The next morning...

I woke up to the smell of his hoodie.

It was draped across my chest, his scent baked into the fabric from the day before—clean laundry and skin and something just his. My shorts had come off sometime during the night, and I was on my stomach, legs parted, the sheets cool against my inner thighs. My hole still felt loose, faintly sensitive from everything he’d done to me the day before.

I turned my head to look at him.

He was propped on one elbow, already watching me.

That same soft, playful face—boyish, almost sweet—but the second our eyes met, his gaze sharpened. He didn’t say good morning. He didn’t smile. He just slipped the blanket off me and let his fingers trail down my back.

“You’re already bare for me,” he murmured. “Good boy.”

I melted.

He didn’t take his time. He pushed my legs farther apart and climbed between them, letting the weight of his body settle just enough to make me squirm. I could feel his morning wood pressed against me, thick and heavy, and I gasped when I felt the head rub slowly between my cheeks.

“You want it again, don’t you,” he said, voice low. “After yesterday? After last night?”

I nodded, already breathless.

“Use your words, Logan.”

“Please,” I whispered. “Please use me.”

And he did.

He slid in with one steady push, stretching me wide all over again. I buried my face in the pillow and moaned, loud and unfiltered, as he started to thrust. It wasn’t rough at first—just deep, deliberate, like he was testing how much I could take after being used so much already. He kept one hand firm on the small of my back, keeping me arched, completely exposed.

“You’re taking me so well,” he said, breath warm against my neck. “Just like yesterday. Just like I trained you to.”

I didn’t even realize I was whimpering until he gripped my hips harder and said, “Don’t hold back. Let me hear how much you need it.”

I let go.

I moaned. I begged. I told him how good it felt, how full I was, how I never wanted him to stop. And when he started pounding harder—when I felt that now-familiar edge creeping up—I knew I was going to cum.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled into my ear. “Not yet.”

I froze. Every muscle tight. He didn’t slow down—he just held me there, teased me, owned me. And when he finally let me finish, it was because he gave permission.

“Now.”

I came hard—messy and twitching beneath him—while he stayed buried inside me. A few more thrusts and he was groaning, finishing deep again, like it was routine. Like he knew he’d be doing this every morning from now on.

He didn’t let me go.

He kissed the back of my neck and murmured, “Good boy. But we’re not done.”

He pulled out and guided me to kneel at the edge of the bed, my body still trembling. His cock glistened with a mix of both of us, and he tapped it against my cheek.

“Clean me.”

I opened my mouth instantly, sucking him in as gently as I could. He moaned softly, hand resting on the back of my head, letting me worship him. When I was done, he smiled, then reached for his phone.

“On your knees. Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed.

He snapped a quick photo. I heard the shutter.

“That one’s for me,” he said with a smirk. “Now go start the shower. I’m going to make you sit with my cum still inside you for a bit. Remind you who you belong to.”

And I did.

Every movement on the way to the bathroom made me squirm. I didn’t even bother covering up. I knew exactly what I looked like—flushed, dripping, obedient.

And I knew exactly who I belonged to.