Engines & Lace
Chapter 6 — Dripping Till Morning: He came to my new city, and I was waiting—ass up, poppers open, ready to beg for his nut. By sunrise, I was marked again.
This is Chapter 6 in the “Engines & Lace” series. The previous chapters can be found here.
The first time he visited me in my new city, I knew exactly how I wanted it to go. By then, years had passed since Craigslist ads and dorm beds. We’d already crossed into hotels, lace, fishnets, and piss. He’d told me he loved me once, and even though we never said it again, the weight of it lingered in everything we did after.
When his text came—I’m close—I was already in position. Face down, ass up, thong string pulled to the side so my hole was framed and waiting. The room smelled sharp with poppers I’d cracked open minutes before, head swimming, body buzzing with that dizzy anticipation only they bring. My chest pressed into the sheets, legs spread wide, every part of me begging before he even walked through the door.
He knocked once and came in without waiting. No more Timberlands. Age had shifted his style…now Jordans, sometimes gym shoes…but the presence was the same. He paused at the door, and I heard that low chuckle that always meant I’d given him exactly what he wanted.
“Good slut,” he said, closing the door behind him. His voice was low, satisfied. “Knew you’d be ready.”
He didn’t mount me right away. Instead, he stretched out on the bed, legs spread wide, dick hanging heavy between his thighs. He nodded toward me. “Get over here. Make it hard.”
I slid between his legs, my mouth watering just looking at him. I wrapped my lips around the head first, then sank lower, stroking with spit while my other hand cupped his balls. I kissed them, sucked them, licked them wet until he groaned. His balls were always big, full, hanging low like they carried more than any one man should. I worshipped them while my mouth worked his shaft, slurping until spit dripped down his length and onto his thighs.
“Take this,” he ordered, holding the small bottle of poppers under my nose. I inhaled deep, head spinning instantly. He brought it to his own face too, sniffing, eyes closing for a beat before he shoved me back onto the bed.
The blunt press of his dick pushed against me. No pause, no warning. Just that familiar stretch as he forced his way inside, my hole clutching around him, open and dripping in seconds. I always loved balls slapping against me with every thrust, echoing in the room.
“Beg me,” he growled, one hand pressing down on the back of my neck, the other gripping my hip so tight I knew it’d bruise.
“Please—fuck me—fill me up,” I gasped, face buried in the pillow, ass taking every stroke.
“You want my nut?” he pressed, hips pounding harder.
“Yes—give it to me—please,” I moaned, voice breaking.
He didn’t just want me to ask—he wanted me to plead. “Beg for my babies,” he growled, and I did, voice shaking, desperate to feel him shoot deep enough to keep me leaking till morning.
He leaned down, lips at my ear. “You want me to get you pregnant? Put a baby in that pussy? Give us pretty babies?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I cried, body clenching around him, dizzy from poppers and the stretch of him pounding me deep. “Breed me, please…make me your slut.”
He fucked me harder at that, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress. My moans turned desperate, every sound bouncing off the walls. His dick stroked me, grinding against every inch of my insides like he was determined to carve himself into me forever.
“You love it,” he growled. “Love being nothing but a hole for me.”
“Yes—yes, Daddy—I’m your good slut,” I begged, spit leaking from my mouth onto the sheets.
Hours blurred. We fucked on the bed, against the wall, on the floor when he yanked me down mid-thrust. He’d feed me another hit of poppers, take one himself, then pound me harder, my hole wide open, dripping, taking him again and again. He’d tilt my head back, spit into my mouth, then shove himself deeper inside like the spit was permission.
When he finally slowed, it wasn’t because he was finished. It was because he wanted to remind me. He held himself deep, grinding slow, balls pressed flush against me.
“Say it,” he whispered.
“I’m your boy,” I panted.
“No,” he growled. “Say it right.”
“I’m your cumslut,” I moaned. “You own me. This hole is yours.”
“That’s right,” he said, before finally letting go—shooting deep, filling me up with hot, thick nut until it spilled out around his dick. He stayed buried inside, grinding, making sure every drop was in me.
When we collapsed, he didn’t rush to leave like before. He stayed the night. His arm wrapped around my waist, chest pressed against my back, his breath slow and steady. His dick softened but never left me, his nut leaking out in lazy drips.
I lay awake long after, sore and stretched, his weight pinning me, the city humming outside the window while inside I was nothing but his used-up slut. And for the first time, I didn’t just feel fucked…I felt claimed.
That night wasn’t just another reunion. It was a seal, a promise, a reminder that no matter where I moved, no matter how far, he’d always come back to open me up and leave me dripping with his babies that never would be.
I was his first boy. And I was still his.