Page 11 of Your Devoted Monster
He waited until Ezra's eyes went glassy, that telltale look of someone floating on endorphins and pain, before stopping. His hand ached. Ezra's face was a mess of red and tears.
Beautiful. Gabriel had never created anything more beautiful than this.
"What else?" His voice stayed calm, conversational, even though his heart was racing, even though he felt like he was coming apart. "Tell me how else they failed you."
"There was—" Ezra had to swallow twice before continuing, voice thick and slurred. "Guy two weeks ago. Wanted to fuck my throat. Kept talking about how good he was at it. How I'd love it."
"And?"
"He lasted maybe a minute."
Gabriel made a disgusted sound. Men who bragged about their skills were always compensating for inadequacy. "Open your mouth."
This time Ezra didn't hesitate, didn't question. His jaw dropped open immediately, obedient. Gabriel could see his tongue, could see down his throat, could see the tears still making tracks down his reddened cheeks.
Perfection. Complete surrender from someone who fought everyone else.
Gabriel slid his fingers in—two, then three, pressing down on Ezra's tongue. He knew exactly when he hit the gag reflex by the way Ezra's whole body convulsed, but Gabriel didn't pull back. Instead he held steady, watching Ezra's throat work, listening to the wet choking sounds, feeling the drool run warm down his hand.
This was about desensitization. About teaching Ezra's body to accept what was coming. About breaking down those reflexes until only submission remained.
"Control," Gabriel said while Ezra struggled, while tears streamed faster, while those dark eyes looked up at him with something between desperation and worship. “That’s what they don’t understand. It’s not about pleasure. It's all about control."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, watching the string of saliva that connected them stretch and snap. Ezra gasped, coughing, drool dripping down his chin, wrecked and beautiful.
Gabriel unbuckled his belt with one hand, keeping the other fisted in Ezra's hair. The sound of the leather sliding free made Ezra's whole body shudder, made his pupils dilate even further.
Recognition. Memory. Want.
Gabriel freed himself from his slacks, already hard—had been since Ezra sent him that first message. The way Ezra's eyes tracked the movement, the way his tongue darted out to wet his swollen lips unconsciously, made Gabriel's cock throb.
Three years. Three years of imagining this exact moment, and his imagination had been pathetically inadequate.
He yanked Ezra's head forward by his hair, brutal, no warning. Ezra made a sound between a gasp and a moan, eyes going wide as Gabriel's cock brushed against his cheek, leaving a wet streak. The size difference between them was more obvious now—Ezra on his knees, hands bound, having to crane his neck up. Completely at Gabriel's mercy.
Gabriel traced the head of his cock over Ezra's lips, watching them part automatically. The eagerness made something possessive and hungry unfurl in Gabriel's chest. All those men who'd used this mouth, and none of them had appreciated what they had. None of them had deserved it.
Without warning, Gabriel pushed in—not gentle, not careful, just taking what was his. When he hit the back of Ezra's throat, he kept going, feeling the resistance, the panic, the moment when Ezra's body tried to lock up and reject the intrusion.
But Gabriel held him there, held him down, felt Ezra's throat constrict and convulse around him. Felt the panic turn to acceptance turn to something else.
The sounds Ezra made—desperate, wet, choking—went straight to Gabriel's hindbrain, the part that understood dominance and submission on a cellular level. The way Ezra's throat worked around him, fighting and accepting at the same time. The tears streaming down his face. The way his bound arms strained uselessly against the zip ties, unable to push Gabriel away, unable to do anything but take it.
Gabriel pulled back just before Ezra's body went limp from lack of air, then slammed back in. Set a brutal rhythm that had Ezra gagging, drooling, completely at his mercy.
Each thrust pushed Ezra closer to that edge where thought stopped and only sensation remained. Gabriel could see it happening—watch the moment when Ezra's eyes fell shut, when his jaw went slack, when he stopped trying to control anything and justaccepted.
This was what those pathetic substitutes never understood. It wasn't about getting off. It was about erasure. About taking someone so far out of their own head that thought became impossible. About creating a space where nothing existed except Gabriel and what he was choosing to give.
Gabriel pulled out completely, watched Ezra gasp and cough and drool. Then, because he could, because Ezra was his to use however he wanted, Gabriel rubbed his cock against Ezra's tear-stained cheek, collecting the salt of him.
The sight of it—his cock against Ezra's ruined face, the tears and spit and surrender—made something crack further in Gabriel's chest.
He'd killed five men before Ezra, arranged their bodies the way he wanted them. But this—Ezra on his knees, face a ruin, eyesgone soft and trusting even as Gabriel used him—this was the masterpiece. This was what he'd been trying to create all along without knowing it.
Gabriel pushed back in, slower this time, watching Ezra's eyes lose focus. Out again. Back in, deeper, holding until Ezra's chest started to heave with the need for air.
Gabriel lost track of time, lost in the rhythm of destruction and rebuild. Push in, watch Ezra's throat convulse. Pull out, watch him gasp like he was drowning. Again. Again. Again.
