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Frank is pressing Peter against a dingy wall in his dimly lit boat-house-whatever it is and Peter feels his brain melting out of his ears.
Frank has him by the scruff, fingers tightening in his curls, tugging just enough to hurt a little, zinging straight to Peter’s swollen clit. Frank’s tongue is in his mouth, hot and wet, sliding slick against Peter’s, eating him alive. It’s bliss, it’s quieting his brain better than anything else he’s tried. Better than jerking off, better than weed gummies, better than fighting crime til he’s sore and exhausted enough to pass out as soon as he flops onto a bed. Still, his head usually aches, his mind buzzing. But not now. Not here. Not with Frank’s firm grip keeping him in place.
Peter could break out of it, if he wanted to, easily. Frank makes him forget that. It’s delicious, forgetting it. Feeling weak and helpless, powerless, only able to take whatever Frank gives him, heat and spit and teeth. He whimpers into Frank’s mouth, fisting his hands in Frank’s shirt, clinging to him.
“Yeah, y’like that, Spidey?” Frank mumbles, sucking his bottom lip and biting down to make Peter yelp, tremble where he’s pinned. “Never heard you so quiet, huh? Did I make you stupid already?”
“Sorry, forgot you’re the talkative type all of a sudden,” Peter retorts, a little indignant, “didn’t know I was expected to start up conversation with your tongue down my throat.”
Frank laughs, low and condescending and mean, perfect. Peter loves it, loves feeling small, loves feeling dumb. “Mm, you win, kid, how about you only fuckin’ speak when you’re spoken to tonight? Hmm?”
Peter swallows thick, takes the instruction serious. All he wants to do is be good for Frank, can’t help it, an aching need to please burning under his skin. “Okay,” he nods, shaky.
“’Okay’? Is that how you should be addressing your elders, kid?”
“Yes, sir,” Peter amends, feeling the correction in his aching cunt, dripping into his boxers.
Frank grins, wide and crooked, pats Peter’s cheek firm enough to pink it up. “Attaboy.”
The praise makes Peter nearly whine, just one word and he feels light-headed. He wants and wants and wants, wants Frank to say it again, to call him good.
Frank pulls away from him and Peter feels desolate, abandoned, shivering at the loss of that perfect heat. He’s being dramatic. He knows he’s being dramatic. Frank didn’t address him, so he doesn’t speak, Frank didn’t tell him to move, so he doesn’t move. Slumped against the wall, still, watching Frank saunter over to his couch, sink back against the cushions, movements lazy. His hips push out as his legs spread, and Peter feels his mouth water and his cunt clench, dragging his eyes down Frank’s torso to the bulge in his cargos, down further to the leather of his combat boots. Peter wants and wants and wants—
Frank clicks his tongue and jerks his head, wordlessly beckoning Peter forward. Peter nearly trips over himself to obey, sinking to his knees between Frank’s legs, ready to suck or beg or do anything he’s asked, as long as Frank keeps paying attention to him. A dog to a master, perfectly trained.
Almost perfectly trained. “Did I tell you to kneel, pup?” Frank hums, tilts his head, an amused gleam in his eyes. Peter is mesmerized for a moment before he squeaks and scrambles to get back on his feet, cheeks flushing hot in shame.
“M’sorry, sir,” he whispers, head bowing, trying so hard to stay still and be good. He wants to press his thighs together, wants to chase any semblance of relief for his throbbing dick, but he doesn’t. God, he hopes Frank is happy with him. Peter can’t tell yet. He’s trying, he’s trying, he’s trying. Even dizzy and desperate, he’s trying.
“Mm, can’t expect much from ya, I guess,” Frank sighs, adjusts his hips just because he knows Peter’s watching them, because he knows it drives Peter insane. “Dumb dog. Only good as a fuckhole, huh? A nice little place for me to stick my dick, a pretty boy wrapped around a fleshlight.”
Oh fuck, oh god, Peter might pass out. He can’t stifle a quiet whine, sounding in his throat, cunt soaking his boxers at this point. Yesyesyes, he’s just a dumb dog for Frank, just a set of holes to fuck, anything, anything Frank wants. Frank chuckles at the pitiful sight of him, trembling and whining like a lost puppy.
“Take off your clothes, kid.”
