I stood at the foot of his bed and watched him breathe.
That was all he could do now — breathe.
No strength.
No pride.
No illusion of freedom.
Just survival, granted one shallow breath at a time, entirely on my terms.
Justin lay completely still, eyes half-lidded, body glistening with sweat. His c**k remained rigidly hard, flushed and leaking in slow, heavy drops that slid down his shaft and pooled on his skin. The calculated delay protocol had done its work perfectly. He was healing, but only just enough to stay alive. Every muscle was soft. Every movement required my assistance. Even lifting his head to look at me took visible effort.
Survival wasn’t freedom.
It never had been.
I climbed onto the bed and straddled his chest, looking down at the man whose entire existence now orbit
