The first time Imre saw Szilagyimi’s cock, it wasn’t in the way he’d imagined—though, if he were honest with himself, he’d imagined it plenty. It was in the dim glow of a neon-lit bar in Budapest, where the air smelled of cheap whiskey and sweat, and the bass from the speakers thrummed through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. Imre had been nursing a glass of pálinka, his fingers tracing the rim absently, when Szilagyimi slid onto the stool beside him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a smirk that promised trouble. His dark hair was just long enough to run your fingers through, and his eyes—fuck, his eyes—were the kind of green that made you think of forests and sin in equal measure.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Szilagyimi said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Imre’s spine. He leaned in, close enough that Imre could smell the faint hint of cologne—something spicy, like cloves and leather—and the warmth of his breath against his ear. “Or maybe you’re just hoping someone will come along and distract you.”
Imre swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t used to men like Szilagyimi—confident, unapologetic, the kind who knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to take it. He was used to quiet nights, to the slow burn of desire that simmered beneath the surface, never quite boiling over. But Szilagyimi? Szilagyimi was a wildfire.
“And what if I am hoping?” Imre countered, tilting his head just enough to meet Szilagyimi’s gaze. His pulse jumped when Szilagyimi’s fingers brushed against his thigh, a feather-light touch that sent electricity skittering across his skin.
Szilagyimi’s smirk deepened. “Then you’re in luck, kincsem. Because I’ve been watching you all night.”
The courtship—if you could even call it that—was a slow, intoxicating dance. Szilagyimi didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He knew Imre was already half-gone, already imagining the weight of his hands, the press of his body, the way his voice would sound when it dropped into that rough, commanding register. They met again the next night, this time at a jazz club where the lights were low and the music wrapped around them like a cocoon. Szilagyimi ordered them both whiskey, neat, and when Imre took a sip, Szilagyimi’s fingers traced the rim of his glass before dipping inside to wet his own fingertips. Then, without warning, he reached out and pressed those same fingers to Imre’s lips.
“Taste,” he murmured.
Imre’s breath hitched. He parted his lips, his tongue darting out to flick against Szilagyimi’s skin, the sharp bite of whiskey mixing with the salt of his flesh. Szilagyimi’s eyes darkened, his pupils blowing wide as Imre sucked his fingers deeper, his tongue swirling around them like he was already imagining what else he could take into his mouth.
“Fuck,” Szilagyimi breathed, his voice rough. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Imre pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still glistening. “Then let’s make it a slow one.”
The first time Imre wore panties for Szilagyimi, it wasn’t by accident. It was a test—a challenge, really. He’d bought them on a whim, black lace so delicate it felt like a whisper against his skin. He’d put them on that morning, his cock already half-hard at the thought of Szilagyimi’s reaction, and by the time he walked into the apartment Szilagyimi had rented for the week, his pulse was hammering in his throat.
Szilagyimi was waiting for him, sprawled on the couch like a king holding court, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the dark hair dusting his chest. His eyes raked over Imre, slow and deliberate, lingering on the way the lace clung to his hips, the way his cock tented the fabric just enough to be obvious.
“Took you long enough,” Szilagyimi said, his voice a purr. He crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Imre obeyed, his steps slow, deliberate. He stopped just in front of Szilagyimi, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that Szilagyimi could reach out and—
Szilagyimi’s hand shot out, gripping Imre’s hip hard enough to bruise. “Turn around.”
Imre’s breath caught, but he did as he was told, turning so his back was to Szilagyimi, his ass presented like an offering. He could feel Szilagyimi’s gaze on him, hot and heavy, and when Szilagyimi’s fingers finally traced the lace, Imre couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him.
“Fucking perfect,” Szilagyimi growled. His fingers hooked into the waistband, pulling the lace taut against Imre’s skin before snapping it back with a sharp twang. Imre gasped, his cock jerking at the sting. “You like that, don’t you? Like being handled.”
Imre swallowed. “Yes.”
Szilagyimi’s chuckle was dark, satisfied. “Good. Because I’m going to ruin you in these.”
The first time Imre sucked Szilagyimi’s cock, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry, desperate, the kind of blowjob that left teeth marks and bruises and the kind of filthy words that made Imre’s toes curl.