As much as he’d like to put on a show for Frank, patience has never been Peter’s strong suit. He’s quick to tug his shirt over his head, shuck down his jeans and boxers, kick them aside and stand back up straight, bare and flushed, quietly panting. His little t-dick pokes out of a mess of brown curls that frame his cunt, so hard it hurts, begging for any touch at all. Just the cool air is enough to make him whimper, hips twitching forward into nothing. Normally Frank reprimands him for moving without permission, but he lets it slide this time.
Frank reaches out and grabs his hips, kneading the flesh slow as Peter fights to stay afloat in his own head, so fuzzy-headed with arousal it almost makes him drowsy. Those rough, calloused hands move to his strong thighs, rubbing and forcing them apart, Peter wobbling a bit as he adjusts his stance. One of those big hands is quick to slip between his thighs, feeling and petting his cunt, nothing more than Frank playing with his toy. Thick fingers rub at his drooling slit, his fluttering hole, pressing inside as Peter gasps, moans something babbled and broken, weak-kneed. Frank tugs him forward by the grip on his cunt, two fingers curled inside and pressing at that special spot that makes Peter’s thighs tremor.
He can barely think, just struggling to stay upright as Frank takes his fill of him. His thick fingers slide back out of Peter’s hole and he hiccups at the loss, bites back a please. Fingertips gather his slick and drag up to his pulsing, needy clit, pulling a gasped haah— from his mouth, nearly causing him to buckle. He’s just a display. Just something for Frank to poke and prod and watch, his personal porn.
“What’s this, baby, can you tell me what this is?” Frank coos, like Peter’s stupid, like Peter doesn’t know his own body. Maybe he doesn’t. Frank pinches at Peter’s clit.
“Mmnh—! I, um, a-ah— s’my clit, my clit,” Peter manages, voice embarrassingly whiny, pathetic even to his own ears.
Frank tsks, shakes his head. “No, puppy, s’your dick. Mm? You’re a man, aren’t you? My big boy? And men don’t have little clitties, baby, they have biiig dicks. This is your dick, kiddo, say it.”
“S’my dick,” he repeats, feeling it throb as he confirms it, still focused on staying upright as Frank rubs the short length of it with his thumb, lightly petting.
Frank hums, pleased with his response, dipping his fingers back into his slit to collect more of his wetness, slotting his dick between two slick fingers. Peter moans and whimpers a thank you, thank you, because he can’t help it, because he really is so grateful for the touch, heat pooling in his stomach.
Frank’s fingers squeeze at his little dick as he jerks it in lazy, firm strokes, and Peter is dropping his chin to his chest as he pants through the pleasure, tries his best to take it. It’s so good, so good, the constant, heady stimulation. There’s no warning before Frank is picking up the pace, jerking him hard and fast, making Peter’s mouth drop open as he folds over himself, overwhelmed.
“O-oh fu-uck, fuck, sir, please, nnnghh—”
“Nah, don’t fuckin’ double over, don’t whine like a little bitch,” Frank scoffs. “Prissy little girl acting like she’s gettin’ fucked, Jesus. You’re getting jerked off, Parker, act like it, fuck my hand like a man. Quit your whimperin’.”
Peter clamps his jaw shut as embarrassed tears sting his eyes, forcing his whimpers down to broken groans as he obeys, bucks his hips into the touch, fucking himself between Frank’s thick fingers.
Peter’s breathing grows heavier, groans muffled in his throat as he chases the pleasure, getting closer and closer to a peak, hole drooling and fluttering around nothing— Frank pulls away, because of course he does, of course he notices, and Peter wants to be good but fuck it hurts. His lip trembles, wobbly on his feet, blinking down at the ground with wet eyes. He knows he has to work for it, knows it never comes this easy, but he wants to cum. His head is a swirling mess and his body is feverishly hot and he wants to cum. “Please, sir—”
“Shut up. On your knees,” Frank instructs, uncaring, watching Peter sink to the ground. “Good.”
The light praise is enough to settle Peter’s shoulders again, pliant and easy for Frank. Always so easy.
Frank doesn’t undress, he rarely does, just unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly, the sound of it making saliva pool in Peter’s mouth, a pavloved dog. He doesn’t pull his dick out of his boxers, yet, and Peter suppresses a whimper at the anticipation that drips heat down his spine.
