Callum’s house was quiet in the way only a single man’s place could be on a Friday evening -low lamps, the faint smell of coffee and clean cotton, rain tapping softly against the windows. Jamie stood just inside the front door, school bag dropped carelessly by the wall, bare feet on the cool wooden floorboards.
He was still half in uniform.
White shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the dark sixth-form tie loosened and hanging crooked. The grey school trousers were gone, folded neatly on the armchair where Callum had told him to leave them. His black regulation socks were gone too. Only the shirt and the open tie remained, framing the soft line of his stomach and the hard, flushed cock that stood out shamelessly against pale skin.
Callum hadn’t even taken his own jacket off yet.
He stood in the hallway in the same charcoal suit he’d worn to school that day—shirt still crisp, tie perfectly knotted, shoes polished. The contrast made Jamie’s mouth go dry every time he looked at him.
“Kitchen,” Callum said simply.
Jamie walked ahead of him, barefoot, the hem of the open shirt brushing the tops of his thighs. He could feel Callum’s eyes on him the entire way - on the pale soles of his feet, the way the shirt shifted with each step, the way his cock bobbed slightly with the movement.
In the kitchen Callum didn’t turn on the main lights. Just the under-cabinet ones, soft and golden. He leaned against the counter, still fully dressed, and crooked two fingers.
Jamie came to him without being told twice.
Callum’s hands settled on his waist, under the open shirt, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above his hips. “You stayed after the others left again,” he murmured. “Sat in my classroom looking like you were already hard under that desk. Then you followed me home like a good boy.” His voice dropped. “And now you’re standing in my kitchen in half a uniform, barefoot, dripping on my floor.”
Jamie’s cock twitched hard at the words. A clear bead of precome welled at the tip and began to slide down the underside.
Callum noticed. Of course he did.
He reached down and wrapped his hand around Jamie - not stroking, just holding him in a firm, dry grip. The heat of his palm against the sensitive skin made Jamie’s breath hitch.
“You’re going to be edged tonight,” Callum said quietly. “Properly. Until you’re shaking and leaking and you can’t think of anything except how much you need to be milked. And you’re not going to come. You’re only going to give.”
Jamie nodded, already breathless. “Yes, sir.”
Callum squeezed once at the base, then again higher up, milking a slow pulse of precome out of him. It ran over his knuckles. He collected it with his thumb and smeared it over the head in a deliberate circle, watching Jamie’s stomach jump.
Then he began to stroke.
Slow. Exact. The same devastating rhythm he’d perfected over the last few weeks - tight under the head, a slight twist, just enough pressure to make Jamie’s hips stutter. The open shirt shifted with every shallow breath. Jamie’s bare feet flexed against the cool tiles.
Callum took him right to the edge in under a minute. Jamie’s thighs started to tremble, a broken sound catching in his throat—
And Callum stopped. Hand still wrapped around him, completely still, only the firm pressure at the root keeping him from spilling over.
Jamie whimpered. His cock pulsed hard in Callum’s grip, trying to come, denied.
“One,” Callum said softly.
He waited until the desperate fluttering eased, until Jamie’s breathing evened just enough, then started again. Same slow, merciless strokes. Same perfect knowledge of exactly how much Jamie could take before he broke.
The second edge was worse. Jamie’s head dropped forward against Callum’s shoulder, the loose tie brushing Callum’s suit jacket. His bare toes curled against the floor. Precome ran freely down his shaft and over Callum’s fingers in thick, clear strands.
Callum held him through it without mercy, thumb pressed firmly under the head.
“Two.”
By the third, Jamie was properly crying - quiet, shaky tears, chest heaving under the open shirt. His cock was an angry red, so sensitive that even the lightest touch felt like too much. Callum didn’t rush. He simply kept him there, fully clothed, calm, methodical, while Jamie stood barefoot and half-dressed and completely open in his kitchen.
“You’re going to give me everything tonight,” Callum murmured against his temple. “No orgasm. Just milk. Until you’re empty and shaking and you can’t even think about finishing anymore.”
Jamie nodded frantically, beyond words.
Callum edged him three more times.
Each denial left Jamie more wrecked - hips twitching, soft broken sounds falling out of his mouth, the open shirt sticking slightly to his damp skin. When Callum finally decided it was time, he didn’t stroke him to climax.
He simply turned Jamie so his back was against the counter, held his cock upright with one hand, and pressed two firm fingers against the sensitive place behind his balls with the other.
Then he milked him.
Slow, rhythmic pressure. Squeezing from the root upward in deliberate waves. Jamie’s whole body seized. Thick, white ropes of come began to pulse out of him - not in the sharp, overwhelming rush of an orgasm, but in long, helpless surges that kept coming because Callum wouldn’t stop. He worked every drop free with methodical care, watching Jamie’s cock spasm and spill while the boy stood barefoot and trembling in nothing but an open school shirt and a loosened tie.
Jamie sobbed through it, completely given. His cock kept twitching long after the heavy spurts had slowed to thin, watery dribbles. Callum kept milking him gently until there was nothing left but the occasional weak pulse and a soft, oversensitive whimper.
Only then did he stop.
He wiped his hand on a clean tea towel, still fully dressed, still composed. Jamie sagged against the counter, bare feet flat on the tiles, shirt hanging open, cock soft and spent against his thigh, a small pool of his own come cooling on the floor between them.
Callum leaned in, brushed damp hair off Jamie’s forehead, and kissed his mouth once - slow and claiming.
“Next time,” he said quietly, “you’re going to come over in full uniform. Tie properly knotted. Shoes on. And you’re going to take them off for me, one piece at a time, while I watch. Then we’ll see how many times I can edge you before you start begging me to milk you on my kitchen floor again.”
Jamie’s eyes fluttered open. His voice was hoarse.
“Yes, sir.”
Callum smiled, straightened his own tie, and reached past him for the kettle as if nothing had happened at all—except for the half-dressed, barefoot sixth-former still leaning against his counter, already half-hard again at the promise.