pretty boy in the making.

He’s in his slippers, feet flat against the linoleum like he doesn’t care how cold it is. His hair is still damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. A towel is slung low on his hips, tied lazily, the knot sitting just off-center like it was done without much thought.

Your eyes snag anyway.

His shoulders are broad enough to fill the doorway, muscle carved clean beneath skin still flushed from heat. His chest is bare; solid, defined, faintly dusted with hair that darkens where water beads and trails down. It’s not something sculpted for show; it looks used. Lived in. Like he carries his strength without thinking about it.

You forget to breathe.

For a beat, neither of you says anything.

“Oh—” You clear your throat, the sound rougher than you expect. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone else was down here.”

“It’s fine,” he says easily, already stepping farther inside. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

He smiles like this is normal. Like he isn’t standing there half-naked under fluorescent lights at midnight.

You force your eyes back to the washer, pretend very hard that you’re invested in detergent measurements. Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“Late-night laundry?” you ask, mostly to fill the space.

“Yeah.” You hear fabric shift as he sets his basket down. “Figured it was safer than fighting everyone earlier.”

“Same,” you say. “Only time it’s ever empty.”

“Guess not tonight.”

You glance over despite yourself.

He’s closer now, leaning back against one of the washers, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The movement makes everything worse. His biceps flex subtly where they rest, muscle defined without strain. When he shifts his weight, his calves tighten; thick, strong, built like he uses them.

The towel rides even lower when he leans. Just enough to expose the sharp V cutting down toward his hips. You catch a glimpse of it before you can stop yourself, heat curling low in your stomach.

You look away immediately.

“Sorry,” you say, though you’re not sure what for.

“For what?” he asks.

You shrug, pretending to focus on the washer. “Didn’t realize you were… coming from the shower.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Bad timing.”

It doesn’t sound like he means it.

You straighten, risk another look—and this time, you register it: the way the towel doesn’t hang flat. The subtle, undeniable weight pressing forward beneath the fabric when he shifts. It’s not exaggerated. It’s just… there. Heavy enough that your eyes want to track it before your brain tells them not to.

His gaze catches you mid-thought.

Not accusatory. Not smug.

Just observant.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking briefly to your basket, then back to your face. “You’re in 3B, right?”

You blink. “Yeah. You’re… 3C.”

“Mailboxes give it away.”

“Hard not to notice when we keep grabbing them at the same time.”

“Yeah,” he says. There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “I’ve noticed.”

The machines hum between you. A dryer thumps unevenly down the row. The room feels warmer than it did a minute ago, air thick enough that you’re suddenly aware of your own body: how you’re standing, where your hands are, the way your shirt clings a little at the back.

Your washer clicks, lid locking into place.

The sound feels loud.

Glen pushes off the washer, taking one slow step closer. Not crowding you. Just closing the distance enough that you feel it. His heat. His presence. The solid reality of him in a space that suddenly feels too small.

“You always do laundry this late?” he asks.

“Usually.” Your breath stutters.

Glen’s eyes flick down. Brief and almost careless, then lift back to your face. It’s quick enough that you could pretend you imagined it, if not for the way his mouth curves, faintly amused, like he’s just confirmed something.

“Relax,” he says quietly. “I’m not gonna bite.”

The pause that follows stretches, heavy and deliberate.

“Not tonight, anyway.”

He eases back then, slow, unhurried, reclaiming the space inch by inch like he knows exactly what leaving it behind does to you. He adjusts the towel at his hips, the motion casual, practiced, like it was never in danger of slipping. Like he hasn’t just had you pinned there by proximity alone.

“Guess I’ll let you finish,” he adds, glancing at the washer. “Wouldn’t want to distract you.”

It’s almost polite.

He grabs his basket and turns toward the door, broad shoulders rolling as he moves. At the threshold, he pauses. Not long enough to make a show of it, just long enough to matter.

“See you around,” he says.

The door clicks shut behind him.

The machines keep humming. The lights keep buzzing.

And you’re left standing there, heart racing, body still buzzing, knowing one thing with uncomfortable certainty—

That wasn’t accidental.

And it wasn’t over.

Steam drifts lazily from the dryer vents, curling in the fluorescent light that makes the room feel smaller, heavier. The machines hum steadily, a soft vibration through the linoleum beneath your feet. You set your basket down and start measuring detergent, trying to focus on something ordinary.

The door opens, and Glen steps in, towel low at his hips once again. He leans casually against a dryer, one arm resting on the edge, muscles flexing subtly as he shifts weight. Broad shoulders, defined biceps, faint veins along his forearms, abs sharply cut under damp skin, calves taut with every micro-movement. The V-cut of his hips beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, taunting you like it’s an arrow directing it towards…

You break out of the spellbound that is the sight of Glen’s body from a cough.

Glen clears his throat and tilts his head slightly, eyes catching yours, a small, knowing smirk playing across his lips.

“You catch the new Thai place opening down the street?” he asks, nodding toward the window. “Supposedly the chef came from that place downtown everyone raves about.”

“Yeah, I walked past it yesterday,” you say. “Smelled something amazing. I might have to check it out next week.”

He smirks, glancing at you as he shifts his weight, towel brushing lightly against his thigh. Biceps flex faintly, veins standing out along his forearms. “You’ll let me know if it’s worth it, right?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to steal all the good dishes before I get there.”

“Deal,” he says smoothly, leaning slightly on the dryer beside you. The movement flexes his chest and shoulders subtly, catching the fluorescent light just so. You notice the faint line of his abs, the curve of his calves, and the low edge of the towel teasing your vision. Heat pools in your stomach.

“You notice the construction on Maple?” you ask, deciding to keep the conversation casual. “They’re finally putting in that crosswalk, but it looks like they’re just digging holes for fun.”

He chuckles, eyes flicking toward the street before returning to you. “It’s a little ridiculous. I don’t know who they expect to cross there safely anytime soon.” He shifts, leaning his shoulder against the dryer again, towel brushing lightly, biceps flexing. “I guess we’ll have to keep an eye on it ourselves.”

You smirk, feeling bold. “Two vigilant neighbors. We could start a watch group.”

Glen laughs softly, the sound low and warm. He tilts his head, letting his gaze linger just a moment longer than necessary. The curl of damp hair at his nape, the taut muscles along his arms, the faintly glistening veins in his forearms, the edge of the towel all tug at your attention. He shifts again, adjusting stance, calves flexing slightly, and you realize every movement is deliberate, even if it looks casual.

“I think I’d like that,” he says, voice smooth and playful. “A watch group. I might have to make sure my favorite neighbor is paying attention.”

Your pulse skips. You grin, leaning a little closer to the washer. “Well, I am paying attention,” you say, letting the words hang in the warm, humid air.

Glen smirks faintly, stepping lightly toward the door, broad shoulders rolling with the motion, towel hanging low, muscles relaxed but impossible to ignore. He pauses at the threshold, glancing back once, that same small, knowing smirk in place. “Catch you later,” he says.

The door clicks shut behind him. The machines hum louder now, steam rising in lazy spirals. You stand there, basket in hand, chest tight, acutely aware of every subtle flex, every curve, and the tension between you both that is only growing.

You pause just inside the laundry room, catching Glen mid-stretch against a dryer. Towel hangs low at his hips, one arm draped casually over the machine, fingers brushing its edge. The motion sets the muscles along his shoulder and bicep into subtle, fluid ripples. Veins run faintly along his forearms, catching the light. His chest glistens faintly with dampness, abs taut and defined, obliques curving sharply down toward the towel. Even the swell of his waist beneath it is impossible to ignore.

