Download the bonus ebook for free. | Read the book “You. Always you.” //

In Berlin, there are a lot of courtyards. Right in the middle of apartment complexes. Since the health pandemic, every day at 6 p.m., musicians play live music to keep up everyone’s spirits. People sit on balconies, at windows, and listen and clap. Cherry blossoms bloom, the sun sets, birds chirp. It’s quite magical.

We are still allowed to go outside, so every morning, my feet hit the pavement. The movement, the vibration thrums through my body. You’re still asleep; you never get up as early as I do. Even if the fresh morning air is something to be experienced, like yesterday has been buried and today is born.

I run along a canal where ducks bustle around and little boats sway. Like nothing is wrong with the world at all. I’ve always admired those people, living on a boat, without a care in the world.

I always run around a lake, past the bar that had to close up recently. The sky is colored in orange and red when I start running faster, my breathing even, my body slowly settling into a comfortable rhythm. This is when I process—when I recharge and think. The cool air clears my thoughts, wafts away any fog that might have settled.

When I come back home, shoes peeled off, and shirt sweated through, you’re still in bed, typing on your phone. I smirk, hands going to the pull-up bar inside the door frame. I rest them there. You look at me then, your bed hair adorable, sticking up in every direction. You put down your phone, sit up. “C’mere.”

“I’m all sweaty.”

“That’s okay.”

I let go of the bar above my head and walk closer on bare feet. My heart is still pumping quickly, skin warm. I’m slowly cooling down. As I stand beside the bed, you shift onto your knees, hands going to my hips.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey.” I dip down to kiss you. Your fingers twist in my damp shirt, holding me there. I know where this is going. Where I want it to go … but … “I am not gonna get in bed with you.”

You groan, an annoyed sound, before you whine. “Why not.” It’s not a question as much as it is an accusation.

“I’m all gross, and you have to get up too. Don’t you have work to do?”

You grumble and push me off. I barely budge, but for your benefit, I step back. Alright then. Grumpy little thing.

The apartment has high ceilings, white walls, and hardwood floors. There are windows in every room, the bathroom and kitchen face the courtyard, the one where musicians play every evening these days. The other windows face the quiet street across the canal.

I fully expect you to sneak into the shower with me as you so often do. But to my surprise, you don’t. I wash my hair, rinse off, and throw my sweaty clothes in the hamper. Thanks to the open window, the mirror is clear, despite the moisture in the air. I consider shaving, but I know you like it when I rub my rough, unshaven cheek against the side of your neck—from behind. Always from behind.

I dress in a pair of shorts and a white shirt, noticing that the bed is empty. I’m toweling my hair dry and walk past the living room. There’s a dining table, solid wood, it’s huge. You love it because you can spread out whatever you need when you have work to do. One side of the table has been cleared though, from all of the papers, your laptop, cables, SSD drives. In its place, there are two plates, two cups of tea, two glasses of orange juice, and a basket with bread rolls and croissants from the bakery across the street.

I cannot help but grin as I inspect what you’ve prepared. The floor groans under my feet as I step into the living room. You’re not here, so you must be in the kitchen getting something else.

“You usually take sixteen minutes to get out of the shower. Today you took thirteen. I am not finished.” You walk past me, place a small tray with jam, cream cheese, and chocolate spread on the table too, and then face me. “You’re early.”

That makes me laugh softly. I drape the towel I used to dry off across one of the chairs and approach you, hands cupping each side of your face. “You’re grumpy this morning.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“Then what are you?”

“Charming, cute, adorable, a very good kisser. I also give amazing head.” I grip the base of your neck and draw you in until our lips are touching and you shut up. Your forearms press against my chest, and you melt into the kiss, our tongues roaming, my hand holding you in place. You make that sound, that moan, which reverberates through my entire body, sparking a fire inside my gut. I break the kiss so it doesn’t spread yet. When I look down at you, your eyes are still closed, and as they open … you look kiss-drunk. I smile and dip down for another quick, chaste kiss.

“Now, what is all this?”

You shrug and look at the table. “It’s … bread rolls, croissants, orange juice, jam—”

“I know what it is.”

