Part 7: Dylan Is In Control

I stayed there on my knees, pulse pounding in my ears, eyes locked on Dylan’s. His grip on my hair was firm, commanding, but not painful—more like a leash he knew I wasn’t going to try breaking. His stare bore into me, daring me, testing me.

“Look at you,” he said softly, almost amused. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

I could feel my face flush, but I didn’t back down. “You act like I didn’t make you beg last night,” I said, my voice rough with pride—and something hungrier underneath.

Dylan gave a low laugh, then finally released my hair, fingers trailing through it before he sat back again. “Fair,” he muttered. “But I’m still the one in control now.”

His legs remained spread, casual, confident, like he was daring me to make another move. 

I stayed still, heart thundering in my chest, staring up at him from the floor. Dylan hadn’t moved—his legs still spread, eyes burning into me with a heat that stripped me bare.

He leaned forward just slightly, one elbow on his knee, his fingers slowly brushing over his own thigh like he was in no rush. Like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Say it,” he said, voice low, smooth like velvet with something dangerous underneath. “Say I’m in control.”

My breath caught, throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t asking for a joke, or a tease. This was a moment—the moment—and I could feel the weight of it settling over both of us.

“I…” I started, but the words tangled.

He tilted his head. “Come on, spaghetti noodle. You wanted to play? Let’s play for real. Say it.”

His voice wrapped around me, and I felt something crack open in my chest. My pride, my resistance—it all flickered under that stare, under his voice. And it felt good. Too good.

“You’re in control, Dylan” I whispered, the words slipping out shakier than I meant.

Dylan’s eyes lit up with a slow, pleased smile, like he’d just claimed something important. “Louder, Boy!"

My throat tightened. I looked up at him, every nerve in my body on fire, and I said it again, this time stronger, firmer—because I meant it. “You’re in control, sir.”

He let out a low hum of approval and leaned back, arms draped lazily across the top of the couch like a king surveying his throne.

“Good boy,” he said, and I swear my entire body reacted to the praise like it was wired into me.

My knees pressed into the carpet, tension humming through me. His control wasn’t physical—it didn’t have to be. It was how he looked at me, how he talked to me. Like he could see every inch of my need, every stubborn little part I’d tried to hold back—and loved making it unravel.

He reached down, hand curling under my chin, tilting my face up toward him. His thumb traced my bottom lip, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing it.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up to mine, holding me there like a command already spoken.

“Lick it,” Dylan said, his voice low and rough with authority. “There’s your prize.”

My breath hitched, body tightening at the sound of his voice—so sure, so calm, like he owned the moment and knew it.

“Open your mouth,” he continued, the pad of his thumb pressing just slightly more into my lip, enough to make my heart stutter. “And take a good feel of what you’ve been wanting for so long, Troy.”

He guided my face back down, letting me drag my lips along the heavy length of his cock beneath his sweats. The heat of him soaked through the thin fabric, pulsing against my mouth. I didn’t kiss—just let my breath wash over him, slow and deliberate.

“Damn,” Dylan murmured, looking down at me with that lazy, cocky grin. “Would you look at that? Mouth’s already salivating.”

I rolled my eyes, lips ghosting over the bulge. “It’s called anticipation, not thirst.”

“Sure,” he snorted. “Tell that to the drool you just left all over my bulge.”

I blinked, cheeks flushing as I pulled back just enough to see it—yep. There it was. A dark wet spot spread across the front of his sweats across his bulge, right where my mouth had been,

Dylan raised an eyebrow and looked real damn proud of himself. “Wow. Didn’t know I had that effect on you, spaghetti boy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered, trying to play it cool. “Gravity’s to blame.”

“Mmhm,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head, chest flexing just to taunt me. “That’s what you'd say right before you'd choke on it.”

My eyes flicked up at him. “I thought you were straight…”

Dylan’s grin deepened, slow and wicked. “Not for you, Troy.” His voice dropped, thick and deliberate. “The way you arched your ass into me last night? The way you look at me like you need me? I wanna show you exactly what happens when you tempt me like that.”

The air around us buzzed as he sat up slightly, gaze locked on mine, full of heat and authority.

“Take off my sweats, boy.”

My breath hitched. My hands moved without thinking, fingers slipping under the waistband, brushing hot skin. His abs twitched beneath my touch, the soft fabric dragging slowly as I peeled it down, inch by torturous inch. I didn’t rush—my fingertips grazed over his hips, down the sharp lines of his pelvis, tracing the heat radiating off him.

As I eased his sweats down past his hips, his cock sprang free—thick, hard, and heavy, slapping up against his abs with a soft, solid sound. My breath caught in my throat. There was no more guessing now. No teasing. It was right there, hard and ready, and bigger than I’d let myself imagine.