Your pajamas cling slightly from your shower, fabric soft against your warm skin, and you notice the contrast between your covered form and his bare, sculpted body. You shift your weight, adjusting your grip on the basket, feeling the hum of your own pulse as his gaze flickers your way. The brief touch of his eyes makes your chest tighten, stomach knot, a heat you can’t ignore.

“You’re early tonight,” you say lightly, teasing as you set the basket down. “Thought I’d have the place to myself.”

Glen tilts his head, smirk curling his lips, eyes glinting with mischief. He shifts his weight, towel brushing ever so slightly against the dryer. “I like the company,” he murmurs. “Makes the night… more interesting.”

Your lips twitch into a grin. “Interesting how?”

He steps a fraction closer, broad shoulders relaxed but deliberate, calves flexing just enough to catch your eye. “Depends on what you notice first,” he says, tone casual yet deliberate, letting the words hang between you. The warmth radiating from him is tangible, magnetic.

You glance down at his arms, over the sweep of his shoulders, the ridges of his abs and the faint line of chest hair, and feel your breath catch. “Oh really?” you murmur, tilting your head, daring him with your gaze.

Glen’s eyes follow, slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to make the space between you charged. He leans lightly against the dryer, towel edge brushing subtly against the machine, biceps flexing with the smallest adjustment of weight. “Yes,” he says softly. “There’s a lot to notice.”

Heat curls low, pulse quickening. You shift your stance, subtly leaning toward the machine, letting your forearms brush lightly against the edge, feeling the tautness of your own muscles. You catch his eyes flicking over your form, just long enough for awareness to ripple between you without a word.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you tease, voice low, playful.

Glen laughs softly, the sound warm in the humid air. “Maybe,” he says, smirk lingering. “Or maybe I just like watching you.”

You can’t help the shiver that runs through you, the way his presence draws your attention to every subtle movement he makes—the roll of his shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the taut sweep of his obliques, the teasing swell beneath the towel. He steps back just slightly, broad shoulders rolling, leaving the space between you heated and electric.

“You have a nice night,” he murmurs, voice low, playful, eyes sparkling with genuine interest. He glances back at you once, letting the smirk linger, before finally moving toward the door.

The click of the latch echoes softly in the charged silence. You stand there, basket in hand, heart hammering, fully aware of every shift, every subtle movement, every glance, and the slow, undeniable pull threading between you. The room feels impossibly small, the tension between you heavier than the humid air, and you know this is only the beginning.

The laundry room is thick with warm air, machines humming steadily, but it feels quieter than usual. You set your basket down and glance up. Glen is leaning against a dryer, towel low at his hips, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He doesn’t greet you with his usual wide grin. Instead, there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are sharper, lingering on you longer than usual.

“Hey,” he says softly, Texan drawl low and smooth, just enough charm in it to make your chest tighten.

“Hey,” you reply, letting your gaze roam over him, taking in the subtle lines of his chest, the curve of his abs, the taut sweep of his obliques, the swell beneath the towel. The way his muscles flex as he shifts weight, forearms corded and veins faintly tracing, makes it impossible to look away. His thick fingers have been drumming an expeditious rhythm over the rim of the dryer.

Glen adjusts slightly, leaning more casually against the dryer, shoulder brushing yours ever so lightly. The touch is casual, but the heat it sends through you is immediate. He glances down at your hands on the basket, then back to your face, letting the brief silence stretch.

You try for a teasing tone. “Late night laundry again?”

He shrugs, smirk softening into something almost mischievous, but his body is alert, every movement deliberate. “You know me. Quiet hours, less chaos. Plus…” He lets the sentence hang, eyes flicking briefly down your chest before snapping back up with a half-smile. “…company’s better than I expected.”

Your pulse quickens at the casual delivery, the subtext humming in the air. He shifts again, towel brushing lightly against the dryer, calf flexing as he straightens just enough to occupy the space between you. You feel the warmth radiating off him, subtle but undeniable, the magnetic pull you’ve noticed before amplified tonight.

“Better than you expected?” you ask, voice low, letting the words hang like a challenge.

He tilts his head, smirk deepening faintly, curls of damp hair falling into his eyes. “Mmh,” he murmurs, voice smooth, playful, teasing but restrained. “Couldn’t have guessed.” He leans slightly closer under the pretense of reaching for detergent, shoulder grazing yours, thigh brushing the side of your leg. The touches are small, deliberate, and they make your stomach coil.

You adjust slightly, letting the brush of his arm linger. His eyes flick over you with that faint gleam you’ve come to recognize, lingering on your chest and hips, then back to your face. There’s no comment, no overt teasing. Just a quiet heat in his gaze that makes it impossible not to respond.

He shifts again, forearm brushing lightly against yours as he moves a basket aside, biceps flexing subtly, shoulder rolling. You notice the smooth sweep of his obliques, the corded ridges of his abs, the slight roll of his calves. Each movement feels intentional, even under the guise of normal motion, and your body tightens with awareness.

You glance at him, voice teasing softly. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Not your usual self.”

He smiles faintly, a flash of charm returning, eyes locking with yours, his voice softening each word. “Maybe I’m just… appreciating the moment,” he murmurs, voice low, carrying both mischief and a subtle intensity. He steps a fraction closer, towel brushing your hip for the briefest instant, letting the heat linger.

You shift too, drawn in, heart racing, every subtle movement between you magnifying the tension. Shoulder brushes, thigh grazes, fingertips trailing briefly over the dryer edge, all become part of a slow, magnetic push and pull.

Glen tilts his head again, letting his gaze linger on your chest and then back to your eyes, lips parting slightly. “You know,” he murmurs, voice husky, teasing but deliberate, “…I don’t think I can wait forever.” The words are casual, but the heat behind them is palpable.

You inhale sharply, pulse quickening, feeling the warmth of him close, the deliberate brush of his body, the faint, intoxicating scent of his skin, the weight of every glance and micro-movement pressing in. The air feels heavy, charged, and the pull between you is undeniable.

He steps back slightly, towel edge shifting, muscles rolling under damp skin, but the tension remains taut, vibrating in the space between you. Eyes meet, unspoken need threading through every small brush, every glance, every subtle, teasing motion. The room, the machines, the warm air; they all fade into the background. 

There is only you, him, and the slow-burning, feral desire that has built between you over weeks.

He shifts subtly, towel riding just a fraction higher as he adjusts, and for the first time tonight, you notice the undeniable swell beneath it. A thick, heavy line pressing against the fabric, straining slightly as if it’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have. Your pulse spikes instantly, heat pooling low, stomach tightening in anticipation. The small, deliberate touches before; shoulder grazes, thigh brushes, the casual linger of his hand near yours, suddenly take on a sharper edge, each one charged with intent.

His eyes flick down at the movement, just for a heartbeat, before meeting yours again. There’s a glint there, something teasing yet feral, a quiet acknowledgment of what’s growing between you. The faint curve of his lips, the flex of his biceps as he shifts weight, the subtle roll of his obliques, even the taut sweep of his calves; every line, every muscle seems accentuated, magnetic.

You swallow, awareness sharpening. The warmth of him close, the scent of his damp skin, the soft brush of his towel against your hip when he shifts just slightly, it’s all designed to pull you in, to make it impossible to look away.

He steps closer again, chest brushing against yours, just barely, and you feel the swell of him pressing against the thin fabric of your pajamas. His fingers graze the edge of your hip, almost absentmindedly, but the effect is electric. His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, letting you trace the line of his jaw, the curl of his damp hair, the faint tremble of his forearms as he moves.

