Isaac's throat worked double time, taking in his Master's seed, like it was mother's milk. It was always the greatest question for him, where he wanted Derek to come the most. Down his throat, across his face, or deep inside him; each held it's own virtue.
Isaac's hands clenched and unclenched in the bedsheets, but he made no move to pull them free. He just kept looking up at his Master, in awe of how lucky he was to be in the position he was in.