel me taking it?” His voice was thick with dominance, reveling in the control as he pushed just a fraction deeper, making Ryan whimper—a sound that cracked in the air like a plea. The sensation was intense for Jake too—hotter, snugger, a vise-like clutch that fueled his need to dominate. He pulled back slightly, then thrust in again, slow and deliberate, each movement amplifying the feeling of breaching that inner threshold.
For Ryan, it was like being split open in a new way. The first hole had been about submission, the raw act of letting Jake in—but this was surrender on a deeper level, a place where resistance wasn’t even an option. His muscles fluttered around Jake’s thickness, his mind spinning with the mix of pain, pleasure, and powerlessness. It felt like Jake was everywhere—inside him, over him, owning him—and the pressure built into something electric, radiating from that deep spot through his core. His cock leaked steadily onto the velvet, a slick smear forming beneath him, untouched but throbbing from the intensity.
Jake leaned down, his chest pressing against Ryan’s back, the heat of his skin searing. His breath was hot against Ryan’s ear, stubble scraping the sensitive skin there. “You’re taking it so good,” he murmured, his tone a twisted blend of praise and command, the words sinking in like a brand. Then he shifted, angling his hips to hit that spot harder, and Ryan’s moan turned into a cry—high-pitched, desperate, as the boundary of his limits cracked wide open. The "second hole" wasn’t just a physical place; it was a headspace, a moment where Jake’s control sank so deep it rewrote Ryan’s sense of himself. Every thrust now was a reminder: Jake was huge, relentless, and Ryan was his to break apart.
The pace quickened, Jake chasing his own edge as he fucked into that deeper space, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the loft—sharp, rhythmic, drowning out the faint buzz of the city beyond the windows. Ryan’s pleas dissolved into incoherent noises—gasps, whines, fragments of words—his body shaking as the sensation pushed him past what he’d thought possible, past pleasure into something raw and all-consuming. When Jake finally came, it was with a growl that vibrated through Ryan’s bones, burying himself to the hilt. Ryan felt it there, in that second hole—a pulsing heat, thick and claiming, marking him as thoroughly as the cuffs on his wrists or the bruises blooming on his hips.
Jake stayed there for a moment, chest heaving, letting the aftershocks ripple through them both. Ryan’s body slumped, spent and trembling, his cheek pressed into the damp velvet, breath ragged against the fabric. The cuffs bit into his wrists, grounding him as his mind floated somewhere between exhaustion and euphoria. Jake pulled out slowly, a slick sound accompanying the motion, and Ryan whimpered at the loss, his body still twitching from the intensity. Jake undid the cuffs with a quick flick, tossing them aside where they landed on the hardwood with a dull clank. He sank onto the couch beside Ryan, one hand resting possessively on the small of his back, tracing the sweat-slick skin there.
The loft was quiet now, save for their breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. Ryan shifted, wincing slightly as he rolled onto his side, his hazel eyes meeting Jake’s—still defiant, but softened by what they’d just shared. “You’re a fucking asshole,” he muttered, voice hoarse, but the corner of his mouth twitched up, betraying the smirk he couldn’t quite hide.
Jake chuckled, deep and rough, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah,” he said, wiping a hand across his brow. “But you love it.” Ryan didn’t argue—just closed his eyes, letting the weight of the night settle over him like a heavy blanket, the city lights flickering beyond the glass a silent witness to their dance of power and surrender.
Ryan lounged there like he owned the place, his lean frame draped over the deep emerald fabric, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black briefs that hugged his hips like a second skin. His hair—dark, tousled, still damp from a shower—fell into his hazel eyes, and a sly grin curled his lips as he twirled a pair of handcuffs around his finger. The metal caught the soft glow of a brass floor lamp beside him, glinting with every lazy spin. He’d been waiting, clearly—Jake could tell from the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly, betraying the calm he was trying to project. Ryan worked days at a tattoo parlor downtown, inking skulls and roses onto bikers and hipsters alike, and his forearms bore the evidence: swirling black lines and faded script that flexed as he toyed with the cuffs.
