AJ Xclusive’s phone crunches under his polished Oxford as he strides toward the pool, tie loosened, eyes locked on Allen King’s bare ass glistening in the sun. “D’you really think my pool’s your personal bathtub, boy?” he growls, fist knotting in Allen’s damp curls, yanking his head back. The Brit’s accent drips menace—posh, predatory. Allen’s throat bobs, but his grin’s all cocky defiance. “Caught me, sir… gonna punish me?”

No warnings. AJ’s hand slaps into the water, grabbing Allen’s clothes—leverage. “You want these back, twink? Earn ’em.” His free hand pops his fly, thick uncut cock springing free, veins pulsing. Allen’s tongue darts—hungry—but AJ shoves him onto the poolside concrete, palm grinding the boy’s face into his shaft. “Suck like your rent’s due.”

Allen gags, spit-sloppy, nose buried in musk-stained pubes as AJ fists his hair, pumping his throat. The CEO’s wet dress shirt clings to his gym-carved chest, pecs flexing with every snarl. “Tighter,” he barks, thumb bruising Allen’s jaw, hips piston-fucking his mouth until tears streak the boy’s cheeks.

Plot twist. Allen wrenches free, gasping—“Your turn, daddy”—and yanks AJ’s soaked shirt up, teeth sinking into a nipple. AJ roars, cock twitching as the twink strokes himself hard, precum smearing AJ’s thigh. No patience. AJ spins him, spits into his hole, and rams in raw—no lube, no mercy. Allen’s scream shatters the humid air, fingers scrabbling at the concrete as AJ hammers his prostate into pudding.

Climax? AJ grunts, slapping Allen’s ass raw, balls slapping wet rhythm. “Take your protein, bitch,” he snarls, blasting ropes across Allen’s face. The boy jerks himself furiously, cum splattering AJ’s socks—“F-fuck… sir!”

AJ smirks, zipping up. “Clean the pool again tomorrow. I’ll bring extra socks.” Fireworks boom overhead, but Allen’s legs still tremble. Business always closes with a bang.