“Begging for pay” (Part 3)
He still hasn’t earned a damn thing. After crawling over my chest, drowning in my musk, crushed beneath my feet — he thinks he’s getting paid? Cute little worm. I lay back, pull off my shorts, and make him climb inside my tight briefs. Trapped and helpless, he can only submit, overwhelmed by the scent and power pressing down on him. His tiny, fragile body pressed against my heat and smell, crushed against my cock, struggling to obey and breathe in this world of domination. Then I strip off my briefs completely, standing fully exposed before him. I force him to clean every inch — touching my sweaty skin, soaked in my scent. My cock, massive compared to him, slams against him, humbling him with every move.
But that’s not enough. I spread my cheeks and shove him down to my sweaty, stinking hole. His tiny tongue scrambles desperately to clean every slick, sticky crevice, drowning in the thick, salty musk that reeks of days without mercy. He gags on the musk, chokes on the filth, but keeps going — licking, serving, begging for his pathetic pay. Satisfied, I pull him back to my chest. Soaked in sweat, trembling, broken, barely conscious. Then I come, thick and hot, splashing over my torso and drenching his tiny, weak frame. That’s his true reward: used, marked, owned. And just when he thinks it’s over, I stand up, drop a single filthy penny into my briefs, and toss him in right after it. There he lies, pressed against his “payment.” A reminder: the work is NEVER done. Humans like him exist only at the mercy of giants — and giants take every last drop.
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