They’d started on the couch, Szilagyimi’s hands roaming over Imre’s body like he was memorizing every inch of him. His fingers had found the lace again, tugging it aside just enough to expose Imre’s cock, already leaking, already aching. Szilagyimi had stroked him once, twice, his thumb swiping over the slick head before bringing it to his own lips, tasting him with a groan.
“Fuck, you taste good,” Szilagyimi had muttered, his voice rough. “Like sin and sugar.”
Imre had whimpered, his hips jerking forward, seeking more. But Szilagyimi had only smirked, his grip tightening just enough to keep Imre from getting what he wanted. “Patience, kincsem. I want your mouth first.”
And then Szilagyimi had stood, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements, his cock springing free—thick, veiny, the head already flushed dark with need. Imre had licked his lips, his mouth watering, his hands trembling as he reached for him.
“That’s it,” Szilagyimi had encouraged, his voice a low growl. “Show me how bad you want it.”
Imre didn’t need to be told twice.
He took Szilagyimi into his mouth with a moan, his lips stretching around the girth, his tongue swirling over the underside as he took him deeper. Szilagyimi’s hands tangled in his hair, not guiding, not forcing—just holding, like he needed the anchor as much as Imre needed the taste of him.
“Fuck—yes—” Szilagyimi hissed, his hips twitching forward, feeding Imre another inch. “Just like that. Take it. Take all of it.”
Imre hollowed his cheeks, his throat relaxing as he took Szilagyimi deeper, his nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base. He gagged, just a little, his eyes watering, but he didn’t pull back. He couldn’t. The way Szilagyimi’s breath hitched, the way his fingers tightened in Imre’s hair, the way his cock pulsed against his tongue—it was perfect.
“You’re such a good little cocksucker,” Szilagyimi groaned, his voice rough with praise. “Look at you, taking me so deep. You love this, don’t you? Love being used.”
Imre moaned around him, the vibration making Szilagyimi curse. He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his voice a wreck. “Yes. Please.”
Szilagyimi’s grip tightened. “Please what?”
“Fuck my mouth,” Imre begged, his voice raw. “I want you to use me.”
Szilagyimi’s answering groan was all the warning Imre got before he was being fucked—hard, deep, his throat taking every inch as Szilagyimi snapped his hips forward, his cock hitting the back of Imre’s throat with a wet, obscene slap.
“That’s it,” Szilagyimi growled, his voice a snarl. “Take it. Take all of it. You’re mine, Imre. Mine.”
Imre’s hands clenched into fists, his own cock aching, dripping, but he didn’t touch himself. He wouldn’t. This was about Szilagyimi. About pleasing him. About being good for him.
And when Szilagyimi finally came, it was with a roar, his cum flooding Imre’s mouth in thick, hot pulses. Imre swallowed around him, his throat working, his moans muffled as he drank him down, his own orgasm hitting him like a freight train, his cock spurting onto the floor between his knees.
Szilagyimi pulled out with a wet pop, his cock glistening, his chest heaving. He looked down at Imre, his eyes dark, possessive. “Fucking perfect,” he murmured, his thumb swiping over Imre’s swollen lips. “And we’re just getting started.”
The next time, Szilagyimi made Imre wear the panties under his clothes. A secret. A tease. They went to dinner at a fancy restaurant, the kind with white tablecloths and candles flickering in the dim light. Imre could feel the lace against his skin with every movement, a constant reminder of what was to come. Szilagyimi’s hand rested on his thigh beneath the table, his fingers tracing patterns that made Imre’s breath hitch.
“You’re thinking about it,” Szilagyimi murmured, his voice low enough that only Imre could hear. “About how wet those pretty panties are getting. About how hard you are.”
Imre’s cock twitched, pressing against the lace. “Yes.”
Szilagyimi’s fingers inched higher, his thumb brushing over the head of Imre’s cock through the fabric. Imre bit back a moan, his hips jerking forward.
“Good boy,” Szilagyimi praised, his voice a dark purr. “Now be quiet. Wouldn’t want anyone to know what a slut you are for me, would we?”
Imre’s face burned, but he obeyed, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Szilagyimi’s fingers continued their torment. By the time they left the restaurant, Imre was desperate, his cock aching, his panties soaked through.
Szilagyimi didn’t even wait until they got back to the apartment. He pushed Imre into the alley beside the restaurant, his body pressing him against the cold brick wall. His hand snaked beneath Imre’s shirt, his fingers finding a nipple and twisting just hard enough to make Imre gasp.
