Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 113: Tent pole [Win-Win]

Dean watched the thick, heavy length of him rest against his foot, a pulse of heat radiating through his sole. The sheer size was... daunting. Arousing. A puzzle he was already itching to solve. He curled his toes slightly, the pads of his feet brushing the hot, velvety skin.

"Survival mechanism," Dean repeated, his voice low. "So, what’s the protocol for disarming it?"

Arion’s breath hitched as Dean’s foot began to move, not with the rough pressure from before, but with a slow, exploratory slide. The sole of Dean’s foot was surprisingly soft, a stark contrast to the rigid, throbbing heat beneath it. He dragged his foot from the base, up the thick shaft, feeling every ridge and vein, until his heel settled just below the swollen, leaking head.

"Protocol is... surrender," Arion gritted out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. "But you don’t know the meaning of the word."

"I know the meaning of ’help’," Dean countered. He applied a gentle, circling pressure with his heel, right on the frenulum. Arion’s entire body tensed, a strangled groan tearing from his lips. His hands, which had been braced against the mattress, were now clenched into white-knuckled fists. "And you look like you need a lot of it."

Dean shifted, pulling his foot back and sitting up fully. He moved to kneel on the bed, facing Arion. Up close, the reality of his size was even more imposing. Dean’s own cock, spent and softening, twitched in interest. He reached out, not to touch Arion’s length, but to wrap his fingers around Arion’s wrist. He guided Arion’s hand to his own erection.

"Show me," Dean said, his purple eyes locked on Arion’s golden ones. "Show me how you like it. Since I’m apparently so inept with my feet."

Arion’s laugh was a raw, shattered thing. "I never even implied it, but let’s go with that then."

He wrapped his own large hand around himself, his knuckles brushing against Dean’s stomach. He gave a slow, firm stroke from root to tip, his thumb smearing the bead of precum that had gathered.

"Like that," Arion murmured, his voice thick. "But... slower. Tighter at the head."

Dean nodded, a student absorbing an important lesson. He released Arion’s wrist and replaced Arion’s hand with his own. His fingers barely met around the girth. A fresh, thrilling shock went through him.

’It’s not just length,’ he thought; ’it’s the sheer, solid weight of it.’ He mimicked the motion, his grip tentative at first, then firmer as he felt the answering throb beneath his palm.

"Okay," Dean breathed, more to himself than to Arion. He started moving his hand in a slow, deliberate pump. He studied Arion’s expression, noting every reaction - the flutter of his eyelids, the sharp intake of breath when Dean’s thumb pressed just under the crown, and the way his jaw slackened as Dean tightened his grip on the upstroke.

Arion’s head fell back, his throat working as he swallowed. "Fuck, Dean..."

"I’m just helping," Dean reminded him, a smirk tugging at his lips. He increased the pace slightly, his arm beginning to ache from the effort. The friction was now slick, helped by the pre-cum leaking steadily from the tip. The sound was low, wet, and utterly filthy in the quiet room.

Arion’s control was fraying. His hips began to push up into Dean’s fist, meeting his strokes with shallow, desperate thrusts. One of his hands came up to grip Dean’s shoulder, fingers digging in, not to guide or control, but to anchor himself. The other hand fisted in the sheets.

"Don’t stop," Arion choked out. "Please."

The ’please’ did something to Dean. It unraveled the last of his own post-orgasm calm and lit a new, possessive fire in his gut. He wanted to hear that broken tone again. He leaned forward, his minty lemonade scent mingling with the intense vetiver. He brought his lips close to Arion’s ear, his hand never ceasing its relentless, pumping rhythm.

"You’re going to come for me, alpha," Dean whispered, the words a hot promise against Arion’s skin. "You’re going to lose that famous control all over my hand. And you’re going to thank me for it."

Arion shuddered, a full-body convulsion that made his cock jump in Dean’s grasp. His breath came in ragged, open-mouthed pants. Dean could see the tension coiling in his abdomen and could feel the pulse in his length become frantic, pounding against his palm.

"Dean... I’m..."

"I know," Dean murmured, squeezing him tighter, twisting his wrist on the upstroke in a way that made Arion cry out.

Arion’s orgasm hit him with a deep, guttural roar that seemed to be torn from the very core of him. His body bowed off the bed, every muscle corded and straining. The first hot stripe of release landed on his own stomach, the next on Dean’s wrist, thick and pearlescent. Dean kept moving, milking him through it, his hand working until Arion was shuddering and oversensitive, his hips trying weakly to pull away.

Finally, Dean released him. They both sat there, breathing heavily, the air saturated with the scent of sex and sweat and satisfaction. Arion’s eyes were glazed, his body lax and boneless against the rumpled sheets.

Dean looked at his own hand, glistening in the low light. He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes holding Arion’s dazed gaze, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.

The taste was musky, salty, and uniquely Arion.

Arion watched you with those golden eyes darkening again, not with the sharp edge of rut this time, but with something worse - something stunned and reverent and hungry in the same breath.

"You," he said, voice utterly wrecked, like the word had scraped its way out of him, "are a menace."

Dean’s first instinct was to weaponize pride.

His second instinct was to pretend he didn’t feel the satisfaction in his chest, like a bruise you wanted to press again just to prove it was real.

So he chose the third option: sarcasm, because sarcasm was how he survived tenderness.

Dean huffed out a laugh that didn’t have much air behind it. "Look who’s talking."