A soft, low sound escapes his throat, almost a hum, as if he’s trying to steady himself. The smirk tugs at the corner of his lips again, but it’s tempered now with something raw, urgent. Every subtle shift, every muscle flex, every tilt of his head is a silent invitation, a wordless declaration of need.

You lean a little closer, drawn in by the gravity of him, pulse hammering, chest tight. Your hand brushes lightly over the edge of the basket, fingers trailing near his hand as if by accident. He doesn’t pull away; his thumb grazes yours in a fleeting contact, lingering just long enough to set nerves alight.

The heat between you coils tighter, unspoken, unavoidable. His towel shifts again, the swell beneath it pressing more insistently, undeniable now, a promise of the raw, feral desire that’s been simmering beneath the surface of these encounters. Every glance you trade, every brush of skin, every fraction of space between you seems to pulse with the inevitability of what’s coming.

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, voice low, smooth, drawl curling around each word. “Can’t lie,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinkin’ about this… about you… for weeks.” The words are slow, deliberate, vibrating through the tension like a spark in dry grass.

Your breath catches. The machines hum around you, the warm, humid air heavy and intimate, but they’re background now. All that exists is him, you, the weight of his presence, the growing, undeniable press beneath the towel, and the slow-burning need threading through every glance, every brush, every subtle movement that has led to this moment.

He shifts just enough that the swell presses against your hip, a deliberate, teasing contact, and you can feel it through your pajamas. His eyes track yours, dark and intent, lips parting slightly as if he’s testing himself, measuring restraint against impulse. And in that suspended moment, every small touch, every fleeting brush, every quiet glance converges into something feral, raw, and urgent. Something that will no longer be contained.

Your own fingers twitch near him, unaware, but ready. Heat coils low, pulse hammering, stomach tight. The slow, careful teasing of previous encounters collapses into a tension too thick to ignore. And just like that, the line between restraint and release snaps.

Your chest hammers as he shifts closer, shoulder pressing into yours, warmth radiating through the thin fabric of your pajamas. The machines hum steadily, but it all fades into the background. Glen’s towel edge nudges against your hip again, and you feel it. The thick, heavy swell pressing insistently, unmistakable.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes dark, lips parting just enough to reveal the flash of his teeth, and his warm breath brushes over yours. You catch the faint scent of soap and him, musky and intoxicating. Your own breathing quickens without thinking, shallow and hot, drawn into the space between you.

Slowly, he presses you back against the edge of the dryer, his chest close enough that you can feel every ridge of muscle through the towel. One hand rests lightly on the machine beside your head, the other near your hip, fingers brushing your pajamas in a subtle, deliberate sweep. You can feel the weight of his body, the heat pressing against yours, the strong line of his biceps and forearms.

Your gaze flicks down, just for a second, and your stomach twists. Glen’s other hand is moving over his own body beneath the towel, sliding over the thick length straining against the fabric. He swallows, and you catch him licking his lips, eyes flicking back up to yours. The swell beneath the towel is impossible to ignore, already hard and insistent, and it pulls at something deep inside you.

The silence stretches, broken only by your ragged breathing and the hum of the machines. He leans closer, chest nearly touching yours now, lips hovering a hair’s breadth from yours. His warm breath brushes across your mouth, teasing, hot, and the tiny movements; the tilt of his jaw, the dip of his shoulder, the deliberate brush of thigh against yours; send shivers down your spine.

“God…” he murmurs softly, voice thick, husky, almost lost under the weight of his own need. His tongue darts out quickly, licking his lips again, and you feel the small shift of his towel edge against your hip, the heat, the hardness of his cock pressing.

You can’t resist the pull. Your fingers rise slightly, brushing along the edge of his forearm, feeling the cords of muscle beneath, the tension rolling through him. Every subtle movement of his body: shoulders rolling, abs flexing, towel teasing; pulls at you, makes it impossible to think, impossible to stop the craving building between you.

Glen leans even closer, pressing you fully against the dryer now, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, chest warm and hard against yours. The air between your lips is thick, heavy, each inhale a soft caress, each exhale sending warmth onto his. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and magnetic, and the slightest tilt of his head seems to say more than words ever could.

The subtle, slow strokes of his hand beneath the towel, the press of his thigh, the warm breaths ghosting across your lips, all coil together into a tension so tight it almost hurts. Your heart races, stomach twisting low, pulse thundering. You’re acutely aware of every ridge of muscle, every vein along his forearms, every teasing ripple along his abs, and the swell beneath the towel pressing insistently against you.

The space between your lips shrinks, hovering, trembling, and the air feels electric, every heartbeat, every breath, every brush of skin amplifying the need building between you. The suspense stretches, taut and unbearable, until it feels like one small movement, one flicker of lips, could ignite the entire room.

Glen hesitates for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to yours, apprehensive and deciding, and then finally leans in. Your lips brush lightly at first, a tentative, feathered contact, and the air seems to catch between you. The warmth of his mouth, the soft press of his lips, the subtle pressure of his body against yours; it feels like a release of everything that’s been simmering, every stolen glance, every brushed shoulder, every teasing graze.

You respond instinctively, tilting your head, letting your lips melt against his, and the world shrinks to nothing but the press of him, the heat radiating through every inch of his damp, sculpted body. His hand slides along your hip, trailing lower for a moment, the heat and weight of him pressing into you in ways that leave you trembling.

The kiss deepens, slow at first, almost reverent. Your mouths move together, lips exploring, tasting, soft moans escaping against each other. His thumb brushes along the curve of your waist, teasing lightly, sending shivers down your spine. You feel the pleading, deliberate bulge pressing insistently beneath his towel, and a pulse of need shoots straight through you.

Then it shifts. Glen tilts his head, pushing forward with a quiet, commanding force that pulls you fully into him. His mouth opens slightly, teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue slides over yours in a slow, deliberate, wet exploration. Your own hands rise, brushing over his chest, tangling in his damp hair, and then hesitantly moving lower, fingers finding the thick swell of him straining against the towel.

“Drivin’ me insane,” he growls between kisses, voice low, hoarse, Texan drawl thick with desire. His hand drifts lower, brushing over your hip and teasing the curve of your ass, pressing you impossibly tight against him.

You moan softly against his mouth, fingers sliding beneath the towel to wrap around the thick swell pressing insistently in your palm. He shivers at the contact, hips pressing forward slightly, letting you stroke him through the fabric. A low, guttural sound vibrates through his chest and into yours, making your stomach coil.

“You feel too good,” he murmurs roughly, teasing and feral all at once, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for so long.”

Your breath hitches as his other hand grips the dryer beside your head, holding you in place. His body presses flush against yours, every ridge of muscle taut, every line of him sculpted and straining with desire. The smell of him, the warmth, the heat of his skin and sweat, the faint rustle of the towel. 

All of it coils tight inside you.

“Then don’t stop me,” you whisper against his lips, letting your tongue push against his briefly before pulling back to breathe. Your hand continues its movements along his thick cock, stroking slowly, testing, teasing, feeling the weight of him pulse beneath your palm.

He groans, hips pressing harder, towel shifting, cock pressing insistently against your palm. “Oh, you’re killing me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your lower lip, tongue dueling yours in a messy, wet rhythm. “I’ve been imagining this… imagining you… everything about you.”

Your moans mingle, breaths hitching, hearts hammering, as his hands roam over your body: shoulder, hip, ass, waist—claiming, testing, grounding you in him. 

