Reunion Cravings Ignite Before Dawn in the Bakery

The pre-dawn kitchen of Otto’s family bakery held that thick, yeasty quiet only bakers knew, the kind that wrapped around bare arms and stuck to skin. Flour dusted the scarred wooden table like early snow. Otto’s thick forearms flexed as he drove the heels of his hands into a swollen mass of dough, rolling it, folding it, slamming it down again. At thirty-two the old wrestler’s body still carried the dense muscle of two-a-days and weight-room punishment; the black work T-shirt clung to his chest and the swell of his pecs, dark hair curling at the collar. A heavy beard framed his mouth, shot through with a few premature silver threads that only made him look harder. Sweat already beaded at his temples even though the ovens hadn’t fully come up yet. He worked the dough like he was still trying to pin something that refused to stay down.

The bell over the alley door gave a soft, rusty jingle.

Otto didn’t look up at first. Deliveries came early. Then the boots scraped, heavy and familiar, and the air changed.

Errol filled the doorway like he still owned every locker room they’d ever shared. Thirty-four now, construction-site thick, shoulders that strained the faded plaid shirt rolled to his elbows. Ink snaked down both forearms—black vines, old team numbers, a wolf’s head half-hidden under the hair on his wrist. His own beard was fuller, darker, the kind that scraped when he scratched his jaw. He carried the cold of the street in with him and the heat of something else entirely.

“Still beating the shit out of innocent flour at zero-dark-thirty,” Errol said, voice low and rough from too many cigarettes he claimed he’d quit. “Some things never change, Ott.”

Otto’s hands stilled for half a second. Ten years. The reunion had been loud and full of beer and lies; this was quieter and somehow louder. He wiped his palms on his apron, leaving white streaks, and finally met Errol’s eyes. The same dark eyes that used to track him across the mat, that used to linger too long in the showers when steam hid everything and nothing.

“Order’s not ready for another hour,” Otto said. The words came out rougher than he meant. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Errol stepped inside, letting the door swing shut. The click sounded final. He walked the length of the steel prep table like he was measuring it for demolition, boots leaving faint prints on the flour-dusted floor. “Kept thinking about those cinnamon rolls you bragged about at the reunion. Figured I’d catch you before the morning rush turned you into a short-order saint.”

Otto snorted, but his cock had already started to thicken against the zipper of his jeans. He turned back to the dough so Errol wouldn’t see the flush climbing his neck. “They’re just rolls. Yeast, butter, cinnamon. Nothing magic.”

“Bullshit.” Errol stopped on the other side of the table, close enough that Otto caught the clean sweat and diesel scent under the cold air. “Everything you touched always turned into something people wanted to put in their mouths.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew. Otto’s knuckles whitened on the dough. He kept kneading, slower now, deliberate, letting Errol watch the way his shoulders bunched and released. Heat crawled low in his belly, old and familiar and denied for a decade.

Errol leaned his hips against the table edge, arms crossed so the tattoos flexed. “You still wrestle?”

“Mats got expensive. Bakery doesn’t pay for torn ACLs.” Otto risked a glance up. Errol was staring at the line of Otto’s throat where sweat had dampened the beard. “You still swinging hammers like you’re trying to punish the whole goddamn city?”

“City deserves it.” Errol’s mouth crooked. “Plus the work keeps me hard. In every way that counts.”

Otto’s laugh came out half-strangled. He shaped the dough into a rough ball, slapped it down, and reached for the bench scraper just to have something to do with his hands. “Still talking shit.”

“Still listening to it.” Errol pushed off the table and circled it, slow, until he stood at Otto’s shoulder. Close enough that the heat of him bled through the cool kitchen air. “You looked good at the reunion. Better than good. Filled that suit out like you were daring somebody to try and take it off you.”

Otto turned his head. Their beards were almost touching. He could count the flecks of sawdust still caught in Errol’s. “You spent the whole night with your hand on that redhead’s ass.”

“Decoy.” Errol’s voice dropped. “Kept looking across the room at the guy who used to grind me into the mat and pretend it was just technique. Ten years and I still wake up tasting the way your sweat used to smell after overtime.”

Otto’s pulse hammered in his throat. The dough sat forgotten. He could feel his dick now, heavy and obvious, pressing the front of his jeans. Errol’s gaze flicked down, lingered, came back up burning.

