TJ's Stories - My Dumb Himbo Neighbour (18)

Author's note: This will probably be the last installment of My Dumb Himbo Neighbour. I'm so glad you all enjoyed this series so much. Michael, Marcus and Lukas will be back in spin-offs

The Sunday morning service at Grace Fellowship is always an exercise in self-control, but today the air in the sanctuary feels practically electric.

I sit three rows behind the Richardson family. From where I’m sitting, I have an unobstructed view of the back of Michael’s neck—broad, golden-tanned, with those short-trimmed blond hairs curling neatly above the starched white collar of his dress shirt. Every time the congregation stands to sing a hymn, the tailored seams of his jacket strain against his massive shoulders. His huge, thick pecs push against the front of his shirt so hard that the fabric puckers between the buttons, and every time he takes a deep breath to sing, the gold cross resting against his sternum catches the stained-glass light.

He keeps glancing back at me. Not subtly, either. He turns around every five minutes with that big, dopey, open-faced puppy smile, his blue eyes locking onto mine, giving me a little secret nod like we share some profound, celestial secret.

Which, in a way, we do.

When the service finally lets out and the foyer fills with the smell of weak urn coffee and cinnamon crumb cake, I’m standing by the bulletin board when Emma Whitaker sidles up next to me.

Emma is nineteen, sweet as spun sugar, and completely, blissfully oblivious to the ways of the world. She’s the head of the youth group hospitality committee, wears pastel floral dresses with modest cardigans, and thinks every boy who plays varsity sports is just an angel waiting to find his Christian bride.

"Hey, Jordan," she chirps, clutching her study Bible to her chest with both hands. She gives me a conspiratorial, knowing little smile that crinkles her nose.

"Hey, Emma," I say, flashing my most polished, polite Sunday-school smile. "Great sermon today, right? Pastor Dave really hit on the power of fellowship."

"Oh, totally," she whispers, leaning in close like we’re sharing gossip at a sleepover. She cuts her eyes toward the hallway where Michael is surrounded by three middle school boys from the junior football team, laughing and ruffling their hair. "Speaking of fellowship... it is just the most adorable thing ever."

I tilt my head, playing innocent. "What is?"

"The way Michael looks at you!" Emma giggles, tapping my arm with the corner of her leather-bound Bible. "I mean, seriously, Jordan. Every time you walked into the sanctuary this morning, he literally lit up. He was fidgeting the whole time during the opening prayer until you sat down behind him. And during Wednesday night youth group, he wouldn’t stop talking about you. He told everyone how you’re helping him with his physical discipline and how you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to his spiritual walk."

I keep my face completely placid, though a deep, hot coil of amusement tightens in my gut. "Did he?"

"Yes!" Emma beams, her eyes practically sparkling with romantic sentimentality. "He has the biggest, sweetest crush on you. It’s so cute. Like, I know he’s just this big, goofy golden retriever of a boy, but anyone with eyes can see he’s totally head-over-heels. You guys are just inseparable."

She thinks it’s an innocent, harmless bromance—the kind of pure, boyish hero-worship they put in wholesome teen devotionals. She has no idea that the "spiritual walk" Michael talks about involves me choking on his ten-inch cock in the confessional booth while holy water drips onto the carpet.

"He's just a really good buddy, Emma," I say smoothly, giving her a humble, self-effacing shrug. "We keep each other accountable. Iron sharpens iron, right?"

"Amen to that," she sighs happily. "Well, tell him I said hi! And don't let him tackle you too hard during flag football next week!"

She flutters away to hand out church bulletins, and I turn to watch Michael make his way across the foyer toward me. He’s huge—six-foot-two of solid, corn-fed muscle, his thick legs practically bursting out of his navy dress slacks, his biceps straining against his jacket sleeves. When his eyes find me, that goofy, radiant grin spreads across his handsome, chiseled face.

"Hey, bro!" he booms, loud enough that two elderly deaconesses glance over and smile indulgently. He reaches me and claps a massive, heavy hand onto my shoulder, giving it a proprietary squeeze that sends a shock of heat straight to my groin. "You ready to walk back? Mom and Dad are taking the car with Marcus, but I told them I wanted to walk with you so we could... you know... talk about the sermon."

