The door slammed shut behind him and the sir was already on him, big hand fisting the back of his neck, shoving him face-first against the wall. "Strip," the sir growled, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. He fumbled with his belt, fingers shaking, but the sir didn't wait. Rough palms ripped the shirt open, buttons popping, then yanked the jeans down hard enough to burn skin. "No, please sir," he gasped, the words slipping out before he could stop them, half protest, half invitation. The sir laughed, dark and short, and kicked his feet apart. "Too late for that, boy. You came here for cock and you're getting it."
His own cock was already half-hard, traitor that it was, slapping against his belly as the sir spun him around and shoved him to his knees. The sir's fly was open in one tug, thick veined meat spilling out heavy and dark, already leaking at the tip. "Open." The command left no room. He shook his head once, "No, please sir," but his mouth opened anyway, tongue out, and the sir fed him every inch in one slow push. Gagging, eyes watering, throat stretching around the girth, he took it because the sir's fist in his hair demanded it. Spit ran down his chin, dripping onto his chest while the sir used his mouth like a hole, hips snapping, balls slapping his jaw.
"Fuck, that's it," the sir grunted, pulling out just long enough to slap the wet cock across his face, smearing precum and spit. "You say no but your throat says yes." He tried to turn away, "No, please sir," but the sir hauled him up, bent him over the arm of the couch, and spread his cheeks with both hands. A thick finger shoved inside dry, then two, working him open with brutal efficiency. The burn made him buck, made him whimper the same useless words, but his cock was leaking a string onto the floor now, twitching every time the sir's knuckles twisted.
When the sir lined up and pushed in, it was one relentless thrust, no mercy, stretching him wide around that fat cock. He cried out, "No, please sir, too much," but the sir just gripped his hips and started pounding, balls-deep strokes that shook the couch and knocked the breath from his lungs. Skin slapped skin, sweat-slick, the sir's heavy cock dragging over his prostate on every drive. His own dick bounced uselessly, hard and aching, slapping his stomach with each impact. The sir reached around, wrapped a callused hand around it, and jerked him rough and fast, thumb smearing the head.
"Take it," the sir ordered, voice tight. "You begged to come over, now you're gonna take every inch." He kept saying it, "No, please sir," voice breaking into moans, but his body pushed back, meeting every thrust, hole clenching greedily. The sir leaned over him, chest to back, biting his shoulder, and fucked harder, deeper, the couch creaking under them. Pre-cum and lube made filthy wet sounds with every slap of hips. When the sir's hand tightened on his cock, stroking in time with the pounding, he came first, shooting thick ropes across the floor, ass spasming around the sir's cock.
The sir didn't stop. He fucked him through it, using the clenching hole until his own rhythm broke, until he buried deep and unloaded, hot pulses flooding inside. Only then did he pull out slow, watching the mess leak.
He dropped to his knees again without being told, cleaning the softening cock with his tongue, tasting salt and himself, still whispering "No, please sir" even as he swallowed what was left. The sir patted his head once, almost gentle, and said, "Good boy. Same time next week."