“You’re hard,” Errol said, no tease left, just raw fact.

“So are you.” Otto’s eyes dropped to the thick ridge outlined against Errol’s work pants. “Don’t stand there pretending this is about cinnamon rolls.”

Errol’s tongue dragged across his lower lip. “Never was. You know how many nights I jacked it thinking about pinning you for real? Not for points. For keeps. Feeling that heavy wrestler body thrash under me until you quit fighting and just took it.”

Otto’s breath left him in a shaky rush. He stepped in, closing the last inch so their chests brushed, flour transferring from apron to plaid. “You talk a big game for a guy who never made a move when we were eighteen and stupid.”

“We’re not eighteen.” Errol’s hand came up, thick fingers curling around the back of Otto’s neck, thumb stroking through the short hair there. “And I’m done being stupid.”

The kiss landed hard, all beard scrape and open mouths and the wet slide of tongues that had waited too long. Otto groaned into it, hands fisting in Errol’s shirt, yanking him closer until their cocks dragged together through denim. Errol tasted like coffee and want. He shoved Otto back against the table edge, hips rolling in a filthy grind that made the wooden legs creak. Flour puffed up around them like smoke.

Otto broke the kiss just far enough to rasp, “Door’s unlocked.”

“Then lock it or don’t. I don’t give a fuck who hears me wreck you.” Errol’s free hand shoved under Otto’s T-shirt, palm scraping over the dense fur on his stomach, up to twist a nipple hard enough to make Otto curse. “Been craving this since the night you pinned me in the finals and stayed on top an extra three seconds just to feel me breathe.”

Otto’s laugh was wrecked. He shoved a flour-dusted hand between them, cupping the fat outline of Errol’s cock and squeezing. “Big talk. Let’s see if that construction-site dick can back it up before the ovens finish preheating.”

Errol’s eyes went molten. He grabbed Otto’s wrist, pinned it to the table beside the abandoned dough, and leaned in until their beards rasped together again. “Keep mouthing off. Makes my balls ache thinking about painting the inside of this bakery with you. Breeding you raw right here on the same table you feed the whole neighborhood from.”

Otto’s cock jerked hard enough to hurt. He rolled his hips, chasing friction, voice gone hoarse. “Do it then. Stop teasing and fucking claim it.”

Errol’s teeth caught Otto’s lower lip, bit sharp, then soothed with his tongue. Outside, the sky was still black. Inside, the only light came from the proofing lamps and the low red glow of the ovens. Two bearded, muscle-thick men ground against each other in the flour dust, ten years of buried hunger finally splitting open, the dough forgotten, the order waiting, dawn still an hour away and neither of them willing to let the other go just yet.

Errol’s teeth released Otto’s lip with a wet pop, but he didn’t step back. He kept Otto pinned to the table edge by the thick bar of his cock grinding slow and dirty through two layers of denim, flour dust rising every time their hips rolled. Otto’s free hand still clutched the fat outline of Errol’s dick; he squeezed harder just to feel the construction stud shudder and curse against his mouth.

“Fucking tease,” Errol rasped, voice pure gravel. He released Otto’s wrist only long enough to spin him around by the hips, forcing Otto’s chest down over the scarred wood so his ass pressed back into that heavy ridge. The abandoned dough ball sat inches from Otto’s cheek. Errol’s big hands clamped onto Otto’s waist, thumbs digging into the dense muscle above his belt. “Knead that shit. Show me how those arms still work.”

Otto’s laugh came out broken and hungry. He braced both flour-caked palms on either side of the dough and drove the heels of his hands into it again, rolling, folding, slamming. Every flex made his thick ass cheeks clench and roll under the apron strings. Errol leaned over him from behind, plaid chest plastered to Otto’s back, beard scraping the side of Otto’s neck while he watched.

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” Errol growled right into his ear. “Those arms—fuck—thick as fence posts, veins popping while you work that dough like you’re still trying to pin somebody. And this ass…” One rough palm slid down, cupped a heavy cheek through the jeans and apron, squeezed hard enough to make Otto grunt. “Flexes every goddamn time you fold. Been staring at it since I walked in. Ten years and it still looks like it could take a beating and thank me for it.”

