Subs Have No Chance

He’s bolted into the chair—solid steel, cold as the walls around us. Nowhere to run. I take him in my mouth slow, tongue tracing every ridge of the circumcised head, lips sealed tight while I suck in measured pulls. Each flick draws another twitch he can’t hide. I speed up just to hear the chains rattle. Spit runs down my chin onto his balls, and I don’t stop. He strains against the cuffs, knees trying to close, but the frame won’t give. I swallow him deeper, nose pressed to black hair at the base, throat flexing around him until he chokes on a moan. When I pull back, strings of saliva stretch from my tongue to his swollen tip. One long, wet slurp and I sink again. He’s already shaking, legs locked in steel, breath torn out of him. By the time I’m done, he’ll leave in those same chains, knees buckling, every nerve still ringing with what I took and refused to give back.