"Yeah, Michael," I say, letting my eyes drop deliberately to the way his dress shirt pulls tight over his chest. "Let's talk about the sermon."

We head out into the crisp Sunday sunshine, cutting across the gravel parking lot and down the tree-lined sidewalk that leads back toward our neighborhood. As soon as the church steeple disappears behind the oak trees, I turn to him, stuffing my hands casually into my slacks pockets.

"So," I begin, letting my voice drop into a playful, teasing drawl. "Emma Whitaker pulled me aside by the bulletin board."

Michael glances down at me, his thick blond eyebrows pulling together in that adorably earnest, slow-thinking way of his. "Emma? What’d she want? She ask about the youth retreat bake sale?"

"No," I say, watching his face closely. "She said she thinks you have a crush on me, dude."

Michael freezes mid-stride. A deep, vivid crimson flush starts at the base of his thick neck, creeping up over his jaw, his cheekbones, and right to the tips of his ears. He lets out a loud, nervous, barking laugh that sounds like a startled puppy.

"What?" he stammered, his big hands coming up to rub the back of his neck, his gold cross swinging out over his tie. "She—she said that? That’s—that’s crazy, bro! Emma’s just being weird. You know how girls are. They see two guys being close and they think it’s... they don't understand how guys bond."

"She said you light up whenever I walk into a room," I murmur, closing the distance between us on the sidewalk until my shoulder brushes his massive, rock-hard arm. "She said you told the whole youth group I'm the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Well—I mean—you are!" Michael protests desperately, stopping beneath the shade of a massive willow tree. He turns to face me fully, towering over me, his broad chest heaving under his dress shirt. His blue eyes are wide, glassy, and completely naked in their panic. "You’re my best buddy, Jordan! You’re my accountability partner! You’re the guy who helps me stay pure and focused on God. If we didn't do our... our physical release sessions, I'd be stumbling into sin every single day. You take care of me. That’s not a crush. That’s just... that’s brotherhood. Right?"

He’s practically begging me to reassure him. He looks so distressed, so terrified that the holy framework we’ve built might shatter under the weight of an outside word.

And through it all, even while his voice cracks with panic, his eyes are fixated entirely on my lips.

I step into his space, tilting my head up. I reach out and adjust the lapel of his suit jacket, letting my knuckles graze the firm, massive swell of his left pec. I feel the heavy muscle jump under my touch.

"Of course it's brotherhood, Michael," I whisper, my voice silky and calm. "Emma doesn't understand the depth of our ministry. She doesn't know what real devotion looks like."

Michael lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his huge frame sagging with relief. "Yeah. Exactly. It’s ministry. It’s devotion." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing over his starched collar, his gaze still glued to my mouth. "Man... I was scared for a second. I was worried you thought I was... you know. Weird."

"Never, buddy," I say, patting his chest once, firmly, feeling the thick meat of his pec flex against my palm. "Come on. Let's get home. We've got a lot of spiritual work to do tonight."

By midnight, the Richardson house is dead silent. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson have been asleep in the master bedroom for hours, and Marcus is knocked out down the hall after an intense lifting session.

I slip through Michael's unlocked bedroom door, shutting it quietly behind me.

The room is bathed in a thick, heavy, cinematic red glow. Michael has completely committed to the mood, even if he doesn't understand why: he replaced his desk lamp bulb with a deep crimson light, and he strung a strand of red Christmas lights along his headboard. The deep red illumination paints the walls, casting long, dark shadows and turning the room into a private, sultry sanctuary.

Michael is lying flat on his back in the middle of his rumpled queen-sized bed.

He is completely shirtless, wearing only a pair of thin gray gym shorts that hang dangerously low on his V-cut hips. His massive body is glowing in the red light—slick with a fresh layer of baby oil that he applied before I got here, just like I taught him to do after our workouts. His skin looks like polished bronze. His chest is absurdly huge: two massive, rounded, pillowy slabs of pumped muscle that rise and fall with his heavy, anxious breathing. In the red glow, the deep valley of his cleavage looks bottomless, and his puffy, oversized pink nipples are already hard, dark nubs.

The heavy gold cross necklace rests right in the center of his chest, nestled in his cleavage, sticky with a smear of dried pre-cum from earlier when he was pumping iron.

