CLICK, CLICK, ZIIIIIP. LXI.- ONCE YOU GET PIERCED... 🎈

Now Angel wants to rest from his role as an alpha male. He misses the sessions he had with Topsecret, in which he was sodomized and went crazy with pleasure. Therefore, he contacts him, Topsecret gets scared because he thought Angel would fuck him with his new and enormous cock, but he congratulates himself on knowing that this male comes asking to be fucked in the ass in secret and he is the one who deflowered him and made him feel pleasure in the ass.

Angel has been sleeping poorly for three weeks.

It's not insomnia. It's something else. It's his body asking for something that his head has been denying for months. Every night, when the three of them leave and he's alone in bed, he lies on his stomach and feels his ass involuntarily tense up against the mattress. A pulse. A hunger. Something that won't go away no matter how much he fucks mouths, artificial cunts, and other people's asses.

He misses Topsecret.

He wouldn't admit it out loud, not even under torture. He is God. He is the Master. He has three human beings kneeling every Sunday, kissing his feet. But at night, alone, with his face buried in the pillow, what his body remembers is not power. What it remembers is that room. That cock entering. That pain that turned into something that has no name in any language. That orgasm that came from so deep inside that he thought he was dying.

Topsecret undressed his ass. He taught him that there was a universe inside that Angel didn't know existed. And since then, no matter how much he buries it under layers of domination, Templar rituals, and ejaculations in submissive mouths, Angel's ass continues to remember.

On a Thursday at two in the morning, he picks up the phone. He looks for the contact. He has it saved as "T". No last name. No photo. Just the letter.

He writes a message. He deletes it. He writes another one. He deletes it. He stares at the screen for ten minutes with the cursor blinking.

Finally, he types:

"I need to see you."

Send.

---

Topsecret sees the message at seven in the morning. He's having breakfast. Black coffee, toast with oil, the phone resting on the saltshaker. He reads the name. He reads the message. His coffee stops halfway to his mouth.

Angel.

The guy who did things to him that he still can't tell without his pulse racing. The guy who disappeared from his life overnight after those sessions that blew his mind. The guy who, according to rumors he's heard through third parties, now has a new, enormous, reconstructed cock, and three slaves who lick his feet every Sunday.

Topsecret puts down his coffee. He's lost his appetite.

He types slowly:

"What for?"

The response takes forty minutes. Topsecret showers, dresses, goes to work, and when he arrives at the office, the message is there:

"For what we did before."

Topsecret sits in his chair. He clo...