“Then why are you asking?” You scowl playfully, and I swear you almost stick your tongue out at me. I sigh, going for exasperated. I let go of you to pull out a chair and take a seat. You sit across from me. You brighten up a little—less scowly—as I examine what you’ve put together. It’s been weeks since we took the time to have an elaborate breakfast like this. Either you were busy, or I was.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling.

“For the bread rolls, croissants, orange juice …?”

I stop you by lifting a finger. “Yes. For all of that.”

—- book scene ends here —-

I ask you about what you’re working on. Whenever you talk about it, it’s like a light within you switches on. I like to listen to you explain all those nifty details that—until a few weeks ago—I had no idea about. We drink and eat, laugh, and talk until I get up to grab my pack of cigarettes, and you stop me.

“Why?” I ask, still standing as your fingers close around my wrist. You rise to your feet beside the table and urge me to sit back down. Your gaze suddenly turns heated and dark, hovering over me. Smirking, you card your fingers through my almost dry hair.

“I’m still hungry.”

Oh.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah.” You lick your lips as you sink to your knees between my thighs, your hands sliding over my stomach before taking off your glasses and placing them on the table. I let out a breath; the sudden surge of excitement makes my cock perk up instantly. You’d planned this all along, hadn’t you? I don’t dare to ask. You rub me through my shorts, kneading, cupping my balls as if you wanted to weigh them. I let out a long groan at that, my vision glazing over with lust.

“I need my protein shot this morning,” you claim with such innocence in your tone that I grow harder even faster. Fuck, you are something else. You undo the shorts’ buttons, then place a kiss on the outline of my cock underneath my briefs. My thighs tense, toes curl. “I’m gonna milk Daddy.”

“You’re depraved.”

“You love it.”

Hell, yes, I do. I let my head drop back as you kiss up to the tip, peeling away the fabric of my shorts to reach it. I place my hand on the back of your head, not because I want to push you to do anything, but because I know you like the weight of it right there; it drives you crazy. “I can’t believe I own this dick, that I own you.” Your breath feels so hot even through my briefs, making my cock thicken and lengthen so swiftly it makes me dizzy.

“Fuck.”

“Not this morning, baby.”

I growl a primal sound that usually makes you whimper. Not this time though, this time, you smile and lick at the head of my cock, finding that small wet spot where precum has already trickled through the fabric. You close your lips around the head, sucking and kissing like it is something delicate. 

“My hungry little boy,” I whisper, my voice dipping deeper with the lust coursing through me. Your eyes flash up. False innocence. But it always gets to me.

“Daddy,” you whimper against my cock as you pepper kisses across the hefty bulge. My briefs strain around it now … just how you like it. You squeeze my shaft to test its girth and then grin up at me. “I’m hungry for Daddy’s fat dick. Can I have it?” My breath hitches and my eyelids drop to half-mast. You know exactly what riles me up. Only a few words, a couple of touches, and you’ve got me wrapped around your finger. It’s far too easy. But I’ve learned to live with it.

“Yes, my boy.” At that, you perk up, fingers hooking beneath the waistband of my briefs and lifting it off my engorged shaft, peeling down until … there. I lift my hips so you can pull down my shorts and briefs all the way, giving you more room to work with. Your hands run up my calves, then my thighs, eyes still on your target. You rub your thumbs into the spot where my thighs meet my groin and lean in to flick your tongue across the tip of my erection. Then you move down so it’s against your nose and you can mouth at my balls. All those veins are already protruding, pulsing with my heartbeat. But I don’t dare to touch myself, knowing you’d either bite or slap me.

As you suck and tug at my balls, my cock twitches; victoriously, you grin up at me. With your hands on my thighs, you pull back and start sucking on the tip, pulling the foreskin all the way forward only to watch it slowly slide back. I’m so horny. So fucking horny. I grip the edge of the table and a fistful of your hair, suddenly feeling an urgency that only comes over me when you’re taking your sweet time.

