Risky Obsession

Jordy’s in too deep to pretend otherwise. His boyfriend thinks he’s just washing his hands. That the muffled sounds behind the locked door are normal water running, maybe a cough, nothing suspicious at all. But what he doesn’t know is that Jordy isn’t even facing the sink. He’s bent over with his ass pressed against the cool tile, that flimsy string bikini doing absolutely nothing to hide how wet and tight his little pussy gets when I tell him to spread. One hand muffling his moans, the other tugging those strings aside so I can see exactly what belongs to me—pink, shaved, dripping just from being this close to getting caught.

“He could knock any second,” Jordy whispers into his phone screen, thighs shaking as he pushes a finger inside like it's my cock and not nearly enough. Doesn’t matter. He’d still do it. Still ruin himself for me even if someone walks in. Because obedience isn’t quiet. It’s loud in private ways no one else sees. The way his hips stutter when I say *deeper*. The way pre-cum glistens on the head of his cock like it's begging for attention it won't get unless I allow it.

This moment?

This betrayal?

None of it matters compared to the truth pulsing under every touch: He doesn't love who waits outside that door. He worships who speaks through the phone—and who owns every filthy inch of him.