Every movement is deliberate, but raw, feral, impossible to ignore. His lips move over yours, tongue tracing yours with a heated dominance, pressing, dragging, claiming, while his cock stiffens further in your hand, heavy and hard.

“You’re too… perfect,” he mutters between gasps, voice thick and ragged. “God, I need… I need you.”

You tilt your head, letting your tongue slide against his, hand moving faster, teasing harder, and the groan that rumbles through him makes your chest tighten even more. The slow, deliberate teasing of weeks collapses into urgent, primal energy. Mouths, hands, heat, and need colliding.

He leans back slightly just to pull you flush against him, pressing you impossibly close, and whispers, lips grazing yours: “I swear… you’re mine tonight.”

You can feel the weight of him against you, chest pressed impossibly close, every ridge of muscle taut, corded, alive beneath your palms. His lips brush yours again, softer this time, almost teasing, and you shiver at the warmth and heat radiating from his body. Every small movement, the tilt of his head, the brush of his shoulder, the way his hips press lightly into yours, sends sparks of want coiling through your stomach.

Glen’s hands move slowly at first, trailing down your sides, brushing over your hips, fingers teasing the curve of your ass, and you instinctively arch into him as you have your pajama top and bottom undone by him. His breath fans over your ear, hot and ragged, teasing your neck as he murmurs low, almost in a growl: “Been waitin’ for this… been wantin’ every inch of you.”

Your fingers twitch, wanting, needing to touch him, to feel him fully. You shift your hands to his waist, brushing the damp hair at the nape of his neck, letting your touch wander over the warmth of his skin, down the line of his abs, the subtle swell of his cock pressing through the towel. His body shudders under your fingertips, hips flexing slightly, veins standing out along the length of him, and the sharp, delicious swell makes you ache to take him fully into your hands.

He lets out a low hum, a sound vibrating against your chest, before leaning down just enough to press a sloppy, wet kiss to your mouth. Your lips melt together, tongue brushing in a slow, teasing dance, the heat between you thick and electric. The faint scrape of teeth, the slick press of tongues, the way he shifts closer, pressing harder, teasing and demanding, makes your body coil tight with want.

Your hand drifts instinctively to the edge of his towel, hesitating only for a heartbeat before tugging it down completely, letting your eyes drink in him fully: chest glistening with sweat, abs taut, arms flexing slightly with the effort of just holding himself near you, cock hard and heavy, already throbbing with need. His breath catches when he sees the look in your eyes, and a low groan escapes him, deep and hungry, as he presses forward, hips nudging insistently against you.

You smirk against his lips, tilting your head to tease, brushing your palm over his cock, slick with pre-cum, and whispering teasingly, “Was this all part of the plan? Had this lube ready for me all along?”

Glen groans, a ragged, guttural sound that vibrates through your chest, tilting his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded and molten. “Damn straight I did,” he hisses, voice low and thick with need. “Been thinkin’ about this, dreamin’ ‘bout it every night.”

You slide your hand down over his thick cock, slick with pre-cum, and adding a thin layer of lube as your fingers wrap around him. The first slow stroke makes him shiver, lean forward into you, and let out a guttural groan. His lips crash against yours again, wet, sloppy, tongue wrestling yours as he presses his body flush against yours. You coat your palm with spit, dragging it over the head and down the length of him, and he hisses, deep in his throat, curling his fingers into your hair as your hand slides faster, heavier.

“Feel too good,” he rasps between kisses, hips nudging forward just enough to remind you of his hardness. His balls slap lightly against your palm with each pulse, thick and heavy, and every time you wrap your fingers fully around him, the slick sound makes a wet echo in the small room. You tease him, flicking the tip, letting your hand slide back down, and he groans, tilting his head to press a sloppy kiss to your jaw. “Too… good.”

You move more aggressively now, thumb stroking the sensitive underside, fingers tightening just slightly as you drag upward. He growls into your mouth, muffled, rolling his hips with yours, letting you feel every swell, every vein pulsing under your grip. “Damn… keep that up,” he murmurs, “Don’t stop till I tell you.”

He steps back slightly, just enough to grip your hips and tilt you against the edge of the machine, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Your fingers drag over his veins, slick and pulsing, thumb brushing the glistening tip. Every hiss and groan, every small tug of your palm along his length, draws a low, feral rumble from deep in his chest. He presses his mouth to yours again, tongue sliding over yours in a wet, sloppy claim.

Your strokes grow heavier, wetter, the sound of slick fingers dragging up and down his cock mixing with his ragged breathing, his teeth grazing your lips, his tongue sliding over yours in messy, desperate kisses. Heat coils between you, muscles tensed, and the tension snaps tighter with every pulse of him beneath your palm.

A low groan vibrates from his chest as his hands wander over your back and sides, tilting your head, tugging gently at your hair, drawing a shiver from your spine. “You feel too good,” he utters, voice thick with want. “The way you move… it drives me insane.”

Your hand tightens around him, thumb brushing the sensitive tip, while he presses forward into your palm, letting his pelvis roll just enough to urge you onward. He tilts his head back, pressing sloppy kisses along your jaw, dragging his tongue over yours, teeth grazing softly, heat and slick friction building between you.

Glen shifts slightly, pressing you against the edge of the machine, letting you feel his full length in your grip. “Can’t wait any longer…” he mutters, voice rough and low, lips trailing over your neck, tasting the mix of sweat and lube. You squeeze him, sliding your palm faster, wet sounds echoing in the room as his breathing deepens, groans rolling from his chest with each pulse.

Leaning closer, you press sloppy kisses along his jaw, dragging your tongue over him, teeth grazing lightly, and he groans, pressing back against you. His hands thread into your hair, holding you as your strokes grow firmer, slick sounds mixing with ragged moans and the vibration of his chest against yours.

Heat coils between you, feral and unrelenting. His hands drift lower, brushing over your thighs, teasing the line of skin slick from your shower. His humming groan vibrates through your body, and he shifts, pressing you more firmly against the machine, drawing you forward with subtle but insistent motions.

With a low, throaty growl, Glen drops to his knees, spreading your thighs and tilting your hips so his tongue brushes over your entrance. A shiver races through you, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth across your skin. Fingers trail upward, sliding inside slowly, testing and preparing you. The deep hum of his voice mixes with the slick sounds and your sharp breaths, anchoring you in the intensity building between you.

Glen drops to his knees, pressing your thighs apart slightly, and tilts your hips so you can feel his tongue brush over your entrance. You shiver, toes curling, spine arching, as he teases you with soft, wet flicks, spreading slick warmth over you. Fingers trail upward to tease the sensitive rim, slipping inside slowly, testing, pressing, preparing you. Every groan from him vibrates through your pelvis.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the curve of your ass. His tongue drags over the slick center, finger sliding inside, stretching and teasing. You moan, pressing your chest into the machine, letting him explore, and he groans again, thumb brushing your clenching hole.

You bite your lip, sliding your hand over your cock as he laps and presses, “Damn, you’ve been imagining this, haven’t you?” He hums low, rough, pressing his tongue harder, fingers curling inside you, coating you slick. “Every night. Every moment,” he rasps, tugging your hair lightly, commanding, possessive.

Glen presses his forehead against your back for leverage, fingers pumping inside you as his tongue and mouth explore, licking, sucking, tasting every inch. Your breathing accelerates, moans escaping in a messy rhythm with his low, guttural sounds. The lube and saliva mix, slick and wet, dripping, coating you both as he continues teasing and fingering you.

