The man hadn’t just fucked him; he’d made love to him. He’d made Davey feel special. He’d laid him out on his back, covered him in a deep penetrating missionary, and Davey had given him everything, sprawling, open, vulnerable to the man, letting him bareback this time, although the man hadn’t really asked permission. The man had fucked him in the soft, spongy core for what seemed to be forever, coming deep inside him, fucking him until it was certain he’d breeded him. To Davey, being breeded wasn’t just unprotected sex, it was the cock entering his soft core, holding and pulsating there, claiming its territory and power, and flooding its cum there, impregnating him had he been a woman. And, when breeded, Davey was now owned by the man. The man wasn’t obsessed with watching what his cock was doing this time. He was embracing Davey close, kissing him on the mouth, the cheeks, the throat, holding him close with only his hips in motion, fucking Davey deep.

“So soft, so tender, so open and vulnerable, so yielding,” the man had murmured almost as in awe.

This was a primeval fuck; this was the fuck that fucking was created for—impregnation. If Davey had been a woman, he knew he’d have been impregnated by this man now. There was enough of the man’s semen in him, deep, to populate a town. There were times that Davey wished he were a woman and could capture the feeling of the moment of conception, knowing the second the man, his lover, had fused with him and given him new life to carry.

Had it really just been one fuck, though? When the man had come, he’d pulled out and creamed Davey at the entrance to his hole, but he’d pushed his cock back in, still hard, through the cum, going immediately to the soft, spongy core again, and had fucked Davey some more. Davey thought he’d come again, deep inside. Breeding him again. Was that two fucks?

He couldn’t think about that, though. He realized why he had awakened. It wasn’t really because the man was snoring or even that a police car, siren going, but on a muffled tone as if they were in a Raymond Chandler story and the city was covered with choking fog, had passed in the street below. He had to piss. He rolled out of bed, as gently as he could, not wanting to wake the man. Knowing the man probably was exhausted. Davey certainly had been. The man was stronger than he was, by far, and Davey had let go and relaxed a long time before the man had stopped stroking. Letting go like that had given the man’s cock access to the very core of Davey and had sent Davey vaulting up into the sensual heavens while he had held as still as possible, every fiber of him concentrating on the cock making love to him deep and not wanting any movement of his to interrupt the pleasure and cause the cock to abandon him. He’d have to remember to try to relax like that with johns in the future. Give them both a thrill. Add to his tips.

But did the man know that he had touched Davey as deeply as he had? When he was inside the soft core, breeding and owning Davey, did he know they were worshipping at an altar? It would be a pity if the man didn’t know. It would be a pleasure that only the submissive could be rewarded with. The top would get release but the submissive would be getting so much more.