First, Frank grabs his jaw, rough enough so Peter’s pink lips part, huffing little breaths. Frank pushes a thumb into his mouth, and Peter doesn’t suck because he wasn’t told to. The pad of Frank’s thumb presses down on the soft of his tongue, prying his jaw open, drool slipping out of the corner of his mouth. He can only whimper, he can only take it.
“Yeah, that’s good, kid, doin’ good,” Frank murmurs to keep him placated, absentminded, his focus on the soft, wet heat. The hand that’s not gripping his jaw starts to play with his mouth, fingers rubbing along his gums, pressing lightly into the sharp points of his canines, like he’s a dog being examined by a vet. It shouldn’t be as impossibly hot as it is. Peter is dizzy, tingling all over his body, tongue curling around the fingers petting the inside of his wet little mouth.
“Suck,” Frank commands, and Peter is more than happy to obey, finally allowed to close his mouth. Only Frank’s thumb stays as Peter suckles contentedly, eyes heavy-lidded, cunt steadily throbbing between his legs.
“Mmm… mmmhm… mm….” Peter hums little moans around Frank’s thumb, bobbing his head a little, silently begging for more. Wanting the bulge between Frank’s legs that he keeps eyeing, wanting to be used and stuffed.
“Jesus, okay,” Frank laughs, gets the hint, thumb tugging free with a wet pop. “Eager little slut, aren’t ya? You want my dick down your throat? Yeah? Yeahh?” He coos mockingly, like Peter is nothing but a dog. “You want it, boy? Come get it, come get your treat.”
Frank sighs as he tugs his boxers down just enough to get his dick out, achingly hard, precum glistening on the flushed-red tip. Peter blinks up at Frank with the biggest, wettest puppydog eyes he can muster, silently pleading for permission.
Frank nods the go-ahead, mumbles mind your teeth, pup, mmm— yeah, like that… as Peter eagerly stuffs his mouth, wasting no time on teasing. Frank doesn’t want to be teased unless he explicitly asks for it. Frank just wants a warm, wet hole to fuck. Peter loves providing it for him.
A big hand cradles the back of his head, the gentlest touch Peter’s received all night, juxtaposed to the dick forcing itself down his throat. He chokes and splutters and takes it like he always does, because he’s good, he’s a good boy, a good dog, a good hole. Frank fucks his throat at a leisurely pace, grunting low and deep, twitching and pulsing in his mouth.
Peter doesn’t notice the boot toeing between his legs until it tilts up to rub at his cunt, making him moan high-pitched around the cock in his mouth as he drops his weight on the leather, immediately grinding down. He loves Frank’s boots, loves the scent of leather, loves how it’s almost too much friction, too hard against his poor, sensitive cunt, pain mixing with pleasure. Loves how demeaning it is to fuck himself stupid on a boot, a fucking shoe, acting like a dog in heat. Frank is such a man, big leather boots and big hard dick and big calloused hands, everything Peter wishes he was, everything that makes Peter so wet it’s obscene.
“Fuckin’ rubbin’ yourself on my boots like a stupid mutt, huh? Just can’t help yourself, need to hump somethin’ that bad? Jesus, perfect little cocksucker. That’s it, that’s it, fuuck… still whining like a bitch,” Frank scoffs, enjoying velvet heat around his dick for a moment longer before tugging Peter off by the hair, the poor boy coughing and spluttering as his hips still mindlessly rut against leather, whimpering please, sir, m’so— oh god, m’gonna cu-um—
He falls apart, shuddering and slumping against Frank’s leg as his hips give pitiful little jerks, soaking the boot with slick as he cries through the waves of pleasure. He feels woozy, spent, like adrenaline crashing after a fight. Warm all over and achy.
“Didn’t give ya permission to do that, pup,” Frank sighs, disappointed, clicking his tongue, making Peter sniffle, nuzzle his cheek against Frank’s knee. “God, you poor thing, don’t do that... gonna make me feel bad… but ya gotta learn, hmm? Mhmm, clean your mess, mutt. Now.”
Peter kisses down Frank’s cargos, over the laces of his boots, willowy and sated as his tongue flattens over leather, licking up his mess.