His thick, tree-trunk thighs are spread wide, and between them, his cock is already half-hard inside his shorts—a massive, unmistakable log of meat stretching the thin gray fabric down toward his knee.

He looks completely wrecked. Beautiful, pumped, oiled, and terrified.

When he sees me, his lips part, and that signature himbo puppy-dog expression washes over his chiseled face. "Jordan... you came."

"I told you I would, buddy," I say softly.

I don't bother taking off my clothes yet. I walk slowly across the red-lit room, feeling his wide blue eyes track every step I take. The crimson light turns the shadows beneath his jaw into sharp angles. He looks like an altar waiting for an offering.

I climb onto the bed, straddling his waist. I settle my weight over his lower abdomen, feeling the immense heat radiating off his skin.

I don't go for his shorts. I don't reach for his cock. Not yet.

I place both of my hands flat onto his massive pecs.

Michael gasps, his entire body shuddering under my palms. The contrast is intoxicating: beneath the smooth, baby-soft layer of skin and the plush, heavy mass of his chest, the underlying muscle is hard as solid granite. I dig my fingers in, gripping the dense, meaty slabs. I lift them, kneading the heavy weight of his chest like warm dough.

"Fuck, Jordan..." Michael groans, his head rolling back against the pillows. "Your hands... they're so cold. Feels so good."

"Just relax, Michael," I murmur, my voice low and hypnotic in the red gloom. "I'm just checking your tension. You're holding so much stress in your chest."

I push his massive pecs together with both hands, squeezing them inward until they smash against each other, creating a deep, suffocating crevasse of golden, oiled muscle. I hold them there, watching the gold cross get swallowed up in the valley between his tits. Then I release them and give each pec a firm, rhythmic squeeze, watching the heavy mounds jiggle and bounce under the red light.

They're so huge. So soft on top, so ridiculously thick underneath. I slide my thumbs up over the curve of his chest, finding his puffy nipples. I circle them with firm, slow pressure, rolling the sensitive, dark flesh between my thumbs and forefingers.

"Ah—fuck—Jordan—" Michael whimpers, his hips twitching upward, his thick thighs trembling against the mattress. "That—that makes my stomach feel all weird... like electricity..."

"It's just the nerve endings releasing spiritual pressure," I whisper.

I lean forward, pressing my chest against his, and lower my mouth to the side of his neck.

I start kissing him. Slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses. I drag my tongue along the strong, corded line of his neck, licking from the hollow of his collarbone up to the sharp curve of his jawline. His skin tastes of sweet coconut baby oil, clean sweat, and pure, masculine musk. Every time my tongue laps against his pulse point, I feel his heart hammering like a trapped bird.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Jordan..." he pants, his hands coming up to grip the sheets on either side of his hips, his knuckles turning white. "Jordan, please..."

"Just bonding, Michael," I murmur against his warm skin, sucking a gentle mark right below his ear. "Just taking care of you. Good buddies take care of each other."

I lick my way down to the hollow of his throat, pressing my lips directly over his windpipe. Every time he swallows, his Adam's apple moves against my mouth, and the little gold cross clicks softly against his skin.

The physical contact breaks whatever fragile dam was holding back his thoughts. Michael starts talking, his voice trembling, breathless, and completely raw in the crimson light.

"Jordan... Emma... what she said at church... it’s been in my head all day, bro."

I keep kissing his throat, trailing my lips across his collarbone. "Don't worry about Emma, buddy."

"No, but... but listen to me," Michael stammers, his chest heaving so hard beneath my hands that his pecs bounce against my face. "When you touch me like this... when you rub my chest and kiss my neck... it doesn't feel like stretching anymore. It—it hasn't felt like stretching for a long time."

I pause my kissing, resting my chin on his sternum, looking up through the red gloom into his distressed, beautiful face. "What does it feel like, Michael?"

His brow furrows into deep, painful lines. Tears of confusion and shame glaze his wide blue eyes. He looks like a lost child trying to explain a nightmare.

"It feels... it feels like more," he chokes out, his voice cracking. "And it scares me, Jordan. It scares the shit out of me. Because... because I think these thoughts are sinful. I think they're impure. They feel dark, bro."

"Tell me the thoughts, Michael," I say, my voice a soothing, velvety command. I reach up and gently stroke his cheek, thumbing away a bead of sweat. "You have to speak them into the light so we can cleanse them. What do you think about?"

