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Nipped In The Bud

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Never a smart idea to invite Steve Rogers’ unerring attention to a weakness. A lifetime -- fine, lifetimes -- of training on the battlefield gives him an unerring radar for chinks in a man’s armour.

If it were only the armour were literal, he might stand a chance. Easy to repair a bad seal or a roughly operating joint, or to reconfigure the nanotech shielding around a critical weak point. I do that every damn day. But no, Steve arrows in a weakness -- totally accidental, a bit of observant recognition, not like I meant to show it, he just notices everything -- and holds on like a pitbull to a choice toy.  

Tony slugs down a mouthful of his protein shake  and pretends to listen to the podcast streaming into the kitchen. World news squeezes up against business reports, stock tickers, things he rarely ignores. But the slow vibration in his chest is a maddening distraction due in no small part to the faint electrical impulses set off by the reactor right through his skin.

The drink is a bit chalky and a lot less vile than the energy concoctions he whipped up in the past to keep himself healthy, and it beats a morning shot or coffee in quantities that Steve frowns at. Thanks to Captain Rogers, he's picked up a health regimen that includes a rather balanced breakfast. The blond knows more about the contents than he does; all he knows is that he really would like to hide behind the mug.

Alert as he eats his toast, Steve listens to the ongoing affairs in places crippled by war, bad government, and a depressing lack of strapping blond men wielding a big package in their tight pants. Tony loves that view. It might even be enough to prove God really does exist. Either way he’ll spend plenty of time on his knees if he plays his cards right.

“You even listening, Tony?”


“I guess not. I’m gonna wash up my dishes and head down to Epsilon, okay?” he says.

Instantly Tony’s cheeks flush and he tips the mug up to keep his cool, or the illusion of cool intact, when he very much lacks any kind of chill at all. Epsilon is one of the six fortified practice rooms in the tower that he personally designed to the specifications of a very angry super-soldier taking out his temper at full bore.

Steve gets a nod and a muttered, “Gotcha.”

Epsilon gets the business man’s blood pumping like nothing else. No accident he chose that one. Steve doesn’t have accidents. Suddenly eating breakfast becomes an all engrossing task. Visualizing that oiled blond hammering on a punching bag is always delightful, but Epsilon is different. The practice room is more like a lab, the best fucking soundproofed of them all, the one hooked up to the rail-mounted 3D printers.


So, weakness. Anyone else might have let the short intake of breath pass. Might not have noticed, but Tony knows better than to think those warm azure eyes miss anything at all. Which, when he gets down to it, is one of those traits he loves about Steve as much as it completely aggravates him.

Totally natural to make a sound after they squeezed out of a post-mission shower, and he reached for one of the fluffy towels large enough to wrap a Clydesdale in. He was trying not to sneak looks at the sculpted calves and immaculate perfection of Steve Rogers’ buttocks, wondering what kind of routine a human being needed to even come close to getting that exquisite balance of firm glutes and mouthwatering curves. And what did Mom say about staring? Always gets you in trouble, and it certainly did when the captain caught him gaping like a hungry schoolboy.

He snapped the towel up to finish blotting off the water, vigorously tugging the hem side to side to hurry up. No one else on the team can be in and out of a shower as fast as their blond leader, except maybe Sam and Bucky, and the mere notion of showering among them launched a tingling web through his stomach.

Unfortunate timing that the image happened just as the towel roughed over his chest like a rasping cat tongue. Hence, the sigh.

Tony knows full well the look landing on him wanted to know the story behind the sound, and he demurred then. Like he was going to admit upfront how tender and receptive his nipples are. He ducked his head and made a noise about being late to the debriefing, figuring the matter is closed. Yeah right, no chance of that; foolish to hope, when he knows full well Steve cares intimately about everyone’s well-being on and off the field. Even if he won’t get to it today, he always does.

Which leads, of course, to all kinds of trouble.

Tony would be lying if he didn’t crave a bit of that now and then to break up the week. Nothing else like trouble spices up the routine of managing a multi-billion dollar company at arm’s reach or shouldering the burden of rescuing the world from cosmic threats and idiots playing at villainous games.

Steve wears casual attire that still manages to hang better on his idealized frame than any model slouching down a runway. His plain white t-shirt and dark jeans are every bit the equal to Tony’s finest suits, though he dresses down in the finest Louis Vuitton has to offer. Hell, his jeans probably cost more than Steve’s flat.