“Theere ya go,” Frank murmurs, and Peter moans against his boot, lapping up his slick until the leather is glossy with spit, until all he can taste and smell is him and Frank mixed, masculine and musky and something that shouldn’t be half as addicting as it is. This is his place, this is where he belongs, on the floor cleaning his master’s boots, nose in his mess. His stupid cunt still aches, perpetually horny when he’s in his favorite space in the world, on his knees between Frank’s legs.
“Hey, turn ‘round,” Frank nudges his jaw with the toe of his boot, and Peter hums in responds, shuffles himself around, moaning as the thick sole of the boot pushes his back down, his front half shoved into the floor as Frank reaches to grab his hips, tugging them up. Fingers dimple his flesh, and god, Peter wishes he could be marked easier, hates how if it does bruise, it’ll be gone by morning. Super healing is great til it’s not. Peter wants the evidence of Frank on his skin.
He feels like a ragdoll, letting Frank position him however, shuddering another needy moan as the tip of Frank’s still hard dick slides through his soaked slit. “Mmm… s’big..” he whines, dumb, unable to form any other words, any real thoughts.
“Mhmm, so big, huh? Fuck, just wanna feel ya for a second…” Frank sighs, bullying into his little hole with no prep, stretching him open and stuffing him full. Peter can only gasp and cry, Frank’s grip on his hips the only thing holding him up, all he can do is take it. “Wasn’t gonna fuck this pretty pussy tonight but you’re moaning like a fuckin’ girl, so clearly you want it, hm? Jesus, squeezin’ me so good…”
Frank rocks his hips, fucking lazily into Peter’s dripping hole, the sting of the stretch melting into pure, molten pleasure as Frank uses him. Peter’s cheek presses against the hard floor, aching, spine arched deep as Frank keeps holding him up, starting to fuck him faster, ignoring his dick.
“M’not, m’not a girl, m’not,” Peter hiccups, even as his little whines prove Frank right, humiliating, tears dripping onto the wooden floor. Frank’s cock pulls out and punches back inside of him, making him moan, making him sob. It’s so good and he hates that it’s so good and Frank is grinding so deep it hurts, so deep Peter can feel it in his lungs.
“Mm, you’re not?” Frank mocks, panting as he fucks into Peter. “Guess you’re right, kiddo, fuck— only a faggot could take a fucking this good. Is that what you are? Yeahh? A slutty little faggot f’me? Just fuckin’ made to take dick?”
“Mhm!! Mmnhh— fuck, yes, please, m’a faggot, your faggot— m’a fag, m’a boy, please…”
“That’s it, that’s it, good fuckin’ boy,” Frank grits, slamming into him with brutal thrusts, til Peter’s crying out, ah, ah, aahn—!’s with each slap of Frank’s hips on his. “Finally standin’ up for yourself like a man, mmph, that’s my fuckin’ boy..”
“Yours,” Peter sobs, the buckle of Frank’s undone belt clinking, Frank’s groans gravelly and perfect and because of Peter, because Peter’s making him feel good. He squeezes around Frank’s dick as it buries deep, moaning as a burst of heat fills him up, quiets every thought he’s ever had.
When he comes to, Frank’s shirt is off, Frank’s lap is underneath him, Frank’s arms are wrapped tight around him. He’s so, so tired, humming weakly as he noses into the crook of Frank’s neck, warmth and safety. He loves being put in his place, loves being owned, but he loves this just as much— maybe more. Skin and intimacy and Frank crooning yeahh, baby, you did good. So, so good. That was a lot tonight, huh? Took it so well… my boy… my big strong boy. I gotcha, kiddo. Good boy.
“M’good?” Peter rubs himself up closer to Frank’s skin, breaths shuddering out of him as any remaining ache disappears, soothed for the night. First, Frank quiets his brain, then his body. Peter’s scared that no one else will ever be able to do the same, scared of how dependent he’s gotten, how his world revolves around Frank and his touch.
For now, he just lets it feel good.
“Mhmm, so good, kid,” Frank affirms, again, steady, gentle. Eventually they’ll clean up, but this is part of the deal— Peter needs his skin-to-skin for a while after, craves it. He soaks it in while Frank rubs his back, his arm, his shoulder. Kneading and massaging, gentle. “My boy.”
His boy.