Kota stood in the grand living room of the Hawthorne mansion two full hours later, the heavy silence of the house pressing down on him like a weighted blanket soaked in leftover sex and exhaustion.
His body still hummed with the aftershocks of everything that had happened upstairs—the endless mating presses, the slaps that left red handprints blooming across pale and dark cheeks alike, the way Dennis had cried and begged while Grayson had obediently swallowed the final load like the perfect trained slut he had become.
Kota's legs felt leaden, hips aching with a deep, dull burn that radiated all the way down to his knees, his cock raw and sensitive inside his jeans even though it had finally gone soft after the last brutal round.
The fabric of his hoodie clung to the sweat drying on his back, and every small shift sent fresh reminders of how many times he had folded those boys in half and pounded them until they broke. The Alaskan king bed upstairs was probably still a soaked disaster zone, sheets drenched white, toys scattered, the faint buzz of forgotten vibrators finally dying out in the background while Dennis and Grayson wrestled in their new roles. Kota rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the fog, the thick scent of cum and lube still clinging to his skin no matter how many times he had wiped his hands on his jeans.
The front entrance doors swung open with a soft, well-oiled click, and Beckett stepped inside like he was gliding on rails, tall, perfectly composed, his usual robotic posture making him look more like a high-end android than a living person. His dark and white hair was neatly styled, suit jacket immaculate despite the long day, expression blank and unreadable as always. He noticed Kota immediately, standing there in the middle of the living room like a man who had just survived a war, and tilted his head with mechanical precision.
"Why are you here?" Beckett asked, voice flat and even, no inflection, no curiosity, just pure data collection.
Kota exhaled slowly, the words tumbling out in a tired rush. He explained the whole Riley and Elliot training thing from start to finish, the car ride over, the way the two of them had started fighting over his cum like starving animals, the mating press on Riley, the way Elliot had stolen the load only for Riley to kiss it right out of his mouth, the catfight that followed, how he had finally snapped and punished both of them until they were leaking and broken on the floor. He left out the messier details about Dennis and Grayson still writhing upstairs, but the core was there: he had been dragged into "training" the brats because Elliot and Riley wanted obedient sluts instead of wild ones, and now the job was mostly done. Beckett listened without blinking, without shifting his weight, without any change in his blank expression.
"Noted," Beckett replied in that same robotic monotone once Kota finished, the single word landing like a stamp on a document. No questions, no judgment, no offer of help. Just acknowledgment. Then he turned on his heel with perfect efficiency and headed straight for the kitchen, shoes clicking softly against the marble floor.
Kota watched him go, something stirring low in his gut despite the bone-deep tiredness. Beckett moved with that eerie smoothness, shoulders squared, back straight, every step measured. A moment later Beckett returned from the kitchen holding a bright red lollipop on a stick, the candy already glistening from the first lick.
Without any self-consciousness, Beckett brought it to his mouth and started sucking and licking on it in a way that was unmistakably sexual, slow, deliberate swirls of his tongue around the round head, lips parting wide to take it deeper, then pulling back with a wet pop before licking long stripes from base to tip.
His long tongue wrapped around the candy like it was something far more intimate, curling and flicking in lazy, obscene patterns while his eyes stayed distant, unfocused, as if he had no idea how filthy the display looked. The wet sounds filled the quiet living room, soft sucking, gentle slurping, the faint click of the stick against his teeth, each motion making the lollipop shine brighter with spit.
Kota felt it hit him like a truck. His cock twitched hard inside his jeans again, raw and sore but still responding, the sight of that long, flexible tongue working the candy stirring up fresh heat that pooled low in his stomach. Beckett's tongue really was longer than normal, pink and glistening, it extended far enough to curl all the way around the lollipop and still have room to flick teasingly at the air. Kota stared, unable to look away, imagining exactly what that tongue could do wrapped around something thicker, hotter, deeper. He asked before he could stop himself, voice a little rougher than intended.
"You've got a really long tongue."
Beckett paused mid-lick, the candy still pressed to his lower lip, and answered in the same flat, robotic tone. "Yes. Longer than average. I can lick my own chin and touch the tip of my nose without strain." To demonstrate, he stuck his tongue out fully, impossibly long, wet, and flexible—curling the tip upward until it brushed the end of his nose, then dragging it downward in a slow, deliberate swipe across his own chin.
The motion was casual, clinical, but the sheer length and control made Kota's breath catch hard in his throat. That tongue looked like it could wrap around a cock and still have room to swirl, could lick from balls to tip in one endless stroke, could bury itself deep inside an ass and still flick against the prostate while the lips stayed sealed tight. It was elite. Pure elite. Kota's mind flashed back to the ritual night, the chaos of bodies and moans, and the sharp regret hit him that he hadn't fucked Beckett then.
Getting a blowjob from a tongue like that would have been something else entirely, wet, endless, perfect suction mixed with that insane reach. His cock throbbed painfully against the denim, already leaking again despite everything he had already given today.
Beckett simply popped the lollipop back into his mouth and continued sucking as if nothing had happened, cheeks hollowing slightly, tongue working visibly behind his lips in slow, sensual circles that made soft, wet noises echo in the quiet space.
becket stood there a moment longer... then he headed toward the stairs that led down to the basement. The mansion felt too big, too empty, the distant sounds of upstairs moaning faint but still audible like background music that refused to stop.
Before he reached the basement door, becket paused and called out toward the kitchen area. "Austin, Make a meal for the guest, he's starving after ejaculating in all the residents asses."
Minutes later the twink chef arrived, stepping into the living room still wearing his crisp white apron tied tight around his slim waist and the tall chef's hat perched on his head at a slight angle. Austin was very skinny and lanky overall, narrow shoulders, long arms, almost delicate wrists—but the apron did nothing to hide the plump, nicely rounded ass that filled out the back of his black pants in a surprisingly appealing way.
It wasn't massive like Corey's planetary shelves, or Otis's hypnotic jiggle, or Theo's shelf-like cushions, but it was perky, firm, and perfectly proportioned for his frame, the kind of ass that swayed just enough with each step to draw the eye without trying.
Kota's brain, still riding the brazen high from hours of dominance and fucking, zeroed in on it immediately. Even though his body screamed for rest, the sight stirred the last embers of horniness that refused to die.
Austin stopped a few feet away, adjusting the chef's hat with one hand while holding a small notepad in the other, ready to take the order. "What would you like, sir? I can do a quick stir-fry, grilled chicken with vegetables, or—"
Kota cut him off, the words slipping out before he could filter them, his voice still carrying that post-fuck roughness. "Hey umm? Austin right? You a virgin?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavy and unexpected, Austin's eyes widening slightly behind the brim of the chef's hat while Kota's gaze drifted down again to that plump, nice-looking ass swaying gently as the twink shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
The living room felt suddenly smaller, the faint sounds of upstairs activity drifting down like a distant echo, and Kota's cock gave another insistent twitch inside his jeans, already imagining how that perky little ass would feel under his hands after everything else he had broken today. The exhaustion was still there, bone-deep and aching, but the brazen part of his brain that had taken over upstairs refused to shut up, pushing him to keep going, to see just how far this long day could stretch before it finally snapped.