Rinsing a plate and putting it back in the cupboards, the blond offers that faint, knowing smile before he’s on his way. Caught, just like always. The private crook of his mouth might as well be a flashing red sign and a stream of texted instructions. Intrigue hooks Tony better than anything else, and he dreads knowing what Captain Rogers has in mind almost as much as he craves the knowledge.

Remaining shake downed in a gulp, he washes out the mug rather than leave it for Friday to vaporize bacteria off of. Another change since moving into Steve’s sphere, he takes on more of these chores without complaining. His heartbeat thunders through his veins as the cold water dances over his fingers.

“Friday, initiate blackout on floors two to four,” he says.

“Very good, Mr. Stark.”

“I need you to clear my schedule until evening.”

A harmonious burst of blue light dances across the wall to confirm sweeps of varied events. As an afterthought, he adds, “And block out Steve’s, too. With his permission.”

“Confirming with Captain Rogers.” Friday falls silent for a minute, a minute in which Tony leans over the sink and thinks of stock figures and acquisitions for the coming week rather than the fact his cock stirs against his pants.

By mutual consent, he cannot touch himself to seek relief, for all he might just hump the rounded bevel of the countertop for a little relief. Steve hasn’t seen fit to give him any attention to his throbbing length this week -- not since the shower, and not hard to draw a correlation between refusal to answer an unspoken question and a hell of a case of blue balls.

“Captain Rogers agrees to the calendar wipe,” Friday sings, and his pulse goes through the roof. “Mr. Stark, your vitals show elevated levels of cortisone and adrenaline. While you’re within acceptable physical parameters, the sudden change in your blood pressure could cause you to fall or temporarily lose consciousness.”

It’s her nice way of saying his blood flow went completely south, and he waves her off, trying not to run for the elevator.



No sooner does he step into the practice room than Steve’s voice reaches him.


Inhibition once locked up his knees, but throughout his training, Tony learned to quell those hesitations. Better than he thought, since his legs fold and he drops to the floor on the spot. The rebound jostles his cock and his balls cupped snugly inside those four thousand dollar trousers. He bites his lip as he adjusts his stance, pushing his knees apart. Steve prefers about hip width, so that’s more or less what he gets.

He gets the adjustments slow and every ticking second to fit into position will be played out on Tony’s flesh -- kinda the point, given how chaste and gentle his boyfriend has been since that fateful shower. Cuddling and a comforting arm wrapped around him at night is good and well for the soul, but the body corrupted by carnal pleasures needs so much more than that.

Steve knows insolence when he sees it, and he never loses that parade stance looming over the dark-haired man on his knees.

“You care to tell me why you’re here?” he asks. Tone light, an opportunity to fess up comes and goes.

Tony doesn’t look up, his gaze riveted onto the way the denim moulds to the long curves of Steve’s cock. The serum made him that big, he’s almost sure of that. Else those pretty nurses would have never let him out of the infirmary back in the war. “Doc keeps saying cardio is good for my health.”


Out comes that voice, the commander-in-chief dressing down a recruit that sets Tony’s head spinning and his balls tightening up. God, yes, that’s the best.

“How ‘bout you tell me.”

A huge, warm hand grips his chin and adjusts his gaze upward to meet disappointment and, beneath the eclipse of stern regard, a definite luster of passion. They both have their roles on the stage, and the man who punched Hitler two hundred times plays his mastery to perfection.

“That’s ten strokes. I’ll add ten more for every infraction. Say yes if you understand.”


Tony’s answer comes out slurred by the thumb pad pressed to his lower lip, pulling down in a broad stroke. Not kissing the whorl of the fingertip is so hard, but he allows Steve to shape his mouth how he will.

“Ten. Let’s try this again. You’re going to tell me what's going on.”

“Going on?” A beat later, the grip firming on his chin, he adds, “Sir.”

“Ten more. That’s thirty, Stark.” Good to know they both have the presence of mind to do the math. Shutting off the internal mathematical processes in his head is tough, but Tony tends to get inaccurate when his arousal crests past a certain point.

Steve is unblinking and calm, radiating control as he releases Tony’s chin and steps back. Beyond him, a table holds an array of inconspicuous lumps and bumps draped under his leather jacket. Straying more than a glance invites punishment, and thirty strokes is enough even for Tony.

