Harolin stared down at himself.
The shower ran as water hit the tiles. Ruaan stood under the cold water and said nothing for once in his life, his eyes fixed on the situation at Harolin's waist with a fascinated expression.
Harolin pressed his jaw together.
'A mistake,' he thought. 'This is a mistake that needs to be confirmed as a mistake.'
"Turn around," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"Turn around and face the wall."
Ruaan stared at him. "You're telling me to—"
"Ruaan."
Something about the way he said it made Ruaan stop. He looked at Harolin for a long moment. Then slowly, he turned and faced the wall.
Harolin looked at his own reflection in the wet tile.
'Cold water. Think about cold water.'
It wasn't working.
He knew the cold water wasn't working. The towel around his waist did nothing to hide the reality of it—a thick, undeniable ridge straining against the fabric. With a frustrated jerk, he ripped the towel away and let it fall to the wet floor.
And there it was.
His own erection, standing thick and heavy against his stomach—something that hadn't happened in more than eleven years. Not for a woman, and most certainly not for a man. Yet here it was, hard as the tile walls, veins ridged along its substantial length, the head flushed dark and already weeping a clear bead of pre-cum that trailed down the shaft. All because of the prisoner standing three feet away, back turned, water sluicing down his lean frame.
Harolin leaned forward. The hot, hard length of him pressed against the curve of Ruaan's ass.
Ruaan flinched violently, his whole body going rigid. "What the hell—"
"Don't," Harolin gritted out, his voice rough.
But Ruaan was already twisting, trying to see what was happening behind him. Harolin's hand shot out, slamming the side of Ruaan's head against the wet tile wall with a dull, wet thud. Ruaan grunted in pain.
"I said don't turn around," Harolin growled, his breath hot against Ruaan's ear. He kept the pressure on Ruaan's head, holding him in place, his own hips pressing forward so Ruaan could feel every thick, insistent inch of him.
Ruaan winced, his cheek pressed to the cold tile. "Harolin... don't you dare do something different. Don't you dare."
Harolin smirked, though Ruaan couldn't see it. The fear in Ruaan's voice was a dark, sweet thrill. "Or what, Ru?"
There was a long, tense pause filled only by the spray of water. Then Ruaan's voice came, strained but clear. "I can help you. With my mouth."
Harolin went still. The offer hung in the steamy air. He leaned closer, letting his cock drag heavily over Ruaan's ass. "I don't want that," he murmured, the lie tasting strange. "I want this. This juicy ass right here." He pressed forward again, a deliberate, grinding motion that made Ruaan gasp.
"Then it won't go down!" Ruaan argued, his voice tight with a mix of panic and pragmatism. "I'll... I'll do everything. I'll make sure it goes down. Just... not that."
Harolin was silent, considering. The heat of Ruaan's body, the sheer wrongness of this desire. He eased the pressure on Ruaan's head.
"Fine," Harolin said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "But here are the terms, Ru. You get on your knees. You use that mouth. If you make me cum, I'll help you win tomorrow's game. A real advantage, right? But if you fail... if I'm still standing here like this when you're done... I'll make sure you lose. I'll personally see to it that you're in the bottom ten."
Ruaan's breath hitched. In the reflection of the tile, Harolin saw his eyes widen—fear, calculation, desperation flickering through them.
"Deal," Ruaan whispered.
Harolin stepped back, giving him space. "Turn."
Slowly, Ruaan turned around. His eyes dropped immediately, and Harolin watched the colour drain from his face, replaced by a stunned, almost comical horror. He was staring at Harolin's cock as if it were a weapon pointed at his head. It was massive—thick as Harolin's own wrist, long and curving upward, the veins prominent and throbbing. The head was a dark, flushed purple, slick with pre-cum.
'How in all the hells does he fit that thing in that uniform?' Ruaan thought wildly, his own mouth feeling suddenly, impossibly small.
"Well?" Harolin prompted, his tone bored, though his pulse hammered in his throat. "The water's getting cold."
Swallowing hard, Ruaan sank to his knees on the wet floor. The tiles were hard. He looked up at Harolin, whose expression was unreadable. Taking a shaky breath, Ruaan reached out. His fingers wrapped around the base, and he was startled by the heat of it, the solid, unyielding hardness. It felt like steel wrapped in velvet. He had to use both hands to fully circle it.
Tentatively, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the tip, tasting salt and musk. He opened his mouth, trying to take just the head, but it was too much, stretching his lips painfully. He pulled back, panting.
"Problem?" Harolin asked flatly.
Shaking his head, Ruaan tried again. This time, he used his tongue first, licking a broad stripe from base to tip, swirling around the sensitive head. Harolin's hips jerked minutely. Emboldened, Ruaan took him back into his mouth, focusing on the first few inches. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, his tongue pressing against the frenulum.
A low groan escaped Harolin, a sound that seemed ripped from somewhere deep and forgotten. His hand came up and tangled roughly in Ruaan's wet hair, holding. "Fuck! Like that," he rasped.
Ruaan worked harder, bobbing his head, using his hands to stroke what he couldn't fit into his mouth. The sounds were obscenely wet in the tiled room. He could feel Harolin growing even harder, swelling against his tongue. His breathing grew ragged, his grip tightening in Ruaan's hair almost to the point of pain.
With a sharp, guttural cry, Harolin's hips snapped forward, burying himself deeper than Ruaan was prepared for. Ruaan gagged, tears springing to his eyes as hot, bitter cum flooded his mouth and throat. He struggled to swallow, coughing as Harolin pulsed again and again.
Finally, Harolin stilled, pulling back with a slick pop. Ruaan knelt there, gasping, cum dripping from his chin. He looked up, expecting to see satiation, or at least softening.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't even slightly reduced. If anything, it looked harder, angrier, the veins standing out in stark relief, still fully erect and pointing accusingly at him.
"Wha—" Ruaan began, hoarse.
He didn't get to finish. Harolin's eyes were dark with unsatisfied hunger. Without a word, he fisted both hands in Ruaan's hair and pulled him forward.
This wasn't a blowjob anymore. His mouth was being used. Harolin set a brutal, punishing pace, fucking into Ruaan's mouth with deep, throat-stuffing thrusts. Ruaan could only kneel there and take it, hands braced on Harolin's thighs, tears of strain mixing with the water and spit on his face.
He choked and gagged around the overwhelming intrusion, the taste of himself and Harolin mingling nauseatingly.
Harolin threw his head back with a raw shout, his body going rigid as a second, seemingly impossible orgasm ripped through him. Ruaan felt another hot flood spill down his throat before Harolin finally pulled out, leaving him coughing and gasping on the floor.
Panting, Harolin looked down at himself.
Still hard.