“You’ve been such a good boy,” Szilagyimi murmured, his lips brushing Imre’s ear. “Now let’s see how bad you can be.”
His hand dropped to Imre’s cock, stroking him through the lace, his grip firm, possessive. Imre whimpered, his hips bucking into Szilagyimi’s touch.
“Please—”
“Please what?” Szilagyimi’s voice was a growl. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” Imre gasped, his voice raw. “I want you to ruin me.”
Szilagyimi’s answering groan was all the warning Imre got before he was being spun around, his chest pressed against the wall, his panties yanked aside. He heard the click of a bottle cap, the slick sound of lube being applied, and then—
“Fuck—yes—” Imre cried out as Szilagyimi’s cock pressed against his hole, the head breaching him with a burn that made his toes curl. “More.”
Szilagyimi didn’t hold back. He slammed into him, his hips snapping forward, his cock burying itself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Imre’s cry echoed through the alley, his fingers scrambling against the brick as Szilagyimi fucked him—hard, deep, his balls slapping against Imre’s ass with every thrust.
“You love this, don’t you?” Szilagyimi snarled, his voice a snarl. “Love being used like a little whore. Love being filled up.”
“Yes—” Imre sobbed, his cock dripping, his body aching with the need to come. “Please—”
Szilagyimi’s hand snaked around, his fingers wrapping around Imre’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Come all over this wall like the slut you are.”
Imre didn’t last. His orgasm hit him like a tsunami, his cum splattering against the brick as Szilagyimi pounded into him, his own release following seconds later, his cum flooding Imre’s ass in hot, thick pulses.
They stayed like that for a long moment, Szilagyimi’s cock still buried inside him, his breath hot against Imre’s neck. Then, slowly, he pulled out, his cum dripping down Imre’s thighs.
“Fucking perfect,” Szilagyimi murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. He turned Imre around, his fingers tilting his chin up. “And we’re far from done.”
The next morning, Imre woke to the feeling of Szilagyimi’s mouth on his cock. He groaned, his hips jerking up as Szilagyimi took him deep, his tongue swirling over the head before pulling back with a wet pop.
“Good morning, kincsem,” Szilagyimi purred, his voice rough with sleep. “Did you sleep well?”
Imre’s laugh was breathless. “Not nearly long enough.”
Szilagyimi’s smirk was wicked. “Then let’s make sure you earn your rest.”
He pushed Imre’s legs apart, his fingers tracing the lace of the panties Imre had slept in—black silk this time, clinging to his skin like a second layer. Szilagyimi’s fingers hooked into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose Imre’s cock, already hard, already leaking.
“Look at you,” Szilagyimi murmured, his voice a dark purr. “Already ready for me.”
Imre’s breath hitched as Szilagyimi’s fingers traced the length of his cock, his thumb swiping over the slick head. “Please—”
“Please what?” Szilagyimi’s voice was a tease, his fingers tightening just enough to make Imre whimper. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want your mouth,” Imre gasped, his hips jerking up. “I want you to suck me.”
Szilagyimi’s chuckle was dark, satisfied. “Since you asked so nicely.”
And then his mouth was on him, hot and wet, his tongue swirling over the head before taking him deep. Imre’s fingers tangled in Szilagyimi’s hair, his hips bucking up as Szilagyimi devoured him, his throat working around the head of his cock.
“Fuck—yes—” Imre cried out, his voice a wreck. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Szilagyimi didn’t. He worshipped Imre’s cock, his lips sealing around the base as he took him to the root, his nose brushing against the lace of the panties. Imre could feel the vibration of Szilagyimi’s moan, the way his throat tightened around him, and it was too much—
“I’m gonna—fuck—”
Szilagyimi pulled back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. “Come for me, kincsem. I want to taste you.”
And Imre did, his orgasm hitting him like a freight train, his cum flooding Szilagyimi’s mouth as he swallowed around him, his throat working, his moans muffled.
Szilagyimi pulled back with a wet pop, his lips swollen, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Fucking delicious,” he murmured, his thumb swiping over Imre’s sensitive head. “And we’re just getting started.”
By the time they left Budapest, Imre had a collection of panties—lace, silk, satin—each one a gift from Szilagyimi, each one a reminder of the way he’d been used, worshipped, ruined. And as the train pulled away from the station, Szilagyimi’s hand resting possessively on his thigh, Imre knew one thing for certain:
He was addicted.
And he never wanted to be cured.