“Tell me happened after the shower on Tuesday.”

His tongue dredges his lower lip, feeling the imprint of Steve’s thumb still, a mark set upon him. Tony shifts a little, surreptitious as he tucks his heels under his buttocks. Pulling on his gluteal muscles parts the cheeks and gives a delicious strain on his hole. The hole Steve neglects to slide so much as a thin plug inside, depriving him of that much stimulation when he absolutely fucking needs constant attention on the little pucker.

“Ten more. Forty total.” Steve circles him in a slow, unhurried orbit.

“I got out and dried myself off too fast. Took myself by surprise, that’s all.”

The answer comes out incomplete, hesitating as he freezes, a deer under unwanted attention from a predator.

“I see. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Wasn’t that important, sir.”

Not the right answer, but Tony harbours a low burn for punishment and anything to have those big hands wrapped around his hips or neck or cock, gripping him tight as he trembles at the invasion of his ass by that thick cock or long finger.

“We’ll see.” Steve retreats to the table to fetch two white towels, neither very large. He sets the rolls aside, innocuous bundles pressed up to the brown leather sleeve. “Strip.”

One word carelessly thrown as a command and Tony practically bursts into action. He starts with his jeans, unhooking the button from the tight eyelet, gauging how the hell to pull off the snug material without snagging his stiff dick.

He hoists himself to his knees and works his jeans down, barely aware of the ghostly retreat of his shirt until It’s too late to stop the hem from sneaking up his torso. The cotton brushes softly across his ribs, gathered by a fist behind his back. The scouring lines round his mouth into a circle, panting for breath, and he can’t say no -- who would say no, but shit, he’s so fucked right now.

He almost wheezes in the same little half gasp when the ribbed fabric catches on his nipples and drags from beneath. The shirt stretches, caught on the little barriers, and pulls up with just enough resistance to angle the resisting nubs back against the areolas. Leaving the undersided nice and exposed to the tension, which he takes like a hoof to the gut.

“Ah.” Steve hums the sound behind closed lips.

Mountain stillness descends upon Tony, his pulse hammering coppery in his ears. The jeans shimmy down his hips, peeled open before his hands go slack. His cock visibly throbs arrow-straight in front of him, demanding its due.

Torture on his nubs ends when the shirt ghosts up over his head, pulled up and lifting his arms with the gesture. The red garment ends up folded and slung over Steve’s broad forearm, and Tony shudders at the exposure. His nipples are small, already contracting in the coolness.


“Yes, sir.” He doesn’t look up.

“Tell me how you feel right now.”

The direct command leaves no wiggle room, not with the thermonuclear detonation throbbing in twinned time on his chest.

“Hot, sir.” Fighting to keep the quiver from his voice is fucking near impossible. “My cock is so hard it hurts. My hole feels tight. Twitching. I want you to jack me off.”

Limned in the diffuse light of the practice room, Steve looks like a gentle saint, beckoning the faithful to lay their cares at his feet. He nods and then gestures to a chair Tony failed to notice.

“Go sit there.”

Getting to his feet is a trick when hobbled by his jeans. Told to strip, he figures pushing them down won’t earn him any more spankings or whatever his boyfriend has in mind. And if it does, the clench of his pucker reminds him he can take that much. He never ends up pushed past his endurance.

Surely the towels aren’t for his load, which tends to be copious. Maybe for Steve. The soldier can produce a huge volume of cum and the very thought of that has his cock dripping webs of precum from the tip.

He steps out of his jeans and stumbles to the chair, which certainly doesn’t belong among the punching bags or free weights in equipment storage. The last time he saw was in the study or the facility library, a stately thing, all high-backed and broad-armed.

Sitting wooden in it, he spreads his knees to give his aching balls a break. No access to his ass, then. Something doesn’t add up.

“Put your hands on the arms.”

His heartbeat spikes again as he complies, his forearms resting against the firm teak curving forwards. His longest fingers just reach the carvings fanning along the support. The padded back splat fits into the hollow of his spine disturbingly well, but before he can ask a question, Steve reaches down to brush the damn towel lightly over his nipple.

He cries out, unable to bite back that treacherous noise.

