Theo's back hit the locked door with a final, rattling thud as Kota buried himself to the hilt one last time. The principal's skinny legs trembled violently around Kota's waist, toes scraping uselessly at the carpet. His monumental cheeks clapped once more against Kota's hips—loud, wet, obscene—before Kota finally stilled, breathing hard through his nose, cock throbbing deep inside that greedy, fluttering heat.
For a heartbeat they stayed frozen like that: Kota pinning the taller man to the wood, Theo's arms still looped around his neck, face buried against Kota's shoulder, whimpering softly into sweat-damp skin. Then, slowly, Theo's grip loosened. His palms slid down Kota's broad back, nails dragging lightly, until they reached his hips. With surprising strength for such lanky arms, Theo pushed.
Kota blinked, startled, as he was forced back a step. His cock slipped free with a slick, filthy sound that made both of them flinch. Theo's hole clenched on nothing, winking obscenely, still puffy and glistening. Before Kota could process what was happening, Theo spun them—fast, almost frantic—and shoved.
The guest chair caught Kota behind the knees. He dropped into it hard, the cheap upholstery groaning under his weight. Theo loomed over him for a second—tall, flushed, shirt hanging open, slacks still bunched around his thighs, that planetary ass quivering with every ragged breath. His pale skin was blotchy with arousal, tiny cock leaking steadily, but his eyes… his eyes burned.
Theo dropped to his knees between Kota's spread thighs.
"I'm going to make sure," he whispered, British accent thick and trembling with lust, "I'm your favorite principal."
Kota's breath hitched. He opened his mouth—to protest, to command, to say anything—but Theo was already moving. Pale, smooth hands shoved Kota's jeans and boxers the rest of the way down to his ankles, trapping him. Then those same hands wrapped around the base of Kota's cock—still rock-hard, slick with lube and Theo's own juices, veins pulsing angrily—and lifted it like it was something sacred.
Theo stared at it for a long second, pupils blown so wide the blue of his irises was only a thin ring. His tongue darted out, wetting plush lips. "God… look at it," he breathed. "So thick. So heavy. Even after all that… still leaking for me."
He leaned in.
The first touch was tentative—adorably, frustratingly tentative. Theo's lips brushed the fat, glistening head, kissing it like he was greeting royalty. Then he opened wider, trying to take it in. His mouth stretched, cheeks hollowing with effort, but he was clearly out of his depth. He sucked the wrong way—pulling instead of sliding, tongue flat and clumsy, teeth grazing just enough to make Kota twitch in irritation. He barely managed the tip; the thick ridge of the corona caught on his lips and refused to go further. Theo whimpered in frustration, eyes watering, but he didn't stop. He bobbed shallowly, determined, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, making soft, wet, eager noises around the head.
Kota's patience snapped.
His hands shot out, one tangling in Theo's soft, mussed hair, the other gripping the back of his neck. "Enough," he growled.
Theo made a muffled sound—half protest, half moan—but Kota didn't wait for permission. He yanked Theo forward and thrust up at the same time.
The head punched past Theo's soft palate and slammed into the back of his throat.
Theo's eyes flew wide. A choked gurgle escaped around the thick shaft stuffing his mouth. His hands flew to Kota's thighs, nails digging in, but he didn't pull away. He didn't fight. Instead—miraculously, pathetically—he relaxed. His throat opened like it had been waiting years for this exact moment. The tight, spasming ring of muscle squeezed down, massaging Kota's length in rhythmic pulses. Theo's Adam's apple bobbed frantically as he swallowed around the intrusion, gagging wetly but refusing to retreat. Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, but his expression was pure, wrecked bliss.
Kota groaned, low and rough. The sight of the prim, stuttering principal—6'3" of lanky, daddy-issue-ridden privilege—on his knees, throat bulging visibly around six-and-a-half inches of dark, veiny cock, was doing things to him he hadn't known were possible. Theo's huge ass rested on his own heels, cheeks spilling over the sides, jiggling faintly with every desperate bob of his head. His tiny nub leaked in pathetic dribbles onto the carpet between Kota's sneakers.
Kota tightened his grip in Theo's hair and started to fuck his face.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
Hard, deliberate thrusts that made Theo's throat convulse and ripple around him. Each time Kota bottomed out, Theo's nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base; each time he pulled back, thick strings of spit and precum connected them before snapping. Theo's hands clawed at Kota's thighs, not to push away but to hold on, to anchor himself as he was used. Wet, choking sounds filled the office—gluck-gluck-gluck—mixed with Theo's muffled, needy whimpers.
Kota felt it building too fast.
A pressure low in his balls, heavy and inevitable. Years of repression—Khalil's rules, no porn, no release beyond guilty showers, no outlet in a world that had taught him desire was weakness—had left him backed up beyond reason. His rhythm faltered. His breathing turned ragged.
"Fuck—Theo—I'm—"
He tried to pull out.
Too late.
The first pulse hit like a gunshot.
Kota yanked his cock free with a wet pop. Theo's mouth stayed open, tongue lolling, eyes glassy and hopeful. The slit flared—and then it happened.
A literal waterfall.
Thick, white ropes erupted in heavy, forceful jets—far more than should have been possible from one orgasm. Pulse after pulse after pulse. Easily three hundred milliliters, maybe more. It painted Theo's face in messy, glistening streaks: across his forehead, over his closed eyelids, down the bridge of his nose, splattering his flushed cheeks, dripping from his chin in long, sticky strands. One jet caught him square on the lips; another arced high and landed in his perfectly mussed hair. Cum slid down his throat in slow rivulets when he instinctively swallowed. More pooled in the hollow of his collarbone, trickled between his smooth pecs, dripped onto his thighs.
Theo didn't flinch.
He didn't wipe it away.
He simply sat back on his heels, monumental ass squishing against his calves, cheeks still trembling from the earlier pounding. His face was a ruined masterpiece—black mascara tracks, white streaks everywhere, lips swollen and glossy. He blinked slowly through the mess, lashes clumped, then dragged his tongue across his lower lip, catching a thick glob and pulling it into his mouth.
He swallowed.
Then he smiled—slow, slutty, utterly satisfied.
"Tastes yummy."