Page 3 of A Day as My Alien’s Pet

He looked at me with open pleading.

"You want permission?"

He nodded so quickly his hair fell into his eyes.

I brushed it back with my free hand.

"Not yet."

The betrayed noise behind the gag was almost comical.

"Patience, little star. You are very good at wanting. Let us practice waiting."

His eyelids squeezed shut.

"Eyes on me."

They opened immediately. His cock pulsed in my grip. Close. I slowed. His eyes widened in immediate accusation. That nearly made me laugh. "No rushing." He whined. "You may complain. You may not take over."

I resumed, adding pressure gradually until his thighs began to tremble against the supports. A small collection cup clipped beneath the chair waited where it always did. I adjusted it with my free hand, then returned my attention to him.

His eyes were glassy now, fixed on me whenever he could focus. He was waiting. Because I had not given permission.

I let him balance there for three more heartbeats.

"Come for me, little one."

He broke instantly.

His whole body tightened, hips lifting as far as the chair allowed. I held him through it, slowing my hand as his release spilled into the cup. His muffled cries softened into exhausted little sounds, and by the time the last aftershock passed, he had gone boneless against the padding.

"There. Good pup."

I gave him another moment before unclipping the cup. The taste was familiar, salt, warmth, Lucca’s. Delicious. I drank it in one swallow and set the empty glass aside.

Lucca watched me through half-lidded eyes.

The color in his cheeks deepened. Even after four years, that part still embarrassed him. I unfastened the gag first and eased it from his mouth. He swallowed, worked his jaw, then whispered, "Daddyyyy..."

I leaned forward until my forehead rested against his.

"Right here."

His eyes closed. I released his wrists, knees, and ankles one at a time, rubbing each place where the leather had rested before lifting him from the chair. He folded against my chest without resistance. I carried him to the low recovery cushion nearby and set him down among the pillows. He curled immediately onto his side, knees drawn up, one hand reaching for me before I could sit.

I gave it to him.

My palm settled on his hip while I stroked his hair back from his face.

"A few minutes," I said. "Then breakfast."

"Mmm."

"That was not a word."

"Love you," he mumbled.

That was acceptable.