Roman Roy restrained and teased to tears. ring around the base of his cock, leaking, almost as red as his face. crying. screaming at you, cursing, begging, moaning. grunting. trying to fuck his hips up into the empty air just to feel a hint of relief, anything, just fucking anything at all because you're being so mean, you're such a stupid fucking cunt about it
Roman hurling all these insults and threatening to hurt you once he's out of the chair, wrists and legs securely tied to it. he can't do shit. you take it in stride, stay quiet and smile softly at him because it's so cute, it's so pathetic. his veins bulging in his forehead, cheeks fever-spotted with rage and mindless desire. spit on his chin, tears tracking his face. lip quivering. and he switches between those two worlds - endless, violent anger, wanting to kill you, wanting so badly to fucking hurt you for humiliating him, denying him. forcing him to listen to the word No. sobbing, head thrown back, wailing like a child. body shaking, hiccuping as he gasps for breath.
how grateful and loud he is when you touch him - and not just his aching cock, but any touch. petting his sweat-slicked hair, licking his wet cheeks, kissing his forehead. cupping his face in your hands and staring into his bloodshot, blazing eyes, telling him he's so good. he's such a good boy, he's taking it so well. isn't he happy? isn't he happy to be molded this way for you? isn't he happy to be freed of making any meaningful decisions for himself? his profuse thanks, his swollen, bitten lips soft when you touch them. kicked dogs bite, but Roman doesn't. he's a good boy.
Roman cumming only when you tell him to. cords in his throat straining, the inhuman scream that he barely realizes he's making as it claws its way up from his chest. shooting rope after rope all over his own thighs, over your hands - maybe even down your throat, if you've felt especially kind. untying him and allowing him to crumple to the floor. waiting. giving him space before you put him into bed, so physically, mentally, emotionally drained he can barely speak, barely walk. the intimacy of lacing his arm over your shoulders and practically carrying his weight as he shuffles. his sniffles and high, embarrassed voice as he mumbles, trying to string thoughts together before you do him the kindness of shushing him, of tucking him in instead, stroking his cheekbone down to the sharp corner of his jaw. he's already halfway asleep. and soon, you'll do it to him again