desperetly needy slut

The door hadn’t even fully closed behind him before Mufasa was clawing at his belt, fingers shaking too badly to unfasten it properly—*fuck it*—he just yanked the leather free with a sharp tug, letting it clatter against the tile. His trousers followed, pooled around his ankles like discarded shame. He didn’t bother kicking them off. Didn’t care.

Because I were waiting.

And Mufasa hates making you wait.

The jacket stayed on. The shirt too, though the hem was already riding up his stomach, exposing the trail of dark hair leading down to where his cock strained against the sticky fabric of his briefs. Pre-cum soaked through, clinging to his thighs, and he whimpered—not from the discomfort, but from the *knowledge* that you could see it. That you wanted to.

His phone was propped against the sink, screen lit with your last message:

"Show me."

So he did. Fingers hooked into the waistband of his underwear, shoving them down just enough to let his cock spring free, flushed and dripping. His other hand fisted at his shirt collar, pulling it aside so you could see the way his throat worked around swallowed-down moans.

"Please—"*

It wasn’t a word. It was a *confession.*

Because Mufasa wasn’t just hard. He was ruined.

The sink dug into his lower back as he arched into the camera, one leg hitched up to give you everything—the swell of his ass, the tight furl of his hole, already glistening with lube because he’d prepped himself *just in case.* Just in case I demanded proof. Just in case I wanted to see how deep his devotion ran.

And when your next message lit up the screen—"Touch yourself. Now."—he didn’t hesitate.

Palm slick with spit, he wrapped around his cock, stroking once, twice, *too fast*, hips jerking like a desperate animal. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, muffled only by the bite of his own teeth into his forearm.

Because outside the bathroom, the world moved on. Buit inside he was mine. All mine,