I took him into my mouth. It was a truly bizarre—perhaps even uncanny—experience. I was on my knees, performing this act on a man who remained dressed in a formal, impeccably tailored suit. He made no lewd sounds; his back stayed perfectly straight, and he continued to gaze down at me with a scrutinizing, superior look.

Unlike other men in his position, he showed no impatient, frantic thrusting. He held complete control over the rhythm, using the hand that gripped my hair to apply subtle pressure—guiding, or rather commanding, me to shift the angle or depth.

"Mmph..."

I swallowed hard, the ache in my mouth spreading, yet I dared not pause for even a second. His size was staggering; I had to be incredibly careful to ensure my teeth didn’t scrape against him.

Sweat trickled down my forehead, dripping onto the carpet. My eyes remained fixed on his pristine, snow-white shirt—a barrier as impassable as a chasm, keeping us firmly divided between the realms of "reason" and "loss of control."

Through that shirt, he was making a point: no matter how intimate or depraved our actions might be, this was nothing more than a physical transaction—entirely devoid of emotion.

A flicker of bitterness stirred within me, but it was quickly eclipsed by the intense physical stimulation.

I picked up the pace, my tongue dancing nimbly over his most sensitive spots. I could feel his grip on my hair tightening, his breathing growing increasingly heavy and ragged.

Finally, after I took him as deep as I could, he let out a low, stifled groan.

"Enough."

His voice was cold. With a sharp, unsparing tug on my hair, he pulled me away.

I was forced to tilt my head back, a trail of clear saliva still clinging to the corner of my mouth. I saw his eyes squeezed shut, his brows knitted, and his jawline pulled taut—as if he were exerting every ounce of his will to hold something back. A few seconds later, he finally reached his climax.

A few drops of thick, white fluid splattered onto his own dark-gray trousers, though most of it landed on the carpet.

The musky scent hanging in the air grew even more intense.

He opened his eyes slowly; the dark fire that had burned within them faded, replaced by his usual, composed, and inscrutable expression. He glanced down at his soiled trousers, his brows knitting together—he seemed displeased by his own loss of control.

Then, he bent down and picked up the dark-red tie he had tossed onto the floor earlier.

It was the very instrument he had used to bind me—the tool that had brought me to the brink of collapse.

Holding the tie, he walked toward me. Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders, bracing myself for whatever he might do next.

But he simply used the silk tie to roughly wipe the traces of fluid from the corner of my mouth. The fabric grazed my tender lips, feeling cool and slightly coarse against my skin.

Afterward, he used the same tie to carelessly dab at the stained edge of his own trousers.

This expensive silk tie was utterly ruined—reduced to nothing more than a rag to clean up the mess left by our absurd, carnal encounter.

Once finished, Schroeder tossed the soiled tie into a nearby trash bin.

He took his time zipping up his trousers and smoothing out his clothes. By the time he looked back at me, he had fully reclaimed his persona: the impeccably dressed, arrogant elite.

It was as if the man who had just unleashed his desires before me had never existed at all.

"Clean yourself up, then go take a shower," he said coldly, turning to leave the living room.

Watching his indifferent back, a surge of indescribable resentment and heartache welled up inside me. I couldn't help but call out to him:

"Schroeder—what exactly... are we?"

He paused, but he did not turn around. "Peter," his voice echoed through the empty hallway—cold, unsparing, and sounding like the pronouncement of an immutable truth—"I recall saying that we are both 'bottoms.' Between two bottoms, there can be no room for any superfluous emotion."

He tilted his head slightly, casting a glance at me from the corner of his eye; his gaze held a clarity that bordered on the cruel.

"This is merely a matter of physical mutual aid. It’s consensual—each of us getting what we need. Do you understand?"

With that, he walked into his bedroom without a backward glance and slammed the door shut.

*Bang!*

The sound of the door closing struck my heart like a heavy hammer.

I remained frozen, kneeling on the living room carpet, staring at the dark red tie crumpled up inside the trash can.

Right—we are both "bottoms"

It is absolutely impossible for us to ever develop feelings for one another.

Everything that has transpired is nothing more than a shameful act of mutual solace, hidden beneath the facade of formal attire.

I lowered my head, burying my face in my hands, and let out a laugh—a sound far more wretched than any cry.

A lie.

It’s all a lie.

Yet, to my own sorrow, I realized that I had already begun to sink into this lie, unable to pull myself free.