Otto kept kneading, slower now, deliberate, letting Errol feel every bunch and release of muscle. Heat flooded his face and his cock; the zipper of his jeans bit into the leaking head. He pushed back into Errol’s grip, grinding that thick construction-site dick right into the cleft of his ass.

“You ain’t the only one who’s been looking,” Otto said, voice low and wrecked. He turned his head just enough that their beards rasped together. “Every time I jacked it the last decade I pictured that cock of yours. Thick, mean, the one I used to catch swinging in the showers after practice. Thought about it splitting me open on the mat, in the locker room, bent over the fucking bleachers. Dreamed about the taste, the weight on my tongue, the way it’d stretch my hole until I couldn’t walk straight the next day. Senior year I almost begged for it after that final match. Almost dropped to my knees right there in the empty gym.”

Errol’s hips punched forward hard, a raw, instinctive thrust that dragged denim over denim and made both of them groan. His hand left Otto’s ass only long enough to yank the apron strings loose; the canvas dropped between them like a white flag. Then both palms were under Otto’s T-shirt, shoving the fabric up so he could rake blunt nails down the furred ladder of Otto’s abs.

“Been dying to wreck this hole since senior year,” Errol snarled, teeth catching the lobe of Otto’s ear. “Every time you pinned me I wanted to flip you, spit on my cock, and bury it balls-deep until you tapped out for real. Wanted to breed you raw right there on the mat so the whole team could smell it. Ten fucking years of waking up leaking because I still hear you breathing hard under me. No more waiting. No more decoys. I’m claiming this ass before the sun comes up and I’m filling it until it drips down your thighs while you finish those goddamn cinnamon rolls.”

The confession hit like a match in dry flour. Otto shoved the dough aside with one sweep of his arm; it hit the floor in a soft white puff. He spun in Errol’s grip, chests slamming together, mouths crashing open and filthy. Hands turned frantic. Otto tore at the buttons of Errol’s plaid shirt, popping two of them clean off so he could drag the fabric down thick, inked shoulders. Errol’s skin was hot, dusted with dark hair that thickened across his pecs and arrowed down into the waistband of his work pants. Otto’s mouth left Errol’s and fastened onto a nipple, biting, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while his fingers worked Errol’s belt open with practiced violence.

Errol answered by ripping Otto’s black T-shirt straight up and over his head, flinging it toward the proofing racks. The second the fabric cleared, Errol’s bearded mouth was on Otto’s collarbone, then lower, teeth scraping over a dense pec, tongue circling a dark nipple until Otto cursed and shoved Errol’s head harder against him. Their boots scraped and slid in the flour as they stumbled sideways, still locked together, until Otto’s back hit the cool stainless-steel face of the reach-in fridge. The metal fogged instantly under their heat.

Jeans next. Otto shoved Errol’s pants and boxers down in one rough push; Errol’s cock sprang free—thick, veined, already leaking a clear strand that stretched and broke against Otto’s stomach fur. Otto wrapped a flour-dusted fist around it and stroked once, twice, feeling the heavy pulse, the way the head flared under his thumb. Errol hissed and returned the favor, popping Otto’s button, dragging the zipper down, shoving denim and briefs to mid-thigh so Otto’s own fat cock slapped up against his abs, red and dripping.

“Fuck, look at that,” Errol muttered, both hands now gripping Otto’s bare ass cheeks, spreading them just enough that cool kitchen air kissed the tight, furred hole between. “Been starving for this. Gonna ruin it. Gonna stretch it open on my cock until you forget how to knead anything that isn’t me.”

Otto’s answer was a raw, hungry groan. He kicked his jeans the rest of the way off, toeing out of his boots without looking, then did the same for Errol until both men stood completely naked in the flour-dusted pre-dawn kitchen, cocks grinding slick and dirty, beards scraping, hands roaming every thick plane of muscle they’d denied themselves for a decade. Errol spun him again, bent him back over the wooden table, and dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the bakery floor. His big hands spread Otto’s ass wide. Hot breath ghosted over the hole.

“Still time to lock that door,” Errol said, voice thick with lust, but he was already leaning in, tongue dragging a long, wet stripe from Otto’s balls all the way up over the clenched rim.

Otto’s fists white-knuckled the table edge. His cock jerked hard against the wood, smearing precome across flour and old knife scars. “Don’t you fucking dare stop. Door can stay open. Whole street can watch you wreck me. Just get that tongue in me and then put that cock where it belongs.”