“You ready for me?” Glen murmurs, pulling back slightly, eyes gleaming, cock glistening, balls pressing against your ass with each pulse. You arch, answering with a soft moan, and he growls low, dragging a hand over your back, then the nape of your neck, pressing you flush against him.

His fingers curl around your wrists briefly, pressing lightly as he positions you, bent over the washing machine, legs trembling slightly under the anticipation. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and feral. “Gonna take you so hard… gonna make you mine right here.”

Glen’s hands stay firm on your wrists for a moment longer before turning you in place, pressing you against the edge of the machine and bending you over. You can feel the warmth of his body behind you, the heat radiating off his damp skin, muscles flexing as he leans closer. It contrasts sharply to the cold steel platform. His breath brushes your neck, warm and heavy, carrying the faint tang of sweat and lube from earlier, and your chest rises and falls in quickened anticipation.

He shifts slightly, hands sliding down your arms to your elbows, fingers curling lightly, testing, teasing, brushing the backs of your thighs. The tension coils tighter with each small touch, every inch of him pressed so close behind you that you can feel the outline of his cock against the curve of your ass, pulsing in eager anticipation.

Glen’s lips trail along the side of your neck, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking across the warm skin. “Damn… you smell so good,” he groans. “Makes it hard to wait…” His voice drops lower, thickening slightly with desire, and you feel his cock shifting against your body, hardening further with each breath.

Your hips press back slightly, brushing against him, testing, teasing, and he groans, hand moving to the curve of your hip, pressing you flush against him. “Little teaser,” he mutters, thumb brushing over your slickened entrance. You bite your lip, moaning softly, “I’m not teasing… I’m ready for you.”

He shifts closer, pressing his chest into your back, fingers grazing your ass, thumbs spreading lightly, warming your skin, making your stomach tighten in nervous anticipation. “Gonna feel so good inside you,” he murmurs, voice rough, low. His hips brush against yours, cock teasing, pulsing insistently as he aligns himself, letting you feel the weight and heat of him.

Glen presses lightly into your back with his hands, tilting his pelvis, letting you feel the tip of him nudging at your entrance. The anticipation makes your legs tremble, hips arching slightly as you catch a slick glimpse of what’s waiting. You inhale sharply, gripping the machine harder, voice trembling, “Glen… please… now…”

He hums against your neck, cock pressing insistently, fingers kneading your hips firmly, flexing muscles guiding you closer, until with a slow, deliberate push, he slides the tip of his cock against your slick entrance. The first push slides in with a wet, squelching sound that makes your stomach clench and your toes curl, the stretch pulling tight around him. You gasp sharply, gripping the edge of the machine as your body arches instinctively, spine bending under the new sensation.

Glen leans over your back, nipping lightly at your shoulder, murmuring low, “Fuck, you’re so tight… so perfect for me.” His hands grip your hips firmly, pressing you down just enough to keep your chest against the machine, cock sinking deeper inch by inch. The wet squelch echoes in the small room as he shifts slightly, testing, making sure you’re stretched fully around him.

Your breathing quickens, sharp and uneven, hips rolling back reflexively to meet him as his hands knead your hips, flexing muscles guiding each movement. “Feels so good,” you breathe, words coming in broken moans, “Glen… Shit, it’s so big… I can feel all of you.”

He growls low in response, cock pulsing deep, balls slapping wetly against your ass with every measured push. “Mine,” he hisses, voice thick with need. “Mine to fill, mine to fuck till you scream.” He presses a hand to the small of your back, dragging you flush against him as he begins slow, deliberate strokes, letting the slick sound of skin sliding against skin fill the air.

Each thrust stretches you wider, muscles clenching around him, ass bouncing slightly with the wet slaps of his cock. You moan, fingers gripping the machine, hips pressing back, stroking yourself in time with him. “Glen… please… harder,” you gasp, arching further, body trembling with desire.

His voice is rough and demanding. “Oh, I’m just getting started,” he mutters, tugging your hair lightly, letting his hand roam down to press against the curve of your ass, teasing and slapping with calculated force. “Gonna make you mine so deep… you won’t even remember your own name.”

With a sharp groan, he shifts, planting one foot beside your head on the floor, pressing lightly, keeping your face angled as he drives in harder. The squelch of your slick and his lube fills the room, each slap and thrust thundering through your core. He grips your hips and your hair with his toes, tugging you flush against his thigh, holding you in place while his thick, juicy cock slides deep, stretching and filling you completely to the brim.

You whimper, voice high, body trembling, and manage, “Glen… I can’t… it’s too much… fuck…” He hums low in satisfaction, pressing his hand into the small of your back to keep you steady, each drive deeper and sharper, balls smacking wetly against your ass.

He keeps one foot pressed against your face, weight shifting as he flexes, cock sliding with wet, sticky sounds, dragging your lips over the floor slightly, pulling you closer, and groaning, “That’s it… take it all… mine.” Your tongue flicks against the arch of his foot involuntarily, tasting sweat and the faint metallic tang of exertion, and he growls, cock twitching deeper inside you.

Your nails dig into the edge of the machine as his hips snap harder, skin slapping, veins pulsing along his thick cock. “Glen… I… I’m gonna cum soon,” you gasp, voice ragged, body jerking with each thrust.

“Not yet,” he hisses, pressing the back of your head with his foot, tilting it down slightly, and then shifting to tug your hair to control you. “Gonna make you beg, make you feel every inch of me.” His hand presses into your ass, fingers digging in as he slaps, rolls his hips hard, driving in a deep, rhythmic cadence that sends shivers down your spine.

You cry out, mouth opening around the foot when it returns back to stamping you against the machine, toes curling, body shivering with overstimulation as his cock drives in wet, slick strokes, stretching you thoroughly, ass bouncing under his firm grip. “Yes… oh, God… Glen… harder… please…”

He leans forward once he releases his foot off your face, teeth grazing your shoulder, hips snapping relentlessly. “You like it rough, huh? Like a good little whore for me?” His voice is low, guttural, and the sound of skin slapping and slick squelches echo in the small room, blending with your moans.

“Yeah… oh, fuck, yes…” you moan, clinging around him, hips grinding back slightly to meet his thrusts, slick heat coating your bodies, fingers digging into the machine and the curve of his ass.

He shifts slightly, pressing one hand into the small of your back, the other twisting gently around your wrist, yanking one behind your back, keeping you completely under his control. You’re beginning to lose grip on the laundry machine, fingertips stained with budding sweat. “Mine,” he hisses, cock pounding relentlessly, balls slapping, veins throbbing. “All mine.”

You gasp, moaning against the contained hum of the laundry machine, trembling, hips rocking instinctively back, slipping your hand down to stroke your own cock, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Glen… I’m… gonna—”

He groans, snapping hips hard, cock plunging deep, and mutters, “Let go. Cum for me, slut. Mine to ruin.” The machine rocks under the force, slick sounds mixing with groans, skin slapping, and the wet slide of cock inside ass.

Your back arches, toes curling, body trembling, voice cracking with pleasure as you hit the edge, hips jerking, fingers curling around the machine and your own cock, cum spilling, hot and sticky all over the public utility machine.

Glen keeps driving, slow and deliberate now, letting you ride out your release before he shifts, thrusting deep and hard again, cock pulsing, balls slapping wetly, voice low and ragged. “So fucking good… mine… all mine…”

You whimper, body exhausted but still quivering, ass clenching tightly around him, slick dripping down both of you. His thrusts become rougher, more feral, pulling you flush against him, cock plunging with force, hands controlling your hair, back, wrists.