Michael swallows hard, his chest shaking. "I... I think about you when I'm praying, Jordan. Every night when I get on my knees by my bed to talk to God, your face pops into my head. I think about your mouth. I think about the way you smell after we lift. When we were sitting in church today, my leg was touching yours, and I got so hard I thought my pants were gonna rip. Right there in the house of God, bro!"

He lets out a ragged, miserable sob, his hands flying up to cover his eyes.

"I don't want to be bad," he cries softly. "I don't want to be gay. My dad... my dad would be so disappointed in me. But I just... I feel so much when I'm with you. It's so hot and it's so heavy and it sits right here in my chest, right on my heart, and I don't know what to do with it!"

My heart surges with a dark, triumphant thrill. He is completely unraveled. The innocence, the guilt, the desperate need for absolution—it makes him more malleable than clay.

I don't argue with him. I don't use logic. I don't tell him that homosexuality is natural. That would break the spell.

Instead, I slide my hands down from his face, down over his magnificent, heaving pecs, down across his carved six-pack, straight to the waistband of his shorts.

"You're not bad, Michael," I say with absolute authority, looking straight into his tear-filled eyes. "And you're not gay. This isn't sin. This is spiritual weight. You've been carrying all this masculine pressure inside your body, and the devil is trying to twist it into guilt so you stop being close to me."

Michael lowers his hands from his face, staring at me with desperate hope. "You... you think so?"

"I know so," I whisper. "And I'm going to take that weight out of you right now."

I slide off his waist, kneeling between his thick, spread thighs. With two slow, deliberate tugs, I pull his gray gym shorts and his compression underwear down his muscular legs, tossing them onto the floor.

His cock springs free in the red light, and even though I've seen it a dozen times, the sheer scale of it steals my breath.

It is easily ten inches long and thick as a soda can—a massive, heavy, veiny trunk of golden-tanned meat. The fat mushroom head is swollen to the size of a plum, dark purple in the crimson lighting, and it is already weeping thick, clear streams of pre-cum that run down the underside of the shaft and puddle in the golden hair around his heavy, low-hanging balls. The heat radiating off his groin hits my face like an open oven.

Michael whimpers, his hands gripping the wooden bedposts above his head, his huge pecs flexing and jiggling with every ragged breath. "Jordan... please... it feels so full... it hurts..."

"I've got you, buddy," I murmur.

I lean in close, not touching it with my hands yet. I just hover my face over that massive, throbbing monster, breathing my hot breath over the weeping slit. Michael’s hips buck off the mattress instantly.

"Oh, God—" he gasps.

I extend my tongue and lick a long, slow stripe right across the swollen head, lapping up the copious pool of pre-cum. The taste is intoxicating—salty, musky, slightly sweet, and heavy with pure testosterone. I look up along the length of his massive body as I lick him. In the deep red glow, his oiled pecs look like sculpted bronze mountains, the sticky gold cross catching the light, his chiseled face slack with overwhelming lust.

I open my mouth wide, letting a thick string of saliva pool on my tongue, and spit directly onto the fat purple head.

Splatt.

The warm spit runs down the shaft. I bring both of my hands forward, wrapping them around the thick trunk. I start stroking him with two hands, using my spit and his endless flow of pre-cum to work up a slick, sloppy lather.

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

The wet, squelching sounds echo loudly in the quiet bedroom. Michael’s thighs begin to shake uncontrollably, his toes curling against the sheets.

"Fuck—bro—that's so wet—" he babbles, his voice thick and slurred. "It's so slippery..."

I don't make him wait any longer. I stretch my jaw, lean forward, and engulf the massive head into my warm, wet mouth.

"AHH!" Michael shouts, his voice cracking before he bites his bottom lip so hard a drop of blood nearly surfaces. His hips thrust upward, burying the first four inches of his cock into my mouth.

It completely fills my mouth. I suck hard, hollowing my cheeks, swirling my tongue violently around the sensitive ridge under his head. At the same time, my hands continue pumping the remaining six inches of thick, veiny shaft that can't fit in my mouth, stroking in perfect rhythm with my bobbing head.

Gluck. Gluck. Schlick.

