A college jock walks up

Someone walks forward from your left. You jerk your head to look at him, almost instinctively.

A young guy — perhaps twenty-two, twenty-three - strides towards your master.

You notice lots about him all at once.

He is tall - even taller than your master, it thrills you to observe - with broad shoulders, and defined arms that bulge against his dress shirt. Is he some college athlete?

His forearms are taut, and his hands look huge - and you wonder what it would be like to have them reaching down to touch the yearning gap between your legs, or gripping your hips.

His preppy hair is smooth, shiny, and perfectly coiffed. You think or running your small hands through it as your ride his cock.

His cock. You can see the bulged outline of it through his smart trousers.

His trousers. They perfectly encase his pert, muscular butt, which your eyes are drawn to as he walks past you and up to your master. How it would feel to grip those tight buns, you think, as his powerful glutes pump his cock into you...

“How much?”

His young voice shocks you and excites.

Your master names a number that should end the conversation.

The kid laughs, bright and stupid and delighted, and pulls out a clip that makes the nearest circle go quiet. He peels notes like he is tipping a bartender. Silly money. More than the privilege is worth. More than you are worth, if worth is the thing being discussed.

“For that,” he says, still looking at you, “I get to play first. Not just finish. Play.”

Your master’s mouth ticks. He could refuse. He does not. The chain slackens half a foot — permission, not surrender — and the college kid’s grin goes sharp.

He walks slowly but deliberately over to you, looming above you. Wow, is he tall... and does he make you feel small.

“Hi,” he murmurs, almost polite, as his thumb traces the edge of the collar. “Fuck, you’re shaking.”

He turns you with the chain, having taken it from your master, as though he is used to leading round hot girls like dogs.

He lets the room see your tits, the wet streak down your inner thighs, the way your empty cunt keeps clenching on air. His palm covers one breast and squeezes like he is checking fruit. The other hand slides between your legs from the front, two long fingers sinking in to the knuckle without asking, because the pill already answered for you.

You make a sound that is not a word.

“Jesus.” He scissors those fingers, slow, listening to you. “You’re soaked. And you still can’t come. That’s insane. That’s—” He laughs again, breath hot against your temple. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve seen all year.”

He fucks you with his hand in front of everyone, unhurried, curling until your knees try to buckle and the collar is the only thing holding your head up. Every time you start to climb toward the wall the pill built, he stops. Pulls out. Wipes his fingers on your tongue. Waits for you to whimper. Puts them back.

You are utterly humiliated, but utterly desperate for him as well.

“Say please.”

"Please..." you whimper breathily.

“Please what? Be specific. I paid stupid money. I want the whole catalogue.”

“Please fuck me. Please come in me. I need— I can’t— I’ll do anything, just—”

He clicks his tongue. “Not yet.”

He walks you, still on the chain, to a low padded bench at the edge of the light and bends you over it. Your tits flatten to the leather. He kicks your feet apart until you are open for the floor. Behind you, a zip. The fat, young, eager head of him paints a wet line up the crack of your ass and then notches against your cunt — and stays there. Just the tip. Stretching. Not giving.

He leans over your back, one hand braced beside your face, the other tight in the chain so the collar kisses your throat every time you try to push back onto him.

“You feel that?” A tiny flex. The head pops in, pops out, in again, never more than an inch. “That’s all you get until I decide. I could come on your back. I could come in your mouth like he did. I could pay extra and still pull out at the last second and leave you like this until morning.”

Your hips chase him anyway, sloppy, humiliating. The bench creaks. Someone in the crowd tells him to ruin you. He only laughs and keeps you on that edge, that one thick inch, while your clit throbs untouched and the Compliance-Breeder turns every denied stroke into a brighter kind of panic.

“You want me to impregnate you, do you?” he asks, almost wondering, as if he has only just understood the product. “If I empty in here, that’s the deal, right? You’d take it. You’d thank me.”

You nod so hard the chain jingles. You would. You already are.

He slaps your ass once, sharp, and the sting makes you clench around nothing but the head of him. Then he sinks — not all the way, never all the way — and starts to use you in short, mean, teasing thrusts that kiss the place you need and refuse to stay. Your remaining lipstick smears on the leather. Your fingers scrabble. The prayer is no longer silent.

The college jock who paid silly money is in no hurry to spend the only thing that would let you finish.