“Thought you’d never show,” Ryan teased, his voice low and dripping with intent, roughened by the cigarettes he smoked out back between clients. He stretched one leg out, toes brushing the edge of the coffee table—a slab of reclaimed wood littered with an ashtray, a half-empty beer bottle, and a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Jake smirked, tossing his leather jacket onto the arm of a nearby chair as he crossed the room in three deliberate strides. The loft wasn’t his—Ryan had been crashing here for weeks, subletting from some artist friend who’d skipped town for a residency in Berlin—but Jake didn’t care about the details. Not tonight.
He didn’t waste time. Grabbing the cuffs from Ryan’s hand with a quick snatch, he pinned Ryan’s wrists above his head, the movement swift and practiced. Jake leaned in close, so close their breaths mingled—his sharp with the mint gum he’d chewed on the walk over, Ryan’s laced with the faint bitterness of hops. “Patience isn’t your strength, is it?” Jake murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Ryan’s ear, his voice a gravelly drawl honed by late nights and barked orders over bar noise. Ryan squirmed beneath him, a half-laugh, half-moan spilling out as Jake tightened the cuffs just enough to make the metal bite into his skin, the edge of control slipping from Ryan’s grasp.
Jake’s grip tightened as he secured Ryan’s wrists to the wrought-iron headboard bolted above the couch—a relic from the loft’s previous tenant, now repurposed for their game. The clink of metal echoed in the stillness, sharp against the distant city hum. Ryan tugged against the restraints, testing them, his lean frame arching off the couch. His chest rose with shallow breaths, ribs faintly visible under taut skin, and a mix of defiance and anticipation flickered in his hazel eyes—eyes that caught the lamplight and turned molten. Jake towered over him, all coiled muscle and quiet menace, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across Ryan’s exposed torso. The briefs clung to Ryan’s hips, the fabric stretched tight over the growing bulge beneath, but Jake wasn’t here to rush—not yet. He savored the buildup, the way Ryan’s bravado frayed at the edges under his stare.
“You think you’re in charge here?” Jake’s voice was a low growl, laced with the authority he wielded like a weapon—on drunks at the bar, on Ryan now. He trailed a calloused finger down Ryan’s chest, tracing the faint line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband, stopping just short of dipping lower. Ryan’s breath hitched, his abs tightening, but he didn’t answer—his silence a challenge Jake was all too eager to break. With a swift, practiced tug, Jake yanked the briefs down, the elastic snapping as he peeled them past Ryan’s thighs, leaving him bare and vulnerable. Ryan’s cock sprang free, already hard, flushed dark against the pale skin of his stomach. He squirmed, a flush creeping up his neck to his ears, but Jake’s hand pressed firmly against his chest—fingers splayed wide, pinning him in place.
“Stay still,” Jake ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument, honed by nights of shutting down bar fights with a look. He stepped back, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, letting Ryan’s eyes trace the lines of his frame—broad chest, thick arms, the faint scar across his left pec from a broken bottle years back. When Jake shed his jeans, kicking them aside with a rustle of denim, Ryan’s gaze dropped—and widened. Jake was massive, thick and heavy, the kind of hung that made Ryan’s throat tighten with a mix of dread and hunger. Fully erect, it jutted out intimidatingly, veins prominent under the skin, a promise—or a threat—of what was to come. Jake caught the flicker of uncertainty in Ryan’s expression and grinned, all teeth.
“Too much for you?” he taunted, stepping closer until the head of his cock brushed Ryan’s thigh, warm and insistent. Ryan’s lips parted, a shaky breath escaping, but before he could reply, Jake grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his stubble, forcing his head back against the couch. “You don’t get to decide that tonight.”
Ryan’s pulse hammered under Jake’s grip, his body trembling with the thrill of being overpowered—a sensation he craved, even if he’d never admit it outright. Jake released him only to reach for a bottle of lube on the side table—an unassuming plastic bottle, cap worn from use, sitting next to a dog-eared paperback Ryan had been reading earlier. He squirted a generous amount into his palm, slicking himself up with a slow, deliberate stroke, his eyes never leaving Ryan’s. The air crackled with tension as Jake positioned himself between Ryan’s legs, gripping his knees to spread them wide with a roughness that made Ryan gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that hung between them. He pressed the tip against Ryan’s entrance, not entering yet—just teasing, letting the sheer size of him register, the blunt pressure a silent question.
“Beg for it,” Jake demanded, his voice a command wrapped in silk, smooth but unyielding. Ryan’s pride warred with his need, his lips pressing into a tight line, jaw clenching. Jake smirked, pushing forward just enough to stretch him—the tight ring of muscle resisting, then yielding slightly—intense but not quite breaching. Ryan’s resolve cracked, a whimper escaping as his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation despite himself.