I drool shamelessly. Thick strings of saliva and pre-cum leak from the corners of my stretched lips, coating his shaft, dripping down between his heavy balls, soaking into the dark red sheets beneath him.

I breathe through my nose, relax the muscles at the back of my throat, and push down.

Gag.

The fat head hits my uvula. My eyes instantly water, hot tears spilling over my eyelashes and running down my cheeks. But I don't pull back. I force my throat open, taking another inch. Then another.

GLUCK.

His massive cock slides deep. My nose is buried completely in his blond pubic hair, inhaling his musky scent. My throat bulges visibly with the thick girth of his ten-inch shaft. I can feel his cock pulsing frantically against the walls of my throat, his heartbeat thudding directly against my airway.

Michael is losing his mind. His hands are tearing at the sheets, his back arching so high off the mattress that only his heels and shoulders are touching the bed. His huge pecs are heaving violently, bouncing and glistening in the red light, the gold cross swinging like a pendulum.

"JORDAN!" he cries out, no longer able to keep his voice down. "Oh Jesus—oh God—you're taking all of it—you're swallowing my whole soul, bro—"

I hold him balls-deep for three agonizing, blissful seconds, letting him feel how completely he is consumed, before I slowly pull back.

I slide off with a wet, sloppy pop, coughing and gasping for air. A thick rope of throat slime and saliva connects my chin to his glistening, purple cockhead. My face is completely wrecked—eyes red and streaming with tears, cheeks flushed bright crimson, lips swollen and shiny with his fluids.

Michael looks down at me through the red haze, his expression completely gooned-out, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes look almost black.

"Keep talking to me, Michael," I gasp, wiping spit from my chin with the back of my hand, only to immediately wrap both hands around his shaft and resume pumping. "Confess the impure thoughts. Every single one. While I take your cock, you give me your sin. I'll hold it for you."

"Yes—okay—I'll tell you—" Michael pants desperately, his hips twitching to the rhythm of my hands. "Jordan... I look at your ass all the time. In the gym, at church, when you wear those little black shorts... your bubble butt is so round and perfect, bro. I just—I stare at it and I want to grab it with both hands. I want to bury my face right between your cheeks and just breathe you in."

I slide my mouth back down onto his cock, taking five inches and sucking with aggressive, noisy suction. Sluuuurp. Gluck.

"And I get so jealous!" Michael groans, tears leaking from his eyes now, mixing with the sweat on his cheeks. "When Lukas talks to you, or when other guys at youth group stand too close to you, I get this angry, hot feeling in my chest! I want to push them away. I want you to sleep in my bed every single night. I want to hold you while we sleep, with no clothes on, just chest to chest."

I pull off his cock just enough to let the head rest between my lips. "You're doing so good," I murmur, my voice muffled by his girth. "Tell me more. What do you want to do to me?"

"I want to kiss your neck!" he babbles, completely uninhibited now, the himbo innocence giving way to raw, primal devotion. "I want to put my mouth on your throat the way you do to me! And—and I want to be inside you! Not just for a muscle massage, Jordan... I want to put my big dick inside your special place because... because when I'm inside you, I don't feel confused anymore. When I'm inside you, I feel like I'm home!"

He sobs, his entire body trembling with the weight of the confession. He looks at me with pure, desperate adoration.

"You're my best friend, Jordan. You're my favorite person in the whole world. Please... can you expel it? Can we get the sin out of me right now?"

"We can, buddy," I say, stroking his rock-hard length. "We're going to cleanse you completely."

Michael suddenly looks at the wooden bedposts above his head, then back down at me. A desperate, holy madness is in his eyes.

"Tie me down," he whispers.

I pause, looking at him. "What?"

"Tie my hands to the bedposts, Jordan," Michael begs, his voice cracking with emotion. "Like an exorcism! In the Bible, they had to bind the possessed so the spirit couldn't fight back! If I'm tied down, I can't run away from God. I can't run away from what I feel. I want you to tie me down and ride the sin right out of me. Please, Jordan. I trust you with my whole life."

A dark, intoxicating thrill shoots through my veins. The sheer, breathtaking stupidity of his himbo logic is a thing of absolute beauty. He has literally handed me total physical dominance on a silver platter, wrapped in the language of holy deliverance.

I give him my most tender, angelic smile. "You're so brave, Michael. So faithful."