“Don’t be impatient, Daddy.” Little brat. I ease my fingers out of your hair again, hand still resting there. Then one of your hands wraps around the base of my shaft (finally), your fingertips not touching. In one go, you slide me into your mouth, catching me off guard. I love how fucking eager you are, how greedy. You moan as you bob your head and pump my shaft, making sure it is nice and wet. My eyes roll back and my thighs quiver at the maddening sensation. Holy shit. Yes, fuck, yes, you’re so good at this … amazing at giving head, indeed.

“Slap me with it,” you pant out the words, twisting your hand up and down the length of my shaft, foreskin gliding back and forth. My fingers tighten in your hair again—this time with permission—and I sit up to angle your head to the side. Smack, smack, smack. You gasp and whimper, hands on my thighs. The wet sound of my cock against your cheek echoes through the room. “Fuck,” you grit out. “So good, so heavy, Daddy.” Jesus fucking Christ.

“You’re my little cockslut, aren’t you?” I am stone fucking hard, balls already tightening up against the sleek surface of the wooden chair. You wriggle your way out of my grip, purse your lips and suckle at the tip of my cock to answer my question, toying with the foreskin again, dipping past it, circling … rubbing against the slit. I groan out loud; I cannot help it. I love seeing your lips stretched around my shaft, love the image of it in your mouth, your dark eyes shining up at me. They are glossy now, glazed with arousal and unshed tears from slapping you. Your hand wraps around the base again, twisting up and down, while your other hand plays with the little ridge right below my cockhead. Your thumb strokes it, making me tense.

“Goddamnit,” I hiss as you moan around me like you love this. Like you’re hungry for (my) dick. You get into a steady rhythm that drives me to the edge of insanity. Pressure at the base, jerking up, making my balls bounce against the chair, your other hand relentlessly twisting below the head. And your tongue, good God, your tongue! Lapping, then sucking. You’re in your own little world and my orgasm isn’t the goal. Yours is. I’ve seen you come hands-free before and I can tell that this is where you’re heading.

You’re not doing this for my pleasure; you’re doing it for yours.

And that … holy hell, that makes it ten times hotter. I can’t speak, much less warn you as I feel warmth implode inside me, the surge of seed quickly pumping from my balls upward to release. My fingers clench around the table so hard it shifts on the hardwood floor; the loud noise rumbles through the room. I see stars, my lips part. I stiffen above you, hunching forward at the force of my orgasm as I erupt hard and fast into your mouth, feeling every shot lace your tongue. Again and again and again. You swallow. My jaw clenches and I fist my hand in your hair, tugging you forward until my muscles start relaxing, and I begin to tremble. A last moan escapes, my chest heaves before I slump back against the chair, thighs falling open.

But you’re not finished. You keep pumping despite me trying to stop you. Too sensitive, too much. But I can’t say it. The words are stuck in my throat. Your touch gets more determined, and the hand around my shaft lowers to grip my balls tightly as if you’re trying to squeeze out more. “Oh, God.” Those are the only words I can manage. You’re milking me, coaxing that last bit of come out of my balls. Then, there. You pull back so I can see it well up and spill across your fingers. Thick, white, and creamy. You lick it off the side of your hand, your fingertips, your thumb. 

I am shaking.

“Good boy,” I praise you, stroking your hair idly. My vision is blurry as you shift on the floor and whimper. You haven’t come yet. “Daddy loves his little boy.” And that, for some reason, does it. You bury your face in the spot between my thigh and my balls, inhaling me, yet gasping for air. A couple of body shudders ripple through you before you can force your hand into your pants. I stroke your hair. My good little boy. So perfect.

And you come. I know the sounds you make when your orgasm rolls through your body. I know how you tense, shake … your cheek feels feverish against the inside of my thigh. I am still stroking your hair. “That’s my little boy. You’re perfect, aren’t you, baby? Perfect for Daddy.”

You nod. “Yes,” you whisper out the word; it sounds like an exhale. The look on your face can only be described as dreamy as you sit back onto your haunches. Your hands are clean. You didn’t manage to touch yourself before you came. Instead, you came inside your pants. I bend down to kiss the top of your head, then your forehead. “Let’s clean you up, baby boy.”