Yes Sir: Steamy BL Shorts のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 391 - チャプター 400

Adrian woke up to sunlight cutting through the blinds. It was harsh, stabbing into his brain, making him squint. He was face down on the mattress, the sheets twisted around his legs. The room smelled like sex, sweat, and cum.He tried to move and immediately stopped. His entire body ached. His ass was throbbing, a deep, sore pulse that reminded him of every thrust from the night before. His throat was raw, swallowing hurt, and his wrists had red marks from the belts. He felt like he’d been run over by a truck.He shifted his hips slightly and felt the slick, wet slide of cum leaking out of him. Kael had come inside him three times, and none of it had been cleaned up. Adrian was still full of him. The sensation was sticky and uncomfortable, but it was also a brand. It marked him.He rolled over onto his back. Kael was lying next to him, awake, one arm behind his head. He was watching Adrian with those dark, assessing eyes."Morning," Kael said. His voice was rough with sleep.Adrian lo

The corner office of Vance Media was a glass box suspended forty stories above the city. It was designed to intimidate. The furniture was sharp-angled and black, the rug was a sterile grey, and the man sitting behind the desk looked like he’d been carved from the same cold material.Julian Vance, Editor-in-Chief of Obsidian magazine, didn’t look up as Milo Thorne shuffled into the room. Milo was clutching a manila folder to his chest like a shield. He was twenty-four, perpetually rumpled, and currently sweating through his cheap button-down shirt. His messy dark hair fell into his eyes, which he kept fixed on the floor."You’re four minutes late, Thorne," Julian said, his voice a smooth, dismissive baritone. He was signing a document, the scratch of his pen loud in the quiet room."The elevator—" Milo started."I don’t care about the elevator." Julian capped his pen with a sharp click and finally looked up. His eyes were pale grey, almost silver, and they had a habit of making Milo fe

Leo stood in the hallway of the Sigma Alpha house, his hand hovering over the door to Room 4B. The floorboards creaked under the weight of guys shouting in the common room below, the bass of the stereo vibrating through the floor. It was Friday night, the perfect time to be anywhere else. But Leo was here, because Silas had texted him three words: My room. Now.It had been two days since the incident in the library. Two days since Leo had been caught red-handed, snapping photos of the mid-term exam with his phone. Two days since Silas, the frat president and resident terror, had walked out from between the stacks, grabbed Leo by the back of the neck, and told him exactly how this was going to go.Leo had two choices. He could let Silas turn the photos over to the Dean, which meant expulsion, a revoked scholarship, and going back home to work at his dad's auto shop. Or, he could accept Silas’s "alternative discipline."Leo knocked."Enter."Leo pushed the door open. Silas’s room was ex

The private suite at the Onyx bathhouse was a masterpiece of discrete luxury. It was all black marble, steam-slicked glass, and low, amber lighting that hid sins and highlighted skin. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and expensive cigar smoke.Elias stood near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his beautiful face set in a hard, defiant line. He was wearing the standard uniform of the house: a sheer, white robe that hid nothing and a pair of flimsy briefs. He looked like a fallen angel—pale skin, dark messy hair, lips that were made for sin but currently pressed into a furious scowl.Ryker was lounging on the massive, circular bed in the center of the room. He was naked, a towel draped carelessly over one thigh. He was in his late thirties, built like a rugby player, with broad shoulders, a hairy chest, and a thick, soft cock that looked heavy even at rest. He was swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass, watching Elias with a lazy, predatory smirk."I said no," E

The heavy bass of the underground club next door throbbed through the cinderblock walls, a muffled, primal heartbeat that synced perfectly with the humid, oppressive heat of the closing shift. It was 3:00 AM, and the 24-hour tanning salon was dead, save for the low, electric hum of the cooling fans and the sharp, artificial scent of coconut oil, sweat, and burnt ozone.Leo pushed the cleaning cart down the narrow hallway, the wheels squeaking over the faded black linoleum. He was the only one on the floor, a solitary, slutty little secret bathed in the harsh, bruised-purple glow of the hallway’s blacklights. He wore the unofficial uniform of the dead shift: a barely-there white cropped tank top so thin it was practically transparent, clinging to his slick skin and leaving the pale, smooth plane of his stomach completely exposed. Below, he wore a pair of oversized, faded grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low on his sharp hip bones, the drawstring left untied. Beneath the loose, hea