Errol growled approval and sealed his mouth over Otto’s hole, tongue pushing, wet and relentless, while outside the sky stayed black and the ovens glowed red and the first batch of dough sat forgotten on the floor. Ten years of cravings finally had teeth, and neither man was letting go until something broke open before dawn.

Errol’s tongue drove deeper, wet and filthy, spearing Otto’s hole until the baker’s thick thighs shook and flour sifted off the table edge onto Errol’s dark hair. Otto’s cock leaked a steady slick trail across the scarred wood; every greedy thrust of that tongue punched another broken curse out of him. He shoved back hard, grinding his furred ass into Errol’s bearded face, chasing more.

“Fuck—get up here,” Otto growled, voice wrecked. He twisted, reaching back to fist Errol’s hair and haul him up. Their mouths crashed together, sharing the raw taste of Otto’s hole, beards scraping, tongues battling. Otto spun them so Errol’s ass hit the table, then dropped to his knees right there in the flour dust like a man starving. Errol’s thick cock slapped wet against Otto’s cheek—veined, heavy, the head already shiny and dripping.

Otto didn’t tease. He opened wide and swallowed that construction-site dick to the root in one sloppy, greedy glide. The blunt head punched the back of his throat; spit flooded instantly, thick strings spilling from the corners of his stretched lips and dripping onto his dense chest hair. Errol’s hands clamped onto Otto’s skull, thick fingers twisting tight in the short hair, and he groaned like he’d been kicked in the gut.

“Jesus Christ, Ott—look at you. Taking every fucking inch like you were built for it. Throat so goddamn hot and wet. Been dreaming about this mouth for ten years. Suck it harder. Show me how hungry you’ve been.”

Otto moaned around the meat stuffing his face, the vibration ripping another curse from Errol. He bobbed fast and filthy, drooling, eyes watering, nose buried in the dark thatch at the base every time he bottomed out. Spit coated Errol’s balls and the inside of Otto’s beard. He hollowed his cheeks, tongue working the thick vein along the underside, then pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Tastes better than I jacked to,” before diving back down and choking himself on it again. Errol’s hips snapped forward, fucking Otto’s face in short, brutal strokes while he praised him raw—“Good boy, fucking good boy, throat’s mine now”—until Otto’s jaw ached and his own untouched cock throbbed purple and neglected between his spread thighs.

Errol yanked him off with a wet pop, a long silver strand of spit connecting Otto’s swollen lips to the glistening head. “Table. Now. Ass up.”

Otto scrambled up, heart hammering, and bent over the floured wooden worktable exactly like he’d been ordered. He spread his thick wrestler’s legs, presenting that furred hole still shiny from Errol’s tongue. Errol stepped in behind him, one heavy palm slamming down between Otto’s shoulder blades to pin him flat, chest to wood. He spat—loud, thick, deliberate—right onto Otto’s clenched rim. The warm glob landed and slid. Errol’s thumb smeared it in, then two fingers shoved deep without warning, scissoring, stretching.

“Ready for me?” Errol rasped.

“Been ready since senior fucking year. Put it in. Breed me.”

Errol lined up that fat cock and drove home in one relentless thrust. The thick head forced Otto’s hole wide; the shaft followed, splitting him open raw, no condom, nothing but spit and need. Otto roared into the wood, fingers clawing flour into white ridges. The stretch burned perfect—too much, not enough—until Errol’s hips slapped flush against his ass and that heavy pair of balls swung against his taint.

Then Errol fucked him.

Deep, pounding strokes that rocked the entire table. The wooden legs scraped and groaned across the floor. Every thrust punched the air from Otto’s lungs and dragged over his prostate until his vision sparkled. Flour puffed up around them in pale clouds. Errol’s hands clamped Otto’s dense waist, yanking him back to meet every savage snap of hips. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the pre-dawn kitchen, louder than the low hum of the ovens.

“Take it—fuck, look at this hole swallowing me. Tightest goddamn grip. Gonna wreck you so good you knead dough bowlegged for a week.”

Otto could only grunt and push back, chasing every brutal inch. Sweat ran down the valley of his spine into the crack of his ass; Errol’s beard scraped between his shoulder blades as the bigger man leaned over him and bit down hard on the muscle there. Otto’s cock swung heavy and untouched beneath him, smearing precome all over the table edge.

