Page 86 of Dirty Hit
The pride in his voice is shy, but unmistakable. I lean forward, mouth brushing the curve where ass meets thigh, and bite just enough to make him gasp, before I lick the sting away.
“Good boy.”
I look down at him, drinking in the sight: Brendon Lane, preacher’s son and legal prodigy, spread open under soft light with beads of penance strangling his cock and a plug in his ass. A low growl rolls out of me, half pride, half promise.
I grip the base of the plug and work it—slow twist, slow pull—teasing him with the gradual stretch. The plug slides free with a wet sound that has him whimpering, then I drop it on the nightstand and bring two lube-slick fingers right back to that fluttering hole.
He’s shaking so badly I have to brace his legs wide with my knees. I spit once between his cheeks, let it roll down the seam, then trace it with those same two fingers, teasing the puckered skin until he groans my name. He pushes back before I even ask, greedy fucker, and I reward him with both fingers at once, scissoring gently, feeling him open more around me.
“Tell me what you imagined while you were stretching alone,” I say, voice steady even though the pulse in my cock hammers.
He sucks in a breath, then exhales on a shaky confession. “Thought about your voice; the way you call me ‘Little Sin.’Thought about you behind me, making me—god—take more than I wanted.”
“My dirty boy,” I mutter, sliding deeper, crooking just right until his hips jerk. He tries to stifle a moan, and I slap his thigh. “Let me hear it. You know I love your fucking sounds.”
He groans, head hanging. “Dom… feels—fuck—feels good,” he moans, clutching the sheets, spine bowing deeper. His inner muscles flutter around the intrusion as I work them slowly, stretching, coaxing, forcing the tremor into a quake.
“Relax, baby,” I murmur, free hand stroking up his flank to soothe the tension before driving it higher. “I’m taking care of this hole tonight.”
When I slide a third finger in, he chokes on a groan, hips jerking back instinctively, chasing the burn. My cock aches, but I force myself to focus; I want him loose enough he doesn’t tear, but not so loose he forgets who’s filling him.
I keep the rhythm relentless as I add more fingers, my voice a constant string of filthy praise as I open him—“So fucking tight, Brendon, but you’re taking it like you were built for my hand; fuck yes, breathe”. Sweat beads at his temples and his thighs tremble even harder.
He starts babbling half-formed prayers as I withdraw, snap off the glove, coat my bare hand in lube, and line up my thumb with the pads of my fingers, forming a tapered point.
“Bigger step, Little Sin. You ready?”
He turns his head, cheek pressed to the sheet, eyes glazed, and says, “Need it, Daddy. Need you inside.”
That’s all the permission I require. I breach him up to my knuckles first, letting him feel the stretch as his ring of muscle flares. He whimpers and claws at the duvet, but pushes back hungrily. My breath hisses out between my teeth when the tight heat swallows past my knuckles; his body is trembling so hard now the mattress shakes.
“Good boy. You wanna take my cock, you gotta get used to my fist.”
“Feel how full you are.”
“Breathe through it for me.”
“You’re doing so well, baby.”
He sobs something that might be my name, might be God’s, and I push up to the widest part—the thick hill formed by my hand—and pause, letting his body accommodate as sweat drips off my brow onto his lower back.
“Yellow!” he gasps, voice breaking.
I freeze the second the word leaves his mouth. My heartbeat’s a jackhammer, but my hand doesn’t budge another millimeter. I keep it right where we are,halfway in, wide stretch, enough heat to fog my skull, and force a long breath past my teeth.
“Talk to me, Brendon,” I murmur, the rasp stripped out of my voice. “Tell me what’s too much.”
His fists unclench, then curl again. He’s panting like a sprinter at the tape, but the panic in his eyes flickers instead of burns. “Just… a lot. Need a second. Feels… big.”
“That’s the point,” I remind him softly. “But you call the pace. You want me to back out?”
He shakes his head straight away, then sucks in a steadier breath. “No, just hold on. Let me catch up.” His thighs still tremble, but I can feel him coaxing his own muscles to unclench around my hand, opening in tiny waves instead of fighting the intrusion.
I stay perfectly still, pressure constant, other thumb rubbing small circles into his hip. “Good boy. Breathe in for four, out for six.” I count for him until his shoulders drop half an inch and the tremor in his calves evens out.
After a few minutes, his voice comes small but clear. “Green, Daddy.”
The relief that surges through me is electric. I press a kiss to his damp shoulder blade. “That’s my Little Sin,” I breathe, and start the slow push again—millimeter by millimeter, pausing every time he twitches, praising every deep breath he wrings out.