I climb off the bed and walk over to his heavy gym duffel bag in the corner. I unzip it and pull out a pair of thick, heavy-duty black cotton wrist wraps—the kind he uses for heavy bench pressing.

I return to the bed. Michael is watching me with wide, reverent eyes, his massive chest heaving. He willingly places his thick, veiny wrists against the sturdy oak bedposts.

I wrap the heavy black cotton tightly around his right wrist, looping it several times around the wooden post before securing the velcro with a loud, satisfying riiiiiip. Then I move to the left, doing the exact same thing.

When I finish, Michael pulls against the bindings. His massive biceps bulge to the size of cantaloupes, the veins in his forearms standing out like thick ropes, and his huge, rounded pecs flex and bounce against his chest. The bed creaks under the immense strain of his strength, but the wraps hold firm.

He is completely helpless. Bound to his own bed, legs spread wide, his ten-inch cock standing straight up like a flagpole, leaking pre-cum in the red light.

"How does that feel, buddy?" I ask softly.

"Feels... holy, bro," Michael pants, his hips lifting off the mattress, his cock twitching. "I can't move. I'm all yours. Do it, Jordan. Deliver me."

I smirk—a sharp, private, victorious grin that he is too dazed to understand.

I stand up on the mattress and slowly strip off my clothes.

I pull my shirt over my head, letting the red light wash over my toned chest and smooth abs. Then I slide my shorts down, stepping out of them. I turn slightly, letting him get a full, unobstructed view of my round, high, perfectly sculpted bubble butt glowing crimson in the ambient lighting.

Michael lets out a long, pathetic, strangled whimper. "Oh God... Jordan... your ass... it's so pretty..."

I crawl back toward him on all fours, arching my back, letting my hips sway. I straddle his muscular thighs, but I don't sit on his cock yet.

Instead, I hover over him, aligning his massive, weeping shaft with the cleft of my ass cheeks. I lower myself just enough to press his ten-inch cock between my cheeks, and I begin to grind.

Schlick. Schlick.

I hotdog his massive cock, sliding back and forth along the lubricated length of his shaft. My tight, pink hole kisses the swollen mushroom head with every forward roll of my hips, coating my entrance in his hot, abundant pre-cum.

"Fuck—fuck—Jordan—" Michael groans, straining violently against the wrist wraps. The oak bedposts rattle against the wall. His huge pecs are jumping with every twitch of his hips.

I lean forward, pressing my upper body flat against his. I grip his massive, oiled pecs with both hands, using them like handles. The soft, pillowy meat squishes between my fingers, hot and slick with sweat and oil. I bury my face into the deep, muscular valley of his chest, inhaling his scent, and take his left nipple into my mouth.

Slurp.

I suck the puffy nub hard, biting gently with my teeth while my hole continues to grind against the head of his cock.

"AHHH!" Michael screams into the red-lit room, his entire body going rigid. "Jordan! Put it in! Please, bro, put it inside the special place! I can't take it! Ride it out of me!"

I lift my head from his chest, panting, a string of saliva connecting my lip to his dark, hardened nipple.

"Alright, Michael," I whisper into his ear. "Time for your deliverance."

I sit up on my knees, reaching behind me with one hand to guide his massive, beer-can-thick cock to my entrance. The fat purple head presses firmly against my tight rim. It feels impossibly wide—hot, throbbing, and demanding.

I take a deep breath, look down into Michael’s wide, desperate blue eyes, and slowly lower my hips.

The initial stretch is breathtaking. My hole spreads as the massive mushroom head forces its way past my outer ring, stretching the tight muscle wider and wider. I gasp, my back arching, my fingers digging deep into the thick meat of Michael’s pecs.

"Oh... fuck..." I groan, the sensation of fullness instantly overwhelming my senses.

"You okay, bro?" Michael whimpers, his face twisted in a mixture of agony and pure bliss. "You're so tight... it's squeezing my whole head..."

"I'm good... just relax..." I breathe.

With a slow, agonizingly sexy descent, I slide further down.

Pop.

The fat head slips fully inside me, and the thick, veiny shaft begins its relentless intrusion. Inch by thick inch, my walls stretch and accommodate his immense girth. The drag is intense, lubricated by his endless pre-cum and my own slick readiness.

Six inches. Seven inches. Eight inches.