Errol pulled out suddenly—leaving Otto’s hole fluttering and empty—and flipped him like he still weighed nothing. Otto’s back hit the flour-dusted wood. Errol hooked thick arms under Otto’s knees and shoved them wide and high, pinning the dense thighs open until Otto was folded and fully exposed. Their eyes locked. Errol’s cock found the stretched rim again and slammed home missionary, burying to the hilt while they stared at each other, beards almost brushing, breath hot and shared.

“Want to watch your face when I fill you,” Errol growled. He set a punishing rhythm, deep and relentless, the angle dragging over Otto’s prostate on every stroke. Otto reached between them and wrapped a flour-caked fist around his own leaking cock, stroking hard and fast in time with the fucking.

The table creaked dangerously. Flour stuck to their sweat-slick skin, turning chests and abs white and gritty. Otto’s free hand clawed at Errol’s inked forearm, holding on while the pleasure built like dough left too long in the proofing cabinet—swelling, inevitable, about to split open. Errol’s eyes stayed locked on his, dark and burning, every thrust a claim.

“Gonna come,” Otto choked. “Gonna paint both of us—fuck—don’t stop, breed me, do it—”

Errol’s rhythm turned feral. He slammed deep and stayed there, grinding, while Otto’s fist flew over his cock. Otto’s orgasm ripped through him first—shattering, full-body, a raw roar that echoed off the steel racks. Thick ropes of cum erupted across his own furred abs and chest, some even streaking Errol’s stomach. His hole clamped down hard around the cock splitting him open.

That vise-grip dragged Errol over the edge. He buried himself to the root, hips jerking, and unloaded with a guttural shout that shook his whole frame. Hot pulse after hot pulse flooded Otto’s ass—heavy, endless, breeding him deep. Otto felt every spurt, the heat spreading inside him, overflowing already around the thick shaft still buried and twitching. Errol kept grinding through it, milking every drop into him, eyes never leaving Otto’s while both men rode out the aftershocks, gasping, trembling, locked together in the flour and sweat and the red glow of the ovens.

They stayed like that, chests heaving, Errol’s cock still half-hard and plugged deep so nothing leaked out yet. Outside the alley door the sky had lightened only a fraction—still more black than gray. Otto’s spent cock gave a lazy twitch against his sticky abs. Errol leaned down and dragged a slow, filthy kiss across his mouth, tasting salt and triumph.

“Not done with you,” Errol murmured against his lips, already starting to rock again in tiny, possessive rolls of his hips that made fresh cum squelch inside Otto’s well-fucked hole. “Sun’s not up. Ovens aren’t ready. And I still haven’t had those cinnamon rolls off your tongue.”

Errol kept those tiny possessive rolls going, his half-hard cock still buried deep and slick with the thick load he’d already pumped into Otto. Fresh cum squelched wetly around the shaft every time his hips rocked forward another fraction. Otto’s spent cock twitched against his sticky, flour-caked abs, the mess of his own orgasm already cooling in white streaks across the dense hair on his belly. The table creaked under their combined weight. Outside the alley door the black sky had only just begun to thin at the edges, still more night than morning.

“Feel that?” Errol muttered against Otto’s mouth, grinding in a slow circle that forced another warm trickle of seed to leak out around his girth. “That’s mine now. Every drop. You’re walking around this bakery the rest of the day with my cum plugged up inside you, smelling like me under all that flour and sugar.”

Otto’s laugh came out ragged. He hooked a thick leg higher around Errol’s waist and squeezed, locking them tighter. “Then quit talking and make sure it stays put. Ovens still got twenty minutes. Make it count.”

Errol answered by pulling almost all the way out—slow enough that Otto felt every flared inch drag against his stretched rim—then slamming home again in one brutal stroke. The wet smack of hips on ass echoed off the steel racks. Cum splattered outward in a filthy spray that painted the insides of Otto’s thighs white. Otto roared and arched, the fresh burn lighting up every nerve that the first round had already left raw and humming. Errol set a deep, grinding rhythm, not the frantic pounding of before but something heavier, deliberate, each thrust designed to churn the load already inside and force it deeper. His beard scraped Otto’s throat as he mouthed along the sweaty column of it, teeth nipping, tongue tasting salt and flour dust.