“Fuck.”

Glen groans low, cock pulsing violently as he bottoms out deep inside you, hips shuddering, his release spilling thick and hot, filling you completely. Your body quivers, pressed hard against the machine, ass clenching reflexively around him as the first ropes of his cum press deep into you. He groans, voice ragged, teeth grazing your shoulder as his cock twitches, pumping more deep inside, coating your inner walls with every violent pulse.

The heat of him inside you is relentless, cock throbbing, veins standing out sharply as he continues to breed you, the wet, sticky mess filling you so thoroughly it leaks down your thighs in thick, glistening strands. You moan, body shaking uncontrollably, legs trembling as his cum runs down your slickened skin, dripping in rivulets, leaving a shiny trail along your thighs and calves.

Glen leans closer, pressing his chest against your back and slumping himself over fully, nose brushing your neck, hands gripping your hips tightly, cock still twitching and pulsing inside you. He pants in your ear, beads of sweat, either from yours or his rolling down your body as the two of you catch your breath, “Mine… all of it… all inside you.” His voice was rough with exhaustion and raw pleasure. You gasp, back arching, toes curling, fingers digging into the machine as the thick, sticky heat continues to coat you from the inside out, pooling and dripping down in warm, wet streams.

Finally, he slows, cock heavy and softening only slightly but still filling you, hips rocking slowly to spread every last drop of cum inside. You tremble, utterly spent, legs slick and coated, ass dripping with warmth, chest pressed into the machine, completely overwhelmed by the mess and fullness. He hums against your neck, hot breath mingling with yours, every inch of his feral release leaving its mark on your body, leaving you drenched, coated, and utterly his.

Glen keeps you bent over the edge of the washing machine, cock still nestled deep inside, one hand pressing your hip to steady you, the other braced on the machine. Your legs wobble under you, thighs slick with his cum dripping in thick strings down to the floor. He shifts slightly, letting the last pulses of his release fill you completely, coating you from the inside out.

You gasp, gripping the machine edge, ass quivering as he rocks gently, still pressing into you to spread the warmth. “God… you’re full,” he mutters, teeth brushing the curve of your shoulder in a brief, sharp nip, just enough to make you shiver. Thick, sticky cum runs down your thighs, and you can feel it glistening along the backs of your legs, pooling slightly where you’re bent over.

You press back slightly, still trembling, cum and sweat slick across your thighs. “You really didn’t hold back, did you?” you manage to gasp, voice ragged but playful.

Glen smirks against the curve of your shoulder, one hand still on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the slick sheen. “Damn right… didn’t figure I’d let you get away clean,” he murmurs, voice low but teasing.

You moan softly, breath uneven, slick skin pressing against his, feeling the last remnants of him ooze out in thick, warm strings. His hands knead lightly over your hips and ass, pressing you down, spreading the mess over your skin, marking you completely.

You let out a shaky laugh, shivering, “Guess I should’ve known you’d come prepared for this.”

He grins, pressing a quick, rough kiss to the back of your neck. “Prepared? Hell, I always know what I want… and I never let it go,” he says, eyes glinting as he shifts slightly, keeping you bent over the machine, the mess still dripping between you.

You nudge him lightly with your hip, teasing, “You’re lucky I like a little chaos in my life.”

“Chaos suits you,” he replies, tone playful, almost approving, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But don’t think this is the last time…”

You catch his gaze, heat still thrumming through your body, and let out a soft laugh. “Yeah? I think I might just hold you to that.”

He hums in agreement, fingers still lingering on your hip, chest pressing against your back, and the small, charged pause between you leaves the promise of more. 

Feral, messy, and thrillingly unspoken.

Taller than a man should be. Limbs long, pale skin glowing faintly in the candlelight, angles too sharp and precise to be natural. His eyes lock on you, glossy black orbs that seem to pull your breath from your lungs. Whether he was moving towards you, or you were moving towards him; all sense of reality had been buried beneath the hunger that radiated off of him, pressing into your chest like a physical weight.

“Sir, your dinner—”

Before you can step back, his long fingers curl around your jaw, tilting your head toward him. Your mouth opens on instinct. Words failed you, but this—this monster of a man had bewitched, pulling sounds out of you with a hard squeeze to your cheeks. A croak, a whimper, an unwilling moan. 

Either way, it wasn’t your own doing. 

A low growl rolls from his chest, resonant, commanding. Every muscle in your body tightens and trembles. You feel his cold hand sweep across your torso, brushing up your ribs, along your stomach, tracing your chest before moving to your waist. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage.

Then he grips your wrist and drags your hand down to his groin. “Touch it,” he commands, voice low and dark, vibrating through you. You hesitate, eyes wide, chest hammering, but his hand guides yours, pressing it against the impossible length of him.

Thick, veined, and slick with pre-cum, his cock pulses in your palm. You gasp, instinctively jerking your hand back from the startling introduction that was Count Orlok’s lust before he catches you at light-speed, forcing your hand back onto him. Warm, sticky fluid leaks freely, dripping down your hand, some sliding along your wrist and forearm.

The smell is pungent, musky, impossibly intimate, filling your nostrils. Spit glistens at the tip, and when he guides your fingers along it, you can feel just how wet he is. Slick and slippery, coating your palm in his sticky essence.

“Is it too much for you?” he asks, eyes black and glinting in the candlelight. His grip on your wrist tightens, leaving no escape. He’s cupping your hand beneath his large shaft, spreading his slick so its endless supply wouldn’t be wasted on the cold, stone floor.

You swallow hard, trying to resist, but your voice trembles. “I… it’s… a lot…”

He chuckles low, a guttural, predatory sound that makes your chest shiver. “Good,” he growls. “It should feel impossible. You will hold it, and you will feel everything…”

“Fear…” 

He guides your finger over the wet slit once again.

“Agony…” 

Thick, squelching sounds of his pre-cum ring in your ears as he rubs the plump head at the center of your palm. He then brings your hand to your face. 

“Turmoil…” 

The smell of his desire to demolish you is tangible as he marks his scent on your body with a sedated smear across your cheek, sinking you down onto your knees against your own will.

“Rapture.”

And pushes your mouth open with his large cock, an unyielding strength to his hips. 

The tip presses against the back of your throat, impossibly thick, veined, and slick, and you gag on the first inch alone. 

Your lips are stretched wide around him, jaw aching, tongue flattened under the weight of his length. You gasp around him, tasting the salty, metallic tang of his pre-cum. It coats your tongue and dribbles down your chin, mixing with your saliva. You lick it quickly, swallowing some of the thick warmth, your senses flooded, and ground your knees to stabilize yourself against his gearing domination.

“Good. That’s it,” he growls, fingers pressing firmly into the sides of your head. “Take all of me.”

Every pulse makes him throb in your mouth, heavy, hot, impossibly large. Your cheeks strain, jaw trembling, tongue pressed flat as he fills every inch of your mouth. The slick from him makes your lips slide effortlessly, every ridge and vein pressing into your tongue and the roof of your mouth.

“Warm,” he murmurs low, teeth grazing your lips. “So perfect around me.”

A low growl vibrates through him as he begins to move. First small, testing thrusts push deeper, stretching your throat, pulling a wet gasp from your lips. Salty warmth floods your mouth. He sets a steady, punishing rhythm. Each thrust drives the tip to the back of your throat, forcing your jaw to open wider, stretching you further than you thought possible. Your lips are slick, saliva dripping down your chin and chest as he fucks your mouth without mercy, fucking into your gags.