“Please,” Ryan muttered, barely audible, the word muffled against the velvet cushion. Jake’s hand shot to his throat, squeezing lightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the rapid thud of his pulse, a reminder of who held the reins.
“Louder,” Jake snapped, his patience thinning, eyes dark with intent. Ryan’s gaze locked with his, defiant even as his body betrayed him, hips shifting restlessly.
“Please, fuck me,” Ryan said, voice raw and desperate now, cracking on the last syllable. That was all Jake needed. With a single, unrelenting thrust, he sank into Ryan, the stretch brutal and overwhelming, tearing a cry from Ryan’s throat—high and jagged, echoing off the brick walls. Pain and pleasure collided, his limits tested in an instant as Jake filled him, heavy and unyielding. Jake didn’t pause, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, claiming every inch of Ryan’s submission with a force that rattled the headboard against the wall.
Ryan’s moans turned into broken gasps, sweat beading on his forehead as Jake’s size pushed him beyond what he thought he could take. His wrists strained against the cuffs, the metal scraping faintly against the iron, leaving red marks he’d feel tomorrow. Jake’s hands gripped his hips, fingers bruising as he pulled Ryan down to meet every thrust, the slap of skin on skin drowning out the city noise. The power dynamic was absolute—Jake controlled the pace, the depth, the everything, and Ryan was helpless beneath him, lost in the intensity of being so thoroughly dominated.
“You’re mine tonight,” Jake growled, leaning down to bite at Ryan’s collarbone—a sharp nip that drew a hiss, marking him as he drove harder. Ryan’s body shook, teetering on the edge of too much, but the way his cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking steadily, told Jake he was loving every second of it. Jake reached down, wrapping a rough hand around Ryan’s length, stroking him in time with his thrusts, pushing him closer to collapse.
“Tell me how it feels,” Jake demanded, his voice rough with exertion, breath hot against Ryan’s neck. Ryan could barely form words, his mind a haze of sensation—heat, pressure, the relentless stretch—but Jake’s hand tightened around his throat again, coaxing it out of him.
“Fucking huge—too much—don’t stop,” Ryan choked out, his voice a wrecked plea, syllables tumbling over each other. Jake grinned, feral and triumphant, and doubled down, driving Ryan past his limits into a shuddering, screaming release. His body clenched around Jake, a vise grip that pulled a low groan from Jake’s chest as Ryan came, hot and messy across his own stomach, trembling and spent.
Jake wasn’t done. He pulled out with a wet sound, leaving Ryan gasping at the sudden emptiness, only to flip him onto his stomach with a rough shove. The velvet scraped against Ryan’s cheek as Jake uncuffed one wrist—just long enough to yank his arms behind his back, re-binding them there with a practiced twist. Face-down, ass up, Ryan’s breath came in shallow pants, his body slick with sweat and shaking from the relentless pace Jake had set earlier. Jake’s hands gripped his hips again, fingers digging into the flesh as he positioned Ryan exactly where he wanted him—vulnerable, open, and trembling. His cock, still impossibly thick and hard, rested against Ryan’s entrance, a silent promise of more.
“You think I’ve pushed you far enough?” Jake’s voice was a low rumble, dripping with menace and amusement, the kind of tone that dared you to say yes and mean it. Ryan didn’t answer—couldn’t, really—his mind too scrambled, his cheek pressed into the damp fabric, the faint musk of sweat and sex filling his nose. But Jake didn’t need words. He slid back in, slow this time, deliberate, letting Ryan feel every inch as he stretched him open again. The initial burn was familiar now, a sharp ache that melted into heat as Jake’s girth filled him, but this time, Jake didn’t stop at the usual depth.
Ryan’s body tensed as Jake pressed deeper, past the tight ring of muscle that had already yielded to him earlier. There was a sudden shift—a subtle give, like a lock turning—and then a new sensation hit, raw and uncharted. It was the "second hole," that elusive point beyond the outer sphincter, where Jake’s cock nudged into the deeper, softer space inside. Ryan’s breath caught, his eyes widening as a wave of pressure rolled through him, different from anything before—not just fullness, but an overwhelming, primal invasion that made his whole body feel claimed in a way he couldn’t articulate. His legs shook, his bound hands clenching into fists behind his back as he tried to process it.