My internal walls cling to him like a velvet vice. Michael’s head thrashes against the pillows, his mouth wide open in a silent, ecstatic scream, his throat muscles corded as he fights for breath.

Nine inches. Ten inches.

Bottom out.

My smooth, round bubble butt slams flat against his muscular pelvis with a heavy, fleshy thud.

SMACK.

I freeze there, completely impaled. I am so full I can feel the blunt tip of his cock pressing deep against my second ring, pulsing directly against my prostate. My stomach feels completely stretched, filled with his immense, throbbing heat.

For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound in the room is our ragged, synchronized panting and the hum of the red lamp. I sit tall on his hips, completely stuffed, my hands resting flat on his massive, heaving pec tits, looking down at my bound, beautiful himbo.

"Holy shit..." Michael whispers, tears of pure ecstasy spilling freely down his temples into his blond hair. "You took all of it... you're holding my whole dick inside you..."

"Every single inch, buddy," I whisper, leaning down to press a soft, wet kiss to his trembling lips. "The devil wants you to think this is dirty so you'll stop doing holy work. But this is spiritual warfare, Michael. The closer we get, the harder the enemy tries to make us feel guilty. So we don't stop. We pray through it."

Michael nods frantically against the pillow. "Yes... pray through it... help me pray, Jordan..."

I begin to move.

I start slow, rolling my hips in wide, languid circles. My tight hole grips and milks his massive shaft with every rotation. The friction sends waves of white-hot pleasure shooting straight up my spine.

Schlick... squelch... squelch...

The wet sounds of his cock sliding inside me are quiet at first, heavy and rhythmic. I lean down, kissing his neck again, tasting the salty sweat that is beginning to pour off his skin.

Michael begins to pray aloud, his voice broken, gasping, and completely sincere.

"Thank you, God... for Jordan..." he pants, his hips lifting slightly into my downward grinds. "Thank you for giving me... a brother who cares about my soul... ahh! Help me be pure, Lord... take the bad thoughts away..."

Every time he gasps an "Amen," I lift my hips four inches and slam back down onto his hilt.

PLAP.

"Amen," I whisper against his jaw.

"Amen!" Michael cries out.

The pace begins to build. The slow, holy rolling gives way to faster, more desperate movement. I rise up on my knees, lifting my ass until only the swollen head is inside me, then drop my full weight back down.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

The sound of my round bubble butt clapping against his thick, muscular thighs is obscenely loud in the bedroom. The red light reflects off the sheen of sweat covering our bodies. Chest to chest, our sweat, the baby oil, and the dried cum from earlier mix together into a slick, glistening friction.

The room is boiling hot.

I grip his massive pecs with brutal strength, using the heavy mounds of muscle as handles to drive myself up and down. I dig my thumbs into his puffy nipples, squeezing them hard, pushing his two enormous chest slabs together so they bounce and jiggle frantically with every impact of my hips.

PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP!

"FUCK!" I moan, completely losing my composed, calculating persona. The sheer size of his ten-inch cock is hitting my prostate over and over with the force of a battering ram. My vision begins to swim with red static. Drool spills from my lips, dripping down onto his chest, landing right on his gold cross.

I am gooning out on his dick. My mind goes completely blank, reduced to the primal rhythm of taking this massive alpha male's cock deeper and harder than I ever have before.

"Jordan—oh God—Jordan—" Michael is sobbing beneath me, pulling violently against the black wrist wraps, his huge biceps bulging, the bed shaking violently against the floorboards. "You feel so good—your ass is so tight—I wanna be good for you—don't stop, please don't stop—"

I ride him like a wild animal, my bubble butt slamming down with wet, squelching fury.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

"Take it out of me!" Michael screams, his eyes rolling back into his head, his chiseled face contorted in pure, agonizing pleasure.

And then, in the middle of the violent, sweaty, red-lit chaos, Michael looks straight up into my eyes. His expression shifts from tortured lust into something completely naked, innocent, and devastatingly pure.

"I love you," he says.

The words hit me like a physical blow. It isn't buddy talk. It isn't himbo slang. It is a raw, absolute, uncalculated confession of total surrender.

A shockwave of intense, electric heat explodes in the base of my spine. My hole clamps down on his massive cock with vice-like intensity, milking him ruthlessly.