The terrycloth barely touches his feverish skin and the little nub shrinks, tightening up at the touch. Drawn in lazy circles, the sensation makes him unable to process the question asked over his head.

“Ah… Ah, could you please say that again? Sir?”

Tender strokes remove the top layer of his composure while the towel barely touches the strained nub.

“You didn’t mention this.”

“No,” Tony struggles for words. Speaking is hard when he wants to crawl away from the towel or beg Steve for his tongue. “They’re a bit sensitive.”

“What are?”

No escape from this. Fuck. His hips are rocking slightly as everything on his chest wall burns under warm, prickling fire. “My nipples.”

Impatience flickers across that beautiful face. Steve’s thumb and pointer finger dwarf the small nodule they capture, squeezing down until the pain erupts along the nerves and he stabs the air with his cock, jouncing, writhing.

"Say it again properly, Tony.”

Tony bites his lip and arches, grunting through the warm spread of red heat. The world is a blur as his cheeks heat up. “My nipples are sensitive, sir.”

“You like the towel?”

“No.” Half-truths he blurts out are followed up immediately. “Yes. They’re so sensitive, I don’t know.”

Steve twists the bud a quarter to the right, half to the left, toying with the plump little lines. He cannot hold still by that point, gripping the arms of the chair for dear life. Every frisson of burning light sinks deep and spreads out, a tickle demanding his ass lift and his cock seek succor. None is to be had, but it doesn’t matter.

“Have they always been this sensitive?”

“Uh, n-no. God, fuck, that’s so much.”

“Then how long?” Steve releases the nub, and it springs back to a stout point. Once more he picks up the towel, drawing the line out between his hands.

“The arc reactor always makes them this bad.” Tony would pretend at indifference but his eyes lock on the white cloth approaching. How can he steel himself against that inexorable, damning torment? “Always tender.”

His words break off into incoherent whimpers when Steve takes the soft edge of the hand towel and starts briskly rubbing it back and forth over the assaulted nipple. He pushes back against the chair strongly enough the thing would fall over if not bolted to the floor.

Fuck. Fuck. Steve planned this, which means he planned everything, and every thought spins in Tony’s head like a carousel. They dance and drop in a blur.

“Keep your hands down.”

He needs more and wants more, even as he would crawl away.


Not their safeword -- no bosun or quark to banish the experience, but he’s never felt so close from just a brushing touch. The chafing doesn’t slow.

“Do you think you could get off this way?” Steve asks, curiosity bleeding through the stern focus.

“I d-don’t know.” Tony tosses his head back, straining, his chest pushed out in a curve to take the assault that shifts from horizontal to diagonal lines. “I never tried. Maybe. When it’s just me, I stop.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Would he, if Tony asked? The notion stirs a deep well of horror and he shakes his head, even though the little nub stands out pink and firm.

The siege continues, finished edge vertical against the flat tip. He grunts again when the towel teases the underside of the nipple, enough to make him grip the chair white-knuckled.

Steve stares into his blushing face. “Say yes or no.”

A gulp of breath, he strains for even the word. “No.”

“You’re blushing, Stark. So here’s how this goes.” The instructor’s voice descends on him, an avalanche pulling Tony to focus the best he can while he fights the spiralling ascent. “You tell me how much you can take. What you think about when you play with your tit flesh.”

The emotional toll hollows out whatever sass remains, and he breaks in a spill of words. “A lot. I get rough." These touches, the tender kind are so much worse.  "I don’t cum from them. When it’s too hard to touch them, I jack off or use a prostate massager.”

When the first words begin, the towel slows its assault on his tenderized nub. He gains enough space to breathe, but barely, and his gaze remains fixed on Steve’s face for fear of losing his train of thought and just drooling all over his fat, stiff nub.

“Yeah?” A tender brush of the thumb over the hugely receptive nerves makes Tony jump in his chair again.

“Unh, fuck, yeah. Light touches are worse than hard ones.”

Obliging the experiment, Steve squeezes the other unattended nipple. Might as well have linked up alligator clips, the  charge shoots over the azurine arc reactor and ignites the untended point. Tony arches stiff and throws his head back at the slow torsion, left gasping when that ends with a pinch.

He really starts to whine in earnest when the towel brushes over the one besieged point, licking from the top in fluttery passes. His hole burns, greedy for filling, and he struggles not to blow his load then and there.