You yanked your head back to protest, sniffling excess tears that Count Orlok’s cock had driven out of you, “I… I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You will. Every inch of you belongs to me.”

You gag around him once again, sound vibrating up through your teeth, tongue dragging along the underside when he forces your head back down to meet with his thrusts. Your hand wraps around the base of his shaft, pressing into the slick skin, coating yourself with his pre-cum. 

Every pulse, every hard thrust presses heat through your chest, spine, and throat. Your mouth is full, stretched, slick, entirely consumed by him.

“Look at you,” he breathes, low and guttural. “Dripping, stretched, taking me completely. You love it, don’t you?”

“Yes… yes,” you manage between gasps, lips slick, throat burning, your cock swelling within the captivity of your tightening trousers. 

He leans down slightly, teeth grazing your lips, voice commanding. He drives into your mouth with relentless pressure, hips grinding, cock pulsing. The taste of him, salty, metallic, thick, fills your senses. Your jaw aches, tongue pressed flat, throat stretched beyond comfort, and you moan around him, every gasp mixing with the slick heat that coats your mouth and chin.

“You feel so good around me,” he growls, voice vibrating through you. “Every inch, every pulse, every slick stretch. Mine.”

You feel the weight of his length in your mouth, heavy and unrelenting. Each thrust presses deeper, veins rolling under your fingers as you stroke him. He growls low, every motion measured but punishing, driving your senses into overload. Your mouth waters, slicking him further, coating his cock in spit as he fucks you without mercy.

“Suck me. Both hands. Taste me. Learn how I feel.”

You gasp again, trembling, trying to obey. Your fingers move rapidly, gliding along the thick, slick shaft in trailing the steps of your mouth. Every inch leaks, coating your palm and mouth with warm, sticky heat. You can feel it pulse in your grip heavy, throbbing and leaking as you squeeze that bewitching salty juice out of him.

“Harder,” he commands, voice low and vibrating. “Do not let go. You are mine.”

“I… I’m trying…” you stammer, chest rising and falling, heart hammering. Every movement makes him pulse harder, dribble more freely. You can feel beads of thick pre-cum slipping down your tongue as you stroke him over your panting, his eyes and grip ravenous in between the seconds it took you from being an unwilling help to a hungry whore.

Satisfied with your compliance, he pulls your hands back, letting them rest at your sides. Cold fingers sweep down your torso again, dragging up your chest, gripping your shoulders, forcing you to lean back against him. “Now you,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble, while baring teeth over a prominent vein in your neck, “are mine to use.” 

With deliberate force, he rips at your clothing, tearing fabric against skin. Your shirt and trousers vanish under his long, powerful fingers, leaving you exposed and shivering. The cold air hits your naked chest and groin, goosebumps rising along your spine. His eyes roam hungrily over every inch of your body, lingering on your slick, leaking cock, thighs spread wide. A low growl vibrates from his chest as he drags your underwear down in one swift motion, tossing it aside. Your skin presses to his, every movement deliberate, claiming, marking you completely before he even touches you again.

He lifts you effortlessly with impossible strength, spreading your legs wide, and tilting your hips upward to show off that hungry hole of yours to an audience of ghosts. His cock presses against your hole, slick with spit and pre. Inch by inch, he fills you. Your walls stretch, clench, and pulse around him. You gasp and tremble, legs flailing as he has you pressed against his chest, suspended in the air.

A long, cold finger slides along your slick entrance, teasing, pressing just at the rim. You jerk, wetness coating his hand, slicking every inch. He chuckles low, pushing a second finger in slowly, stretching you further, opening you up, while his cock remains pressed teasingly at the tip. Every pulse, every push of his fingers makes your walls squeeze around both him and his digits, slick, quivering, and impossibly tight.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice low and commanding. “So wet, so ready… every inch of you for me.”

“O-oh, lord…”

Your hips press forward instinctively, desperate for more, and he curls his fingers inside you, sliding slowly, stretching, milking, and slicking. Your cock leaks freely, dripping down over his chest, mixing with spit and pre-cum, as he teases your hole with his long digits, warming it for the full depth to come.

Suspended in his arms, you feel the full weight of him pressing against your chest and back, impossibly heavy, each muscle coiled and alive. One leg hooks over his forearm, the other swings open, exposing yourself completely. Every inch of your skin is slick: sweat, spit, and the incessant leak of your own cock running down your pelvis, dripping into the small of your thighs.

He lines himself up, tip pressing at your entrance, slick and warm. Slowly, impossibly, he pushes in, lowers you down onto him, inch by inch. Your walls stretch, clench, and pulse instinctively, tight and slick around him. You gasp as heat blooms between your legs, thighs trembling, slick dripping down onto his chest. Pressure builds deep inside, stretching you to your limit while a delicious ache spreads through your core.

“O-oh… my…” you gasp, eyes widening as heat blooms between your legs. Thighs tremble, slick dripping down onto his chest. Sharp, stretching pressure coils through you, a delicious ache that bites and burns, yet feels impossibly good. Every inch he sinks deeper makes your chest heave, body quivering with tension and arousal.

Your eyes catch his, wide and dark, and for a moment the room disappears. Pain and pleasure collide, searing and slick, and you realize you are bewitched, enthralled by the sensation of being stretched, taken, held utterly by him. Your fingers clutch his shoulders instinctively, knuckles white, body suspended between aching and dripping desire.

He growls low, deep, eyes flashing, and you shiver at the weight and heat of him inside you. Cock dribbles along your stomach, leaking freely as your walls pulse around his thick, slick length. Every movement presses into your chest and spine, leaving you trembling, helpless, and completely mesmerized by the exquisite tension of his dominance.

He tilts your hips slightly, dragging the tip of his cock across your tight, slick hole. A tremor runs through you as walls stretch, clench, and pulse instinctively, attempting to hug the he. His fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back, lips brushing your ear. “Do you feel it?” he growls. “Do you feel how completely I occupy you?”

You gasp, body shuddering as slick coats your walls, warmth pooling and dripping between your legs. “Y-yes… I feel it…” you manage, voice trembling, breath ragged. Hips jerk instinctively against him, desperate to take more, to feel him fully. His cock presses deeper, heavy and hot, spreading you further, stretching you in ways that sting and thrill at the same time. Fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your head back, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. 

A low groan rumbles from him, vibrating through your chest. “That’s it… take me… all of me,” he growls. Heat, slick, weight, and tension press through you, your walls quivering, pulsing around him as you whimper, lost between pleasure and exquisite, consuming stretch.

He shifts beneath you, and the motion sends a slow ripple of pressure through your stretched walls. Heat spreads through your pelvis, not sharp but molten, like your body is learning his shape. A tremor moves up your thighs; your cock leaks against his stomach with a helpless twitch that makes your breath falter.

When he adjusts your hips, the change in angle forces you open a little more. Your hole parts around him, swollen and slick, clinging to the breadth of his cock. The sound of itl; wet, obscene, echoing off cold stone, makes your spine lock in place.

“You’re spilling down my chest,” he murmurs against your skin, voice resonant enough to vibrate through your ribs. His breath ghosts over your throat as his cock throbs inside you. “I can feel how you react to me. How badly you want this.”

His hands roam with deliberate possession: a broad palm presses into the arch of your lower back, guiding your chest closer to him; the other drags down your inner thigh until his knuckles brush the underside of your leaking cock. The contact is maddening: light, teasing, meant to remind you who controls the pace. The slightest tilt of his wrists shifts the depth you take him, forcing you to mold around him again and again.