Dylan looked down at me, smug as ever, that grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “There it is,” he said, voice low and dripping with cocky satisfaction. “What you’ve been staring at every time I stretch.”

He leaned back slightly, one hand resting behind his head, the other lazily stroking the base, like he had all the time in the world. “Now…” He tilted his head, smirk sharpening. “Let’s see how that smart mouth of yours feels.”

Then his voice dropped, all tease and command rolled into one:

“C’mon, Troy. Bring that tongue closer to my balls.”

Part 8: On Your Knees

Dylan didn’t say a word. He just spread his legs wide open and grabbed my body and pulled me towards him, dragging me forward towards his crotch like I was his to place wherever he wanted — because I was.

My knees slid across the carpet, right up between his thighs, face now inches from his throbbing beautiful cock. He didn’t need to shove me or bark an order. The way he looked at me was enough. That cocky smirk, chin tilted slightly like he knew — like he always knew what I was about to do before I even did it.

“Right there,” he said, voice low and smooth as sin. “Stay. Boy”

His legs caged me in, and the heat rolling off him was unreal. I could smell him — soap, sweat, skin. Raw. Real. Overwhelming.

I dropped my hands to his thighs, felt the tension there, the way his muscles twitched beneath my palms like he was holding back just to see how long I’d drag it out. But I didn’t make him wait long. Not this time.

I leaned in and dragged my tongue up the base of his shaft — slow and rough, just to feel the weight of it against my mouth. He let out a sharp breath through his nose, and I smirked against his skin.

“You always this quiet when you’re impressed?” I muttered.

“Keep talking,” Dylan murmured, fingers tightening in my hair, “and I’ll give you something better to fill that mouth.”

Challenge accepted.

I opened my mouth wide open  and let his cock in — slow, steady, dragging my tongue along the underside of his dick, feeling every vein, every twitch. He was heavy on my tongue, thick and warm, and my throat fought the stretch as I took more of him.

Dylan groaned — low, guttural — his hips barely twitching forward. “Fuck, that’s it.”

I pulled back, letting spit coat him as I pumped his base with one hand, then went back down again, deeper this time. The stretch burned in the best way, and his fingers in my hair weren’t just holding anymore — they were guiding, controlling, setting the rhythm and pushing me closer towards his cock every time I went up for air.

His other hand came down to cup his balls, lifting them just slightly as he tilted his hips. “Lick ‘em,” he said, voice rough now, not a request but a command.

I shifted lower, tongue tracing along the soft skin beneath as I let my hand keep stroking his length. I could feel him pulsing, twitching against my palm.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “You like that, don’t you?”

I looked up, spit shining my lips, tongue still working him as I gave a muffled hum — half smug, half wrecked.

He grinned, head tilting back just slightly, eyes half-lidded and cocky. “God, you’re filthy. And I like you that way.”

He grinned, head tilting back just slightly, eyes half-lidded and dripping arrogance. “Damn, you’re a natural at this,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “Didn’t think guys could suck like that.”

When I finally pulled back, his cock slipped from my lips with a wet pop, and a line of spit clung between us, trailing down my chin. My mouth was glossy, jaw sore, breath coming fast—but the heat in his eyes made it worth it.

Drool dripped from my lower lip, catching the corner of my mouth, and Dylan just stared. Like he was watching the best thing he'd ever seen.

“Messy,” he said, almost fondly, thumb swiping across my cheek but not bothering to wipe anything away. “But I like you like this.”

I leaned in towards his cock again, slower this time—deliberate. My lips parted as I took his dick back in my mouth, tongue tracing along the underside, catching every vein, every twitch. He tasted hot, heavy, and I could feel the way his thigh muscles tensed under my grip, how his breath hitched even if he tried to hide it.

A low sound rumbled out of him—part groan, part laugh, like he was trying not to enjoy it too much. His hips tilted forward, slow and controlled, not pushing, just letting me know he could fuck my face if he wanted. That he would, when he was ready.

The room filled with the slick sound of movement—wet, rhythmic, impossibly loud in the silence between us. And when I pulled off with a gasp, a long string of spit hung from my lip to the base of him once again. My drool flowing down Dylan's cock all the way reaching his balls. At the same time, drool trailing down my chin, sticky and slow.

Then his fingers curled around my jaw, tilting my face up slowly. And without a word, he leaned in and kissed me—hot, deep, and unapologetic. Like he didn’t care where my mouth had just been.

He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice dropping to a dark whisper.

“Bend over the couch, Troy. I’ve got a surprise for you.”