Otto’s cock filled again fast, fat and dark against his stomach. He wrapped a flour-gritty fist around it and stroked in time, the drag of his own palm almost too much on the oversensitive head. Errol watched the motion with molten eyes, then knocked Otto’s hand away and took over—thick construction-callused fingers wrapping the baker’s dick in a grip just shy of painful. He jacked him hard and dirty while he fucked, twisting over the head on every upstroke until Otto’s hips jerked helplessly between the dual assault.

“Gonna fill you again,” Errol growled. “Pack it so full you’ll feel me drip down your leg when you bend over the proofing trays. Ten years I waited. I’m not leaving a drop wasted.”

“Do it—fuck—breed me twice, you bastard.” Otto’s voice cracked. He grabbed two fistfuls of Errol’s dark hair and yanked him down into another open-mouthed kiss, all tongue and beard scrape and shared breath that tasted like sex and leftover coffee. Their chests slid together, sweat and flour turning to paste between dense pecs and the dark fur that matted them. Every thrust punched a fresh grunt out of Otto; every squeeze of Errol’s fist dragged another clear bead of precome from his slit that mixed with the drying cum already striping his abs.

Errol shifted the angle, shoving Otto’s knees higher until the baker was folded damn near in half, thick wrestler thighs forced wide. The new depth made Otto’s eyes roll. Errol’s cock dragged relentlessly over his prostate on every stroke, churning the earlier load into froth that bubbled out around the base and ran down Otto’s crack to soak the scarred wood beneath them. The wet filth of it was obscene—squelching, dripping, the unmistakable sound of a hole already claimed and being claimed again. Flour puffed up in pale clouds with every slap of skin. The red glow of the ovens painted their locked bodies in fever light.

Otto came first this time too, a sharper, almost painful orgasm that ripped through overworked nerves. His cock pulsed hard in Errol’s fist, shooting weaker but still thick ropes that striped Errol’s inked forearm and dotted both their stomachs. His hole clamped down in rhythmic spasms, milking the cock still splitting him open. Errol cursed and followed two strokes later, burying to the root and grinding through a second heavy load. Hot pulses flooded Otto’s guts all over again—thicker, longer, breeding him so full that the excess immediately forced its way out around the seal of Errol’s shaft in long, sticky rivulets. They stayed locked, hips twitching, both men shaking through the aftershocks while cum continued to leak and drip onto the table in slow, obscene threads.

Errol didn’t pull out. He stayed buried to the hilt, cock still twitching out the last spurts, and lowered his full weight onto Otto’s chest. Their mouths met in a slow, filthy kiss that tasted of sweat and flour and the raw edge of everything they’d just done. Tongues slid lazy and deep. Beards rasped. Otto could feel every heartbeat of the thick cock still plugging him, keeping most of the double load inside while the rest continued its warm crawl down his thighs.

Errol broke the kiss just far enough to speak against Otto’s lips, voice low and rough. “I’m coming back every morning before dawn from now on. Every single one. You hear me? This table. This hole. Mine until the sun comes up.”

Otto’s mouth curved into a spent, wicked grin even as his cock gave another lazy twitch against Errol’s stomach, already trying to fill again. “Door’ll stay unlocked for my favorite customer. Always. Walk in whenever you want it. I’ll be right here beating the shit out of dough and waiting for you to bend me over it.”

They kissed again, slower, messier, sharing the salt and the grit. Errol’s hips gave one last possessive roll that forced another thick glug of cum to spill out around his cock and pool beneath Otto’s ass. The kitchen smelled like sex and yeast and the first sharp heat of ovens coming fully up. For a long minute neither man moved. They just breathed each other in, still joined, still dripping, the promises hanging warm between them.

Then the light through the high windows shifted—gray instead of black—and something cold slid under Otto’s ribs. Errol’s phone, forgotten on the floor in the pile of discarded clothes, lit up with a soft blue glow and a muted buzz. The screen faced upward. Even from the table Otto could read the lock-screen preview clear enough: a woman’s name, a string of heart emojis, and the words “kids are up early, when are you home?” Errol’s body went rigid against him. The thick cock still buried inside Otto softened another degree. Neither of them spoke. The second load kept leaking out in slow, inevitable drips while the ovens hummed and the first pale edge of real dawn crept across the flour-dusted floor, turning everything that had just burned so hot into something that already felt half-regretted and impossible to keep.