Pre-cum trickles down his shaft and slides deeper inside you, mingling with his spit and the mess slicking your hole. A trace of it coats your lips from earlier, warm and metallic on your tongue. His scent thickens around you: musk, sweat, and the sharp salt of his cock. The mixture hits you hard enough to make your eyelids flutter. Your breath breaks into gasps and low, involuntary moans each time he moves.

He drags you higher against his chest, hips pressing forward in a slow grind that pushes him deeper than before. The stretch borders on too much, a fierce ache that turns your thighs weak and your pulse unsteady. Your cock smears slick across his abdomen, sticky trails gliding over his cool skin. His fingers anchor into your hips, unyielding, while he adjusts you to an angle that makes your hole tighten around him without meaning to.

A low, hungry sound rumbles from him. “You open beautifully,” he says, voice curling darkly around the words. His cock swells inside you, thick and heavy, veins dragging along your walls as if marking you from the inside. “And all of it… offered to me.”

He shifts you sideways, then back, then forward again, rotating your body with supernatural ease. The movement twists your insides around him, leaving you trembling, breath hitching with each pass of a ridge along your inner walls. Your cock paints streaks of pre-cum over his torso as your back arches involuntarily, muscles quivering.

“Mine,” he growls when another pulse squeezes him, deeper this time. “Feel how you take me.”

The wet, slick thuds of his cock plunging into you echo in the cold room, punctuated by your ragged gasps and high, trembling moans. Flesh slaps against flesh with a rhythmic, punishing cadence, walls clenching desperately around him, dripping slick squelches marking each thrust. His growls vibrate deep in your chest, guttural and low, rolling through your bones as he drags you down onto him. Your cock spurts freely, dribbling against his stomach, joining the slick chorus of spit, pre, and sliding skin. Hips slam, angle shifts, walls tighten and pulse, and the combination of wet, slick, stretching, and grinding fills the air with an intoxicating, filthy symphony of domination and surrender.

He lifts you higher, hips angled upward, and lowers you again with a slow, consuming push. The penetration drags heat through your core, stretching you open until your thighs shake uncontrollably. Slick runs down your spine, along your crack, pooling where your bodies meet. Your cock dribbles without pause, dripping hot trails that slide over both your stomach and his.

His mouth grazes your neck, lips warm, breath cool. Teeth press into the crook just below your jaw. Your body jerks helplessly when he bites lightly, a sharp contrast to the thick heat pressing inside you. His hold tightens on your thighs, forcing them to part wider, stretching you in a way that sends a dizzy wave up your spine.

The rhythm he finds is torturous. Deep, unhurried, pushing right against the place that makes your breath stutter. His cock drags along every sensitive ridge inside you, slow enough for you to feel the veins slide through the slick mess coating your hole. Your chest heaves against his, sweat gathering between your bodies, your pulse rattling under his mouth.

Time slips. Your body hanging suspended between his hands, stretched and shaking, your hole clinging desperately around the relentless width inside you. Slick coats your thighs; the smell of sex thickens the air. The pressure builds with each deliberate grind of his hips, tension gathering low in your spine and crawling upward.

He rotates you again, slower this time, savoring the way you gasp at the change in angle. His thrusts sink deeper, each one stealing a sound from your throat. Your cock releases another hot spurt over his stomach, then another, dripping down his side.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, grazing your ear with his lips as he rocks you down onto him. “Stretched open… shaking in my hands… desperate to be used.”

A weak, breathless sound breaks from you. “I—I feel you everywhere…” you manage, voice thin with need. “Please… don’t stop…”

His fingers dig harder into your hips, dragging your body flush against his. “Good,” he growls, pushing deeper until your vision sparks. “Then give yourself to me. All of you.”

His pace becomes a slow, punishing grind, drawing everything from you. Your voice, your breath, the heat gathering under your skin. You tremble in his hold, stretched wide, soaked, overwhelmed, completely possessed by the monstrous, intoxicating thickness pulsing inside your body.

He presses deeper one last time, grinding slow, deliberate, until your walls cannot contain the tension anymore. Every nerve spikes, and your cock finally spurts, your walls clamping and quivering in effect. You shudder violently, trembling in his arms, completely coated in a light sheen of sweat that’s illuminated by the candlelights, completely undone, and owned as he picks up his speed.

He grinds into you with unrelenting force, dragging you through your own orgasm as your walls clamp, quiver, and pulse around him. Slick slides between you, mixing your leaking cock with his pre-cum, coating your hole and thighs in a hot, sticky sheen. Your moans choke and splutter, muffled against his chest as he hammers deeper, each thrust forcing another shiver from your trembling body. You’re suspended in him, stretched impossibly wide, and the feeling of your walls squeezing down, milking him of his imposing desire to absolutely ruin you. Wreck you, and it drives him further over the edge.

Then it comes. 

His release. 

Violent and unrestrained. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood into your tight, slick hole, spurting and filling you so fully it burns deliciously, dripping over your thighs and sliding down your stomach to mix with your own slick. He growls low, hips pistoning, veins pulsing, until his cock quivers violently inside you, slick, hot, sticky, marking you completely. The scent, taste, and weight of him overwhelms you; your own body trembles under the torrent as your walls clamp instinctively, milking and dripping with his cum and yours, a filthy, leaky testament to his domination.

Warm, thick strands of his cum drip from your stretched hole, mingling with your own slick as gravity pulls it down your thighs. Each movement, each tremble of your spent body, squeezes more of him from inside you, coating your stomach and chest with sticky, glistening heat. You whimper helplessly, his hot cum running between your legs, your own down over your cock, and onto the cold stone below. The sensation is relentless, overwhelming, your walls still clench, quiver, and pulse around the last lingering spurts, marking you completely as his, leaving you dripping, trembling, and utterly wrecked.

You sag against him, suspended and trembling, every nerve still afire, every muscle quivering from the relentless stretch and slick pressure. His hands, impossibly strong and precise, cradle you now with something softer, though still demanding. 

Fingers trace along your ribs, your back, your thighs, lingering just enough to remind you that you’re still his, even as the violence of the act fades.

Your cock leaks weakly, slick still coating your stomach and chest, walls still contracting, and your mind spins in a haze of heat and trembling. Orlok’s breath fans across your neck, warm and heavy, carrying the scent of him that still makes your pulse spike, even in the quiet.

“You did well,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a whisper now, though still impossibly commanding. His lips brush the shell of your ear, teeth grazing lightly, sending another shiver through your spent body. “All of it… yours to take.”

You swallow, voice ragged, “I… I’m yours.”

A faint hum of satisfaction vibrates through him. His arms shift slightly, adjusting your weight, lowering you so your feet touch the cold stone. Every inch of your body still feels stretched, slick, alive, reminding you of every pulse, every thrust, every slick rotation you just endured.

He doesn’t speak again, but his presence presses into you, weight, warmth, control. 

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he loosens his grip on your hips, letting you settle into the aftermath. Your body quivers, exhausted yet impossibly sensitive, and a low moan escapes your lips as your cock dribbles faintly, walls still milking memories of him.

Even in the quiet, even in the stillness, you know the mark of him. His weight, his cock, his control, it’s branded on you like hot steel. Every nerve, every slick, stretched inch, every tremble is a reminder: you are his, utterly and irreversibly, and the memory will linger long after the night fades.

You draw in a shuddering breath, tasting the remnants of him, smelling the heavy musk of his skin, and realize that even spent, trembling, and coated in his essence, you would willingly submit again.