“Do you like me playing with your tit flesh?”

“Fuck.” A pinch ends, Steve pulling his hand back, and he about lurches forward after the retreating touch. The room echoes with his shout: “Yes! Please, sir, yes!”


“Please play with my tits,” he repeats the words, and the taboo breaks open a whole new realm in his lust-addled brain. Yes, he wants Steve to toy with him, fulfilling the unspeakable words.

Steve puts the towel down over his forearm, draped casually. “I need you to wait for a few minutes while I get ready. Do you think you can hold still for me when I start playing with you?”

Tony holds those guileless blue eyes, measuring the weight of trust, and slowly shakes his head.

“I didn’t think so either. That’s okay. You always tell me what you can take, and we work with that,” the blond kisses the top of his head.

This is why he subjects himself to torments beyond description and humps the padded chair upholstery, waiting impatiently for the return. Steve takes charge of binding him to the arms and legs of the sturdy wooden seat, securing his ankles under several loops of bright red rope.

His wrists receive a different treatment, clamped by thick leather cuffs linked to the support. Another pair of cherry-red ropes come out, wielded with precision around his forearms until he is firmly anchored. Gauntlets race from the cuffs up to his elbows.

“Isn’t this a bit excessive?” he manages to get out with a chuckle.

“Sweetheart, you feel like whining at me around a cock gag?”

Steve pauses in his work with an offer anything but casual in nature, a reprimand hot on the heels of securing the guide ropes through solid steel eye-bolts in the floor.

Tony’s eyes practically fall out of his skull. “Y-you…”

“Does my slut need a fat cock gag to concentrate on?”

He bites the corner of his cheek until practically bleeding. Greed blurs his vision again. Would Steve get a cast of his cock made, something in silicone to attach to a panel gag? Would he even be able to breathe with that monster jammed in his throat? Maybe the tip would stand out every time he swallowed.

Tony bowed his head, whispering, “Only if you want it, sir.”

A pinch anointed his left nipple, renewing the flagging heat to a fresh blaze. “I want to hear you begging for everything. Tell me what you want.”

The last addition is placed quickly, the wide silicone band snapped into place at the root of his cock. He grunts at the cock ring that Steve pulls down into place with perfunctory skill, checking for the snug fit. Underneath its onyx cuff, his balls earn a warm palming and he holds his breath, almost certain those will be bound too. But no, Steve withdraws.


“Today’s about your nipples.” Steve returns to the tables. “Making them fat, thick, and bright red as cherries. They need to be trained, just like your cock. Just like your hole was.” 

Without that ring, Tony would cum then and there. “St-Steve.”

“These,” he taps the small, tight nodule, “should be stiff and begging to be sucked. Pinched. By tonight they should be big enough to proud of.”

His eyes roll back as Steve starts to strum the points with his fingers, batting them around. Every little sensation sparkles with hidden electricity dancing into the shafts.

He grinds into the chair with little circles as Steve toys with him.

“You’re going to ejaculate from only your tits being played with. If not tonight then you spend every night practicing until you get off,” Steve says softly. “I have plans to leave your nipples permanently hard, but we have a full day ahead of us.”

The sting of fingers smacking the bud makes him reel back into the moment, and he moans. Finding the right word takes a moment but Tony manages through the blissful sting.


“One, that's good."

Thirty-nine to go. For that, the blond goes to fetch a thin black crop off the table. He whisks aside his coat to reveal a panoply of toys, a dish of ice cubes gone to melting and a pair of weird, twisted cones made of gold wire. Tony stares at the plastic cylinders bundled up with clear tubing long enough that Steve halts.

He considers Tony strapped down to the chair and the selection, taking the cylinders. A hidden smile curves his mouth as he lifts the thick plastic tube, smearing the seal with lube from the pump bottle on hand. The process he repeats with the other, and the brunet has an astoundingly good idea of where those cylinders end up.

He ends up far from disappointed when the first is pressed to his right nipple, and Steve squeezes the pump ball.

“I’m glad you thought of that,” he chuckles. “They’ll be much more responsive after vacuum pumping.” Every squeeze bleeds air out from the thin tube, pulling the meat of the pink nipple deeper.

Tony tries not to groan, watching with awestruck fascination at the reddening of his captive flesh. When the last of the air is pulled out, the process repeats on the other nipple and he arches his back. Steve disengages the tube from the couplings, leaving the clear glass pair standing out from his chest.

