You had it clear from the very beginning: you were nothing more than his service slave, and it wasn't even necessary for him to tell you with words. A dry order and a gesture from the sofa were enough. There he was, stretched out, his t-shirt pulled up almost to his chest, his round and shameless ass half out of his shorts, making it very clear what your "lunch" was.

—Come on, let's see if you're as devoted as you promise —he snorted, not even bothering to look at you—. Mouth and tongue to work, loser.

You got down on your knees next to the sofa, feeling how desire and humiliation squeezed your chest. The heat of his body welcomed you even before you touched that arrogant ass: soft hair, warm skin, that bitter and masculine mixture that made you lose the little dignity you had left.

He grabbed you by the nape of the neck at the slightest contact, pressing your face between his buttocks. The first lick woke up a satisfied sigh in his throat; he didn't even flinch, just turned a little to give you better access. Meanwhile, the bastard was already closing his eyes again, ready to be lulled to sleep with your mouth working in the background.

—Make sure to leave me shiny, and don't even think about stopping, did you hear me? Or you're done for... —his voice faded away, drowsy, as if you were less important than his own breathing.

That's how you stayed: stuck between those glutes, soaking his anus with your tongue, noticing how his breathing rhythm changed as he, without bothering to acknowledge you, fell into that sleep of a satisfied male. You knew you were just another accessory in his living room. His dirty and faithful pastime: the tongue that kept striving in that ass, even though your master was already snoring next to you.

It didn't even matter if you got tired, because the more submissive and surrendered your posture was, the more you felt like genuine property. There, on your knees and with your nose stuck to his smell, trapped between the legs of a man who treated you like what you were: his entertainment, his siesta servant.

And if saliva dripped down your chin, or your face got so wet that it was hard to swallow, what did it matter? What counted was that his ass kept feeling clean, licked, served —just like your ego, crushed against the leather of the sofa. The deepest sleep for him; the deepest humiliation for you.

The room filled with the sound of his breathing and your desperate licks. Every time his ass relaxed a little more and fell asleep, you felt how your tongue slid even better inside the groove, exploring all the cracks, noticing the taste and aroma of a male who didn't even bother to shower before accommodating you between his buttocks. The sweat and the slight salty taste mixed with that unmistakable, acidic touch of a relaxed and shameless master.

From time to time, he grunted in his sleep and, as a reflex, moved his hip, squeezing you...