"Down."
It's a simple command, one you're quick to follow, crawling from your seat on the couch to the floor beside his feet. Coryo likes that about you — that you obey so easily.
His legs open wider and you fill the space between them like a puzzle piece snapping into place. This is your place, below him, beneath him, and that's something you're reminded of often. Just as often as he pampers you and praises you, lifts you up until you're light as air, he also buries you. But you lay in the ditch willingly and thank him for the piles of dirt, because you know it will please him. And it'll be that much more satisfying when he pulls you back out again.
Secretly, you crave it all. The highs and the lows. You crave whatever he'll give you, whenever he'll give it to you.
You're already bracing yourself for the low, the way he's looking down his nose at you familiar enough to make your chest tighten. It's an amused look, but with an edge of cruelty, like he's privy to some joke and you're the butt of it.
It's almost contradictory, though, the way he reaches out and cups your face. So gentle, so covetous. He tucks your hair behind your ear and you keen into his touch, cheek coming to rest on the inside of his thigh. Fingers delve into the hair at the nape of your neck, scratching lightly, and your eyes flutter closed, lungs filling with a deep, pleasured breath. He smells good, clean. A light sort of clean, like fresh laundry and gentle body wash.
His hips shift, breaking the spell you're under, and your lids open again, gaze falling on where a large hand now rests right between his pelvis and the highest point of his thigh. His hand flexes in a lazy squeeze, and the outline of his cock strains against the black fabric. Thickened and half-hard, size impressive even as it rests down the leg of his sweats. Like a well-trained dog, you're already salivating from the stimulus.
He's still looking down the length of his nose at you, lazing back in the couch cushions. He's gorgeous, captivating, with a perfectly chiseled jaw and a plush mouth. But his facial expression is so measured. You long to see it flushed and pained. You long to hear him praise you, even if it's only with groans and stuttered breaths.
The cotton is soft and his muscles are hard under your palms as they trail slowly up his legs. Shifting your weight onto your knees, you nuzzle your face up, up towards the growing tent of fabric. It's so close you can taste it — and, god, you really want to taste it, so much so that your tongue lolls out to drag along it through the thin barrier. He twitches under the contact, and you respond by pressing your lips to him, the shared heat quickly warming your mouth. Your fingers finally find the waistband of his sweats and hook under, and you're already imagining how it'll look springing up, how the thick base of him looks framed by blonde curls, how the tip looks all shiny with arousal, and how he'll fill your mouth up, so heavy and—
"Did I tell you to do that?"
You falter. Hands retreating, chin tucking into your chest submissively. Peering up at him through your lashes, you find his mouth now set into a hard line, but that familiar amusement still glitters in his eyes.
You're not sure what you've done for him to deny you, and your mind races to find a reason. Had you misread the situation? Upset him earlier in the day? There has to be something, some misstep you weren't aware of.
What you fail to realize is that sometimes Coryo is cruel for the sake of cruelty. Or, really, for the sake of balance. How can you crave him if he never gives you anything to hunger for? You're an animal with an appetite for his validation, and he has to pull the dish from you every so often to remind you that meals are fleeting. That way you'll always need him. You'll never bite the hand that feeds; You'll suck eagerly on its fingers.
