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He offered them immediately.

I fastened each strap, checked the fit, then positioned his legs in the wide supports and secured those as well. His fingers flexed once against the armrests before relaxing. With every buckle, more tension left him. That was one of the things Lucca loved most about restraint. Once I had decided where his body belonged, he no longer had to decide anything at all.

"Good boy."

His head tipped back, exposing the line of his throat above the collar. He was delicious.

I took the gag from its hook. He opened his mouth before I asked, and I fitted the leather-wrapped bar between his teeth, fastening it behind his head and checking that I could slide two fingers beneath the strap.

"Comfortable?"

He nodded.

"Good. Tell me if that changes."

Another nod.

Only then did I pour the warmed oil into my hands.

I began at his stomach, rubbing slow circles into the muscles there before tracing lower along his hips. He made a soft, muffled sound and pushed instinctively toward my hands. The restraints stopped him from going far.

I wrapped one hand around his cock, which was already hard.

He jerked.

"Easy, pup. We take our time."

His eyes found mine. He forced himself still because I had asked it of him.

I rewarded the effort with one slow stroke.

Then another.

The morning milking was an old Aconchian household practice, older than either of us and far less dramatic to my people than Lucca sometimes pretended it was. Regular release kept human pets comfortable; the nutritional compounds in human seed happened to be easily metabolized by Aconchian bodies, providing us with a shot of energy, being incredibly healthy for us, and solidifying our connection. Those facts were ordinary.

He trusted me with the ritual completely. The restraints, the gag, the waiting, even the moment of release itself—he handed all of it over to me, and I treated that trust with the care it deserved.

I kept my pace steady, watching his body. His breathing roughened. His fingers curled against the padded supports. When I changed the angle of my hand and brushed my thumb beneath the crown, his back bowed before the straps guided him down again.

A broken sound pushed past the gag.

"I know," I murmured. "You're doing beautifully."

I changed my grip again, using the extra articulation in my fingers to vary the pressure without increasing the speed. Lucca noticed immediately. His knees pulled against the straps. The chair answered for me: he could move, but only within the space I had decided was safe.

My own body had responded long ago. I could feel the pressure beneath my clothes, the instinctive physical answer to his sounds and the sight of him restrained for me. I ignored it. This part of the morning belonged to Lucca. There would be other opportunities for my pleasure.

I dragged my thumb slowly over the sensitive ridge beneath the crown and watched his eyes lose focus. His hips lifted. The gag caught the sound he made and turned it into a helpless vibration.

"Still," I reminded him.

He froze as well as a trembling human on the edge of orgasm could freeze.

"Good. That is what I wanted."

Praise affected him almost as strongly as touch. His cock jumped in my hand. Four years together had taught me every shortcut through his body.

I let the pace build again. Not fast. Precision worked better on Lucca than speed. A firmer squeeze near the base, a slow twist on the upward stroke, my thumb returning to that same spot only after he had begun to wonder whether I would deny it to him. His breathing turned ragged through his nose.