"AHHH—FUCK!" I scream, throwing my head back.

My orgasm hits me like a freight train. I don't even touch my cock—it erupts completely hands-free.

Thick, hot ropes of cum shoot violently from my dick, arcing through the red light and painting Michael's massive chest.

Splatt. Splatt. Splatt.

The heavy white load splatters across his oiled pecs, pooling in the deep valley of his cleavage, coating the gold cross until it sticks to his skin, dripping down over his hard, puffy nipples. In the deep crimson glow, the white cum looks shockingly bright, like a sacred marking of absolute possession.

I am shaking violently, sobbing into the heat of the room, my hole convulsing around his ten-inch cock in endless, milking spasms.

But Michael isn't done.

He is still rock hard, buried to the hilt inside me, his body trembling violently against the bed. He pulls desperately against the wrist wraps, his huge pecs jumping under the fresh coating of my cum.

"Say it," he begs, his voice breaking into a desperate, agonizing plea. "Please, Jordan... say it back! I said it! I need you to say it! I don't care if it's weird... I don't care about anything! Say you love me!"

He tries to thrust his hips upward, bucking into me, but the bindings keep him anchored. He is completely at my mercy, trapped under my weight, begging for words like a dying man begging for water.

I catch my breath, leaning forward, resting my hands in the warm, sticky mess of cum on his chest. I smirk through my sweat, looking down into his shattered, beautiful face.

I lift my hips slightly and drop down hard. PLAP.

"You want it that bad, buddy?" I tease, my voice a breathy, wicked purr.

"Yes! Please! Jordan, please!" he sobs, tears streaming down his face, his cock throbbing impossibly hard inside my stretched hole.

I lean down until my lips are hovering millimeters from his. I look directly into his wide, dazed blue eyes, letting the full weight of my control settle over him.

"I love you, Michael," I whisper.

The words are the final trigger.

Michael lets out an ear-splitting, primal roar of absolute release.

BOOM.

His ten-inch beer-can cock erupts deep inside my guts.

It is the biggest, hottest, most violent load he has ever produced. Pulse after pulse of thick, scalding, creamy alpha cum pumps deep into my hole, flooding me completely. The sheer volume is staggering—it fills my stretched cavity in seconds, and by the fourth heavy pulse, the excess cum begins to bubble and leak out around his thick shaft, running down the cleft of my ass and dripping onto his thighs.

"JORDANNNN!" he screams, his back arching so hard the headboard bangs against the wall.

His pecs jump and twitch frantically. His wrists strain against the black wraps until the velcro groans. The gold cross, plastered to his chest by my cum, rises and falls with his violent, shuddering gasps.

He pumps and pumps, emptying every single drop of his masculine vitality into my body, until finally, after what feels like an eternity, his body goes completely limp.

His head falls back against the soaked pillows. A goofy, blissed-out, utterly destroyed himbo smile spreads across his handsome, sweat-drenched face.

For a long time, neither of us moves.

I collapse forward, resting my entire upper body against his massive, sticky chest. My cheek is pressed right into his cleavage, resting against the gold cross and the warm, drying mixture of our sweat, oil, and cum. I stay impaled on his cock, feeling it slowly soften inside me, my hole still lazily contracting around the thick base.

The red light bathes us in a warm, quiet glow. The only sound is the heavy, synchronized rhythm of our breathing as our body heat slowly begins to cool.

I reach up with trembling hands and unfasten the velcro on his wrist wraps.

Riiiiip. Riiiiip.

The moment his thick arms are free, they shoot around my waist. Michael pulls me down into a crushing, desperate bear hug, lifting my hips slightly so he can bury his face in my neck. He nuzzles against my skin like a giant, affectionate dog, inhaling deeply.

"Jordan..." he murmurs, his voice totally wrecked, raspy, and overflowing with pure happiness. "Bro... that was... that was the most holy thing I've ever felt in my life."

I smile against his golden shoulder, running my fingers through his damp blond hair. "You did so good, Michael. You let it all out."

"I don't care what Emma thinks," he mumbles sleepily into my neck, his huge hands resting possessively on the curve of my bubble butt, his fingers digging into my soft cheeks. "I don't care what anyone thinks. You're my accountability partner. You're my person."

"That's right, buddy," I whisper softly.