Soft, Slow

I follow on my hands and knees, as my god demands, until he sits back down on his bed. I kiss his feet and kneel between his knees, looking up and waiting for his command. He strokes my scalp gently, then pulls my head smoothly to his cock.

“Worship it. Treat this as your altar. Pray in silence, meditate as you worship my cock,” he says, gazing down upon me, “I wish you to let your mind be as free as you like. Consider this the first law of your god. Your mind must always be free.”

Having written myself into his possession, my mind obeys his command, immediately. My cheeks warm as I regain some of myself, but not enough to change anything. I'm more keenly aware that my little brother is my god, but he's still my god.

“Yes, my Lord,” I murmur softly against his prick, running my tongue up it, praying silently for my god's approval and for a long life in his service. I moan faintly, just enough to give him vibrations, servicing him without taking it into my mouth.

“Good, faggot, don't you dare take it in your mouth,” my god decrees, “When you've earned it, I'll put your mouth on me. You don't need to worry about that. You should thank me for letting Dad use you as he sees fit. That was a real hate-fuck.”

“Thank you, my Lord, for ensuring Dad knows what I am, and letting him be free to use me,” I murmur solicitously, licking my way up his meat, kissing the crown before licking my way back down, “I promise I'll always show reverence, my god.”

“Good. As you should, faggot,” he says, simply, laying back across his bed and folding his arms underneath his head. I just kneel between his knees, licking and kissing his cock. I slide my tongue down, caressing his balls, then back to the crown.

I'm still a little bit shocked at having so summarily ended up choosing to be in my little brother's possession, but I'm not complaining. His cock tastes fantastic under my tongue, feels good in my mouth. I'm not sure how I feel about Dad's use.

After several minutes, I can start to feel his heartbeat underneath my tongue, against my lips, but he doesn't move and doesn't push it in. I simply continue working, my knees slowly starting to ache from the maintained kneeling position.

I don't complain. I'm not entitled to complain, and my god is entitled to his rightful worship. I work my tongue across his meat, licking and caressing every millimetre of his rod. I breathe in the scent of him, immersing myself in his warm musk.

“Fuck, this is the life,” my Master sighs, relaxing as I worship him.