Page 23 of The Perfect Ingredient
I hear an obsceneslurp,and look around Jean to see Hessou’s mouth moving over Jean’s ass like he’s starving for it, his tongue pushing in, creating wet sounds of spit meeting heat. Jean lets out a sound I’ve never heard before—a helpless, strangled noise, the sound of something shattering deep inside him beyond repair.
I reach up and gently stroke his cock again, pressing my thumb against the tip to smear the mess around.
“Tell me when you’re close,” I murmur against his cock. “Don’t hold back. I want to catch every drop. Nothing wasted,oui?”
Jean’s breath hitches, words caught between gasps.
“I—yes,” he says between moans. “I-I’ll… I’ll tell you… I-mmmmm”
Jean moans, his body pressing back against Hessou’s mouth in a silent plea, the first definitive moment where pure need overtakes shame.
And then his body trembles, his cock twitching against my tongue. I taste the first thick spurts flooding my mouth like molten cream. I close my eyes, desperate to hold every drop before it slips away.
I collect it carefully in the hollow of my tongue, then tilt my head to let it trickle down my chin, cupping my hand to guide the flow into the bowl. I love this. The slow accumulation. The physical evidence of his offering.
Jean’s voice breaks, but he’s careful to warn me this time when another wave nears, letting me brace for the next surge.
I catch it all.
I can hear Hessou moving behind Jean—low murmurs, the wet press of mouth, tongue and hands—but I don’t look even when I’m so curious to see it. I focus on milking my boy.
No cum comes out anymore, but Jean is still hard. Still flushed and panting, still leaking—despite everything we took from him, despite the tremble in his knees that makes him sway as he leans on my shoulder for support.
Hessou places a hand at the small of his back.
“Move there,” he says softly. “Lean on the counter.”
Jean obeys, moving slowly but without a hint of refusal. He leans over the counter, palms flat, his hips tilting into the perfect angle, and Hessou nudges his legs apart, guiding one of Jean’s knees onto a low stool to open him up.
I move closer, watching from the side as Hessou takes the porcelain dish of the cream I made earlier—the one with his own cum mixed in—and dips his fingers in. He coats them generously, then trails a thick strand of the mixture through the air before pressing in between Jean’s cheeks.
Jean moans, forehead against his arm. His back arches, his ass lifts in silent invitation, and Hessou begins to work the cream inside him with slow, circular strokes.
The sound is wet.
Absolutely obscene.
My cock aches just watching.
“That’s it,” I murmur, unable to stop my hand from stroking myself lightly through my pants. “Let it coat him.”
Hessou chuckles, and slides another finger in.
Jean takes it easily, his hole soft and welcoming from earlier teasing, and the entire image is indecent in the most beautiful way. It’s like watching dessert being filled.
“Wait,” I say, moving to the drawer where I keep my cloth pastry bags.
I grab one, made of soft cotton, and bring it over. Jean turns his head toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and trusting. I crouch and gently nestle his cock and balls into the pouch, tying it loosely at the base with a string.
“There,” I whisper, brushing my fingers over the cotton. “Now we won’t waste anything.”
Jean looks down at it, a small smile twitching on his lips despite his panting. He cups it gently with one hand, steadying himself, and rolls his hips backward, seeking more pressure from Hessou’s hand.
Such a good boy.
I step back, letting the image settle in my mind: Jean bent over, holding himself, body smeared with cream and sweat, flushed pink. Hessou behind him, working inside him, murmuring low words I can’t quite catch.
I want to taste it—all of it.