He has hardly long to wait for the next preparations, for Steve picks up the crop and starts tapping the cylinders. Shocks roll down into his captured flesh, going straight into the receptive nerves.

“Ah!” His cry breaks out at every tap and soon he endures a barrage lightly raining down, sensitive flesh handling. Far more than forty strikes, but these are so lightly they hardly count, only enhancing how exquisite every sensation is.

Steve pauses now and then to pull on the tubes, toying with the vacuum seal. He drags out Tony’s nubs into conical formation and the brunet struggles to hold still in his rapt excitement. One snaps free and he stares at the plump nub swollen to double its size.

“Oh fuck.”

“That’s just a start, Tony. We can do so much better.” Steve prods the wrinkled areola and puffy nipple with the tip of the crop, then smacks it down three times in fast succession on the throbbing point.

Striking with quick precision takes a few seconds for Tony to even process, and he twitches in the chair, unable to even raise a hand to defend himself. The lubricated cylinder comes back, pumped out until the stiff point fills half the tube and he grinds his hips for relief.

Relief that’s not coming. Steve resumes tapping to keep Tony thoroughly distracted from his ringed cock. His tender nubs magnify everything, and with the constant spanking of the crop on every side of the tubes, he thrashes in futility in bondage. 

He loves the sight of his big cherry nipples standing out. They look fat and mouthwatering instead  of small. He wants them plump, fat, obscene. He  only hopes Steve feels the same.

An eternity passes -- just nine minutes in reality -- before the first pair of tubes come off with a bubbling pop.

The next size up will be necessary, Tony knows, because he filled the last. His nips are no longer small but lush, those of a woman. He’s seen enough to know, sucked them and clamped them to make his lovers squeal and writhe.

These are his. His fat nipples. He thrusts his chest out and Steve shakes his head, tenderly picking up the cloth and rubbing the terry cotton over each nub to remove the coating of lube.

“Fuck!” Tony shouts louder than he meant to, but the sensitivity is another magnitude higher. “Sir, fuck, I can’t-- I can’t--”

He receives a finger pressed to his tongue and he wraps his lips around it, sucking desperately while taking the torture on the abused points. The outer layer of skin feels aflame and more tender than he’s ever managed, and this is just the beginning.

The next pair of cylinders are manhandled onto his chest, using a different coupling system altogether. Hydraulic, this one, and Steve turns the pump so he can watch a needle jump on a round dial to measure the air pressure. What all those numbers translate into are stiff, fuckable nipples in his head and big, reddened shafts filling up the tubes.

How many tubes are there? Will he just keep stretching my nipples? 

He whines by the end of it, barely able to sit still for the pleasure and pain humming on his chest.

“We’ll give those ten minutes.” Steve flicks one of the cylinders, earning a groan of appreciation. “No more. In the meantime, let’s keep you occupied.”

Hope springs to life -- occupied means so many possible holes filled -- but nothing prepares Tony for seeing a pair of stretchy silicone cradles wrapped over the tubes. They look like figure eights, empty spaces waiting for something. His inquiring moan lifts, high even to his ears.

“You just wait a moment,” Steve murmurs.


With a sigh, the blond reveals a pair of small plastic eggs attached by black wires to a control box, simple in design. Tony knows an egg vibrator when he sees one. Each one slides in tight up against the glass tubing and the silicone web, pushed in and forced down right up against the base of each nipple.

The two wires spindle around one another for  a decent weight tugging on the cylinders, but far from breaking their ironclad grip. His nipples tilt down to the weight, and Steve places the boxes snug up against his dick. He tucks them to either side, and smiles.

Tony can’t shake the anticipation eating up his brain. “I'll cum… My nipples and my cock…”

“You should feel a bit, yeah.” Steve thumbs the control pad until each vibrating egg hums to life with a noisy chatter. He bypasses the moderate setting and settles on high for both. "Let's get them really stretched. We have work to do." 

Hearing any response over that vigorous clatter where the plastic strikes off the glass cylinders will be hard. He goes to sit on the table, legs spread wide to give the bound sub a view of his jeans.

Tony is already whining as he watches his boyfriend take his cock in hand and stroke so slowly.

It’s gonna be a long ten minutes.