Teach me to desire

Killian Pov

The slam of the study door is always a prelude to the silence that follows. My father, Mr. Hayes, never shouts. His voice is a low rumble, a controlled pressure. Today’s monologue is particularly short and brutal.

"The Millers' daughter, Serena. Her father's company is key to the new project. We're having dinner with them tomorrow evening. You will be there. And you will be charming."

He doesn’t wait for a response. He never does. My existence is a series of commands, and my role is to obey. I watch him stride down the hallway, a perfect man who owns everything, including me. The house, usually a quiet tomb of marble and expensive furniture, feels even more hollow in his absence. I exhale, a breath I don't realize I'm holding.

My hand instinctively goes for my phone. There is only one person who can pierce the cold loneliness of this house. I dial Leo’s number, and his voice, loud and full of life, is a welcome burst of reality.

"Yo, man! You good?" he asks, a familiar energy in his tone.

"Yeah, just survived another pep talk," I reply, the bitterness in my voice a quiet thing I can't hide. "What's the plan for tonight? I need out of this place."

"Finally! Thought you'd be grounded for life," he laughs. "Coach said we're all heading to The Apex. You know the spot. Marcus and the guys are already there. It's gonna be a big one tonight, so get your ass over here."

My heart gives a small jolt. The Apex. The club is a place of loud music, dark corners, and temporary freedom. It is a place where my father’s rules don’t exist.

I hang up and head to my room, the silence of the house swallowing my footsteps. My reflection in the full-length mirror is a stranger's face. The perfect jock. The son of the perfect man. My life isn't lived; it is an ongoing performance. I am just going with the flow, riding the current of my father's expectations without a single thought of my own. I grab a pair of dark-washed jeans and a simple black t-shirt, an attempt at blending in that will surely fail. I have no identity, just a public image to uphold.

As I dress, a flash of a memory flickers in my mind. My mother's face. If she had stayed, would things have been different? Would this suffocating pressure have been replaced by something softer, something like love? I push the thought away. It is a weakness. A distraction. There is no room for feelings in my father's world.

Arriving at the club, the pulsating bass hits me hard. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol and cheap perfume. I find Leo and the rest of the team in a VIP booth, surrounded by a sea of bodies. My competitive spirit kicks in immediately. I down one drink, then another, the sweet burn a familiar comfort. I laugh louder than I mean to, my voice lost in the crowd, and for a while, I almost believe I am having fun.

But a prickle on the back of my neck tells me I am not alone. I scan the room, and my eyes land on a man who stands out in the swirling chaos. He isn't loud or boisterous like the college crowd. He is a quiet intensity, leaning against a railing, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His gaze is locked on me. He has the kind of face that belongs on the cover of a magazine, sharp angles and a clean-shaven jaw. But it is his eyes that hold me. They are a brilliant, piercing blue, so vivid they seem to glow in the dim light. And his physique… he is built like a god. I feel a confusing heat rush through me, a foreign sensation that makes my stomach clench.

I’ve never found a man attractive. Never had a single thought about them. My life is women, football, and business. This feeling… this is wrong. I need to clear my head, to get away from his magnetic stare. I mumble an excuse to Leo and push my way through the throng of dancers, heading for the men’s room.

I splash cold water on my face. It's the alcohol. It's just the alcohol. I look at myself in the mirror, trying to ground myself, but the image of those blue eyes is burned into my mind. I am a straight man. My father’s son. There is no room for this.

I am reaching for the paper towels when the man from the bar is suddenly standing behind me, his reflection an intimidating presence in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word. He just steps forward and closes the space between us. A hand, strong and firm, grips the back of my neck, and he kisses me, hard and with a brutal intensity that steals the breath from my lungs.

My mind screams. Run. Push him away. What are you doing? But my body refuses to listen. Instead, a wave of pure sensation washes over me, and I feel myself melting into the kiss, a low moan escaping my throat. I find myself kissing him back, my lips parting willingly for his tongue.

He pulls back, a flicker of a smile on his face, and without a word, drags me out of the bathroom and up a set of stairs to a private suite. My body is on autopilot, a thrilling, terrified obedience that I have never known. The suite is quiet and dim, a stark contrast to the thumping noise below.

Up close, he is even more devastatingly handsome. Those eyes, that chiseled face. I can't look away. My heart is pounding, a wild, untamed thing I don't recognize. He lets go of my hand, and in that brief moment, I have a chance to escape. But I don't. Instead, I unzip his pants, pulling out a monstrous length that is already throbbing. My hand trembles as I guide it, tapping the slick, wet tip against my lips.

He looks at me for a long moment, a dark, hungry fire in his blue eyes. Then I take him whole into my mouth. He gasps, his entire body clenching. I grip his cock tight, my lips and tongue a master of friction, fast and sure. My mind goes blank, replaced by the white-hot pleasure radiating through me. I can’t help but moan, a primal sound I didn’t know I could make. My tongue twirls against the tip of his cock, a desperate need for more, while my other hand plays with his heavy balls. He talks dirty in a low, husky voice, the words a physical thing that makes his precum gush out. His cock is harder than I’ve ever felt it before. I suck him deeper and faster, until he is shaking and moaning, and then, without warning, he cums in my mouth, making sure I take every drop.

“Swallow,” he commands, his voice a low rumble.

I swallow, my eyes filled with a lust I’ve never known. He grabs me, tearing my clothes off, and then bends me over the bed. He spits on his hand and coats my ass before pushing himself in. The first thrust is a sharp, piercing pain, but the second is too sweet, too good.

My eyes roll back in my head as he goes all the way in. I am a moaning, breathless mess of contradictions. He grips my own cock, stroking me hard, and his voice in my ear says the most filthy, beautiful things I have ever heard. “You're nothing but a cock-sucking slut, aren't you?” I tell myself it is the alcohol, that this couldn't be me, but deep down, I know that wasn’t true.

“Take it all. Swallow it like a good boy.” We cum together, a violent and desperate explosion of shared pleasure that unlocks a new, terrifying part of me. “That's right... you're a perfect little whore for me.”

When I wake up the next morning, the room is empty. The man is gone. I am alone, tangled in sheets that smell of us both, and it all comes crashing back. The argument with my father. The dinner with Serena’s family. The one-night stand. I feel my eyes prick with tears of disappointment, but then I feel it.

My dick is still hard, a painful, throbbing erection that refuses to go away. It is a disgusting reminder of everything that has happened, and I am filled with a self-loathing so complete, it takes my breath away.