“Fuck—” Ryan gasped, his voice breaking, a ragged edge to it as Jake held himself there, letting the sensation settle. It was tight—tighter than the first stretch—but softer too, like his body was molding around Jake’s size in a way it hadn’t before. The tip pressed against something deep—maybe the prostate, maybe just the curve of his insides—and it sent a jolt through Ryan, a mix of sharp pleasure and a dull, aching stretch that danced on the edge of unbearable. Sweat trickled down his spine, pooling at the small of his back, and his cock, trapped against the couch, twitched despite his exhaustion.
Jake felt it too—the way Ryan’s body resisted, then surrendered, the heat and grip intensifying around him. “There it is,” he growled, his hands tightening on Ryan’s hips as he rocked forward, testing the depth. “That’s your second hole, baby. Feel me taking it?” His voice was thick with dominance, reveling in the control as he pushed just a fraction deeper, making Ryan whimper—a sound that cracked in the air like a plea. The sensation was intense for Jake too—hotter, snugger, a vise-like clutch that fueled his need to dominate. He pulled back slightly, then thrust in again, slow and deliberate, each movement amplifying the feeling of breaching that inner threshold.
For Ryan, it was like being split open in a new way. The first hole had been about submission, the raw act of letting Jake in—but this was surrender on a deeper level, a place where resistance wasn’t even an option. His muscles fluttered around Jake’s thickness, his mind spinning with the mix of pain, pleasure, and powerlessness. It felt like Jake was everywhere—inside him, over him, owning him—and the pressure built into something electric, radiating from that deep spot through his core. His cock leaked steadily onto the velvet, a slick smear forming beneath him, untouched but throbbing from the intensity.
Jake leaned down, his chest pressing against Ryan’s back, the heat of his skin searing. His breath was hot against Ryan’s ear, stubble scraping the sensitive skin there. “You’re taking it so good,” he murmured, his tone a twisted blend of praise and command, the words sinking in like a brand. Then he shifted, angling his hips to hit that spot harder, and Ryan’s moan turned into a cry—high-pitched, desperate, as the boundary of his limits cracked wide open. The "second hole" wasn’t just a physical place; it was a headspace, a moment where Jake’s control sank so deep it rewrote Ryan’s sense of himself. Every thrust now was a reminder: Jake was huge, relentless, and Ryan was his to break apart.
The pace quickened, Jake chasing his own edge as he fucked into that deeper space, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the loft—sharp, rhythmic, drowning out the faint buzz of the city beyond the windows. Ryan’s pleas dissolved into incoherent noises—gasps, whines, fragments of words—his body shaking as the sensation pushed him past what he’d thought possible, past pleasure into something raw and all-consuming. When Jake finally came, it was with a growl that vibrated through Ryan’s bones, burying himself to the hilt. Ryan felt it there, in that second hole—a pulsing heat, thick and claiming, marking him as thoroughly as the cuffs on his wrists or the bruises blooming on his hips.
Jake stayed there for a moment, chest heaving, letting the aftershocks ripple through them both. Ryan’s body slumped, spent and trembling, his cheek pressed into the damp velvet, breath ragged against the fabric. The cuffs bit into his wrists, grounding him as his mind floated somewhere between exhaustion and euphoria. Jake pulled out slowly, a slick sound accompanying the motion, and Ryan whimpered at the loss, his body still twitching from the intensity. Jake undid the cuffs with a quick flick, tossing them aside where they landed on the hardwood with a dull clank. He sank onto the couch beside Ryan, one hand resting possessively on the small of his back, tracing the sweat-slick skin there.
The loft was quiet now, save for their breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. Ryan shifted, wincing slightly as he rolled onto his side, his hazel eyes meeting Jake’s—still defiant, but softened by what they’d just shared. “You’re a fucking asshole,” he muttered, voice hoarse, but the corner of his mouth twitched up, betraying the smirk he couldn’t quite hide.
Jake chuckled, deep and rough, leaning back against the couch. “Yeah,” he said, wiping a hand across his brow. “But you love it.” Ryan didn’t argue—just closed his eyes, letting the weight of the night settle over him like a heavy blanket, the city lights flickering beyond the glass a silent witness to their dance of power and surrender.
