Leo’s slow, claiming rhythm shattered. Corey’s legs, which had been splayed open and accepting, suddenly clamped tight around Leo’s waist. The muscles in his abdomen and back, a topography Leo had only ever touched, coiled and drove upward. Leo gasped, his own thrusts stuttering into helpless stillness as Corey took over, fucking himself onto Leo’s cock with a deep, rolling grind that was nothing like the frantic pounding from before. This was practiced. Devastating. Leo was buried inside, but he was no longer in control; he was a tool being expertly worked.
“That’s it,” Corey rasped, his voice a raw scrape against the thumping music. His glazed eyes were sharp now, locked on Leo’s. “Just stay there. Let the slut use you.” He arched his back, driving Leo impossibly deeper, the wet, churning noise from his hole obscenely loud. Leo could only watch, his hands braced on the sweat-slick bed, as the fantasy inverted. He hadn’t conquered the star. The star was conquering him, milking him with a skill born of sixty-one previous lessons.
Corey’s hips pistoned, a relentless, perfect rhythm that dragged the head of Leo’s cock over a spot inside him that made his whole body shudder. Leo felt his own climax building, a tight, electric coil in his gut being wound by Corey’s internal muscles with every slick slide. “You feel that?” Corey grunted, his own breath coming in sharp hitches. “Feel all that nut inside me getting churned? Your dick’s painting it on my walls. Making it mine.”
The filthy praise, the visceral truth of it, undid Leo completely. The coil snapped. A broken sound tore from his throat as he came, his hips jerking involuntarily as Corey kept moving, riding him through the pulsing waves. It was less an orgasm he achieved and more one that was ripped from him, stolen by the hungry, clenching heat and the triumphant look in Corey’s eyes.
When it was over, Leo slumped forward, spent and shaking, his forehead coming to rest on Corey’s damp chest. Corey’s legs loosened, falling open with a final, wet sound. The room came back in pieces: the thump of the bass, the reek of sex and poppers, the sticky mess cooling on both their stomachs. Corey’s hand came up, not gently, and pushed at Leo’s shoulder. “Time’s up,” he said, his voice already sliding back into a distant, transactional haze. “Door’s unlocked. Next guy’s probably waiting.”