If you haven't read part 9, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.
It’s one of those rare days when I’m enjoying, or at least allowing myself to enjoy Mr. Hale’s attentions. He constantly hits that sweet spot inside me, which he only does when he really wants something from me. I know that there must be some trick up his sleeve, but I can’t bring myself to be concerned.
On Sundays the house staff is on break, so there was no need to worry about accidental exposure (not that it would surprise them) when Mr. Hale boosted me onto the dining room table and told me to get ready to fuck. It began fairly routinely, I stripped, gyrated, and rolled all over the table, ground myself against the palm of his hand, cried out for more when he threw my legs over his shoulders and inserted his fingers into me, etcetera. Mr. Hale is fully clothed when he takes me; I am clad only in a sheen of perspiration.
With the first thrust Mr. Hale hits my prostate, and a whimper escapes my throat as a string of ejaculate drips from my not-yet-hard penis into my navel. There is no build-up, no preparation, as Mr. Hale hammers into me, occasionally thrusting so hard that my lower half lifts off the table. My hand is clamped onto my own throbbing manhood, my legs flail obscenely, and I think, Is this why I stay? I am a whore. I would hate him for it if it didn’t feel so terribly good. My hips roll like ocean waves to meet him, my hands play over my body in that hapless fashion that seems to only occur when one feels that one can’t touch his lover. I’ll hate us both, but later.
I know that Mr. Hale is close when he speeds up, pounding me so hard and fast that I can’t keep up, and am reduced to moaning while I grasp my penis with one hand and the edge of the table with the other. I am certain that my body is going to fly apart any moment; that I will dissolve under the onslaught of cock. Mr. Hale has his right hand clamped around my jaw; the left keeps my hips in place as he pummels his pelvis against mine.
“Fuck yeah, take my cum, slut,” Mr. Hale growls at me, pumping his hips frantically as he expels his seed. “Milk that big cock.” It feels as though he will crush my jaw between his fingers. I groan so loud it’s almost a scream, unable to form words, my body hot and on the edge of abyss, feverish for its release.
“Oh my god! Tucker!?” says a startled familiar voice.
“Ah, Brandon,” Mr. Hale manages to sound completely collected, despite his recent ejaculation. He turns my head toward the hall. “So glad you could join us.”
I open my eyes to see Brandon standing in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, brown eyes wide, his mouth open, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and horror. His eyes meet mine, and behind the shock I see something there, a hunger, a desire that is only for me, and I come harder than I ever have in my life, spurting wildly onto my chest and neck and Mr. Hale’s arm, thrashing, still impaled on Mr. Hale, his hands on my hips pinning me to the table.