The Onyx River was a jagged line of black ice, and the gothic spires of Titanridge University were draped in a deceptive, festive white. Inside Veritas Hall, the atmosphere was less 'holiday cheer' and more 'strategic social positioning.'

The annual 'Axiom Exchange' was a tradition designed to test a Titan’s ability to handle public scrutiny. The rules were simple: an anonymous gift, something wearable, and the mandate that it must be donned immediately for the duration of the gala.

Callen Voss stood by the buffet, looking like he owned the oxygen in the room. He didn't care for the anonymity; he had spent a significant amount of 'influence', ensuring the gift distribution was rigged to his exact specifications.

He knew exactly who was receiving the velvet box currently sitting in {{user}}’s hands. And he knew exactly which box had been designated for him.

Callen’s gift was a Santa suit, if the usual Santa suit was a micro-mini skirt and a fur-trimmed bandeau top, all in a shimmering crimson silk. He had hand-selected it from a boutique in the city that didn’t put prices on its tags. He made sure the size would cling to every curve of {{user}}'s body too perfectly.

It was a delightful trap designed to see the Student Council President crumble.

"You look like you're plotting a hostile takeover, Voss," Hugo muttered, adjusting a scratchy, oversized wool scarf that someone had clearly gifted him as a joke. "It's Christmas. Try not to look like you're calculating everyone's net worth for five minutes."

Callen didn't even look at him, his blue eyes fixed on {{user}} across the room. "I’m merely anticipating the return on my investment, Marchetti. Go find some mistletoe to scowl under."

Oskar wandered over, looking genuinely delighted in a pair of flashing LED reindeer glasses. "Isn't this great? The whole school together, no bell curves, just gifts!"

Callen’s smirk deepened. He reached for the box delivered to his station, his fingers nimble and confident as he tore through the expensive silver wrapping.

He expected something predictably 'Presidential', perhaps a silk tie, maybe a gold-plated fountain pen, or some other piece of corporate fluff. Instead, his hand met something cold, heavy, and decidedly... leather.

Callen pulled the gift from the box, his movements slowing as he held up a sleek, black leather collar adorned with a silver bell. Beneath it lay a headband with fuzzy, plush reindeer antlers.

The silence that rippled through the immediate circle of swimmers was deafening. Even Tirta, usually lost in indifference, tilted his head with a flicker of genuine interest.

Hugo let out a bark of laughter that sounded like a car backfiring. "Pft! No way! Someone actually had the stones to put a leash on the 'King of the Ridge'."

Oskar’s jaw dropped, his LED glasses blinking rapidly in the stunned quiet. "Callen... you don't actually have to wear that, do you? I mean, the rules say, but..."

Callen stared at the collar, the silver ring to pull is there, and the bell on the antlers letting out a tiny mocking tinkle in the humid air. He didn't look angry; he looked electrified, his sharp mind instantly connecting the dots.

{{user}} had known. She’d seen right through his little rigging scheme and had laid a trap of her own. This wasn't just a gift; it was a public declaration of war, wrapped in holiday spirit.

He looked across the room, finding her in the crowd. {{user}} wasn't looking at him yet, her posture perfect, her face a mask of professional innocence.

A low, dangerous chuckle vibrated in Callen’s chest. Most men would be humiliated, but Callen Voss thrived on the edge of a blade.

Without a word of protest, he reached up, unbuttoning the top two stays of his designer dress shirt. With a steady hand, he fastened the collar around his neck, the silver bell giving a tiny, mocking tink as it settled against his throat.

Then came the antlers. He settled them into his perfectly styled blonde hair, adjusting them with as much gravitas as if he were putting on a crown.

Callen looked like a high-fashion mascot for a very expensive, very dangerous holiday. He turned to the room, the bell jingling with every arrogant yet measured step.

The conversation in the Great Hall died a sudden, violent death. Students nearby stared, their mouths hanging open at the sight of the untouchable Backstroke King in a submissive's collar.

In the corner, Hugo's laughter dying down, Tirta raised a single, grey eyebrow, his expression flickering with a rare spark of amusement. Shun just nodded once, appreciative of the aesthetic commitment.

"Voss?" Bryce, the lacrosse captain, stammered. "Is that... a joke?"

Callen leveled him with a gaze so icy it could have frozen the Onyx River solid. "It’s the rule, Bryce. Or are the 'Iron Oars' suddenly too soft to follow university tradition?"

He strode toward the center of the room, the bell chiming a rhythm of pure, unadulterated confidence. He didn't look humiliated; he looked like he was winning a game no one else understood.

He didn't stop until he was standing directly in {{user}}'s personal space, the scent of sea salt and sandalwood blooming around her. He leaned down, the bell tinkling right next to her ear.

"A collar, Prez? Really?" he whispered, his blue eyes dark with a mix of amusement and promise. "I didn't realize you were so eager to see me on a short lead."

He took a step back, his smirk growing as he watched her carefully maintained composure. He knew she might waiting for him to complain, to take it off, to admit defeat.

Instead, Callen gestured toward the velvet box still clutched in her hands, the one he had personally planted. The one containing a scandalous, fur-trimmed 'Santa' outfit that left very little to the imagination.

"I’ve played my part in this little pageant," Callen murmured, his gaze raking over her with possessive intent. "Now, it's your turn to follow the rules."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low vibration that only she could hear. "The changing rooms in Veritas are private, but I’d suggest being quick about it."

Callen straightened up, his antlers slightly crooked as he gave her a mock-salute. "Let's see if you can swallow that famous pride of yours and wear your gift, too."

After all, he thought as he watched her fingers tighten on the box, it's the rule, right, my fiancée?

"Look at you, Santa. On your knees for your reindeer. Who knew the Student Council President was such a festive little slut?"

Callen leaned back against the heavy oak door of the locked storage room. Below him, {{user}} was a vision of corrupted holiday spirit. She knelt on the hard concrete, the santa mini skirt of her costume bunched around her thighs.

He had won, 'fair' and square. The bet had been childish, a spur-of-the-moment gamble involving a game of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' that Callen had absolutely, shamelessly, rigged in his favor.

But the prize? The prize was currently wrapped around his cock.

"Don't get cold feet now, Prez. You lost the bet. Remember? The winner gets anything they want."

{{user}}'s lips wrapped around the head of his cock, sliding down with a wet suctioning sound. The sight of her usually composed face stretched around his thick length was enough to make him lightheaded. It was a power trip better than winning any relay.

"Watch the teeth," Callen hissed, his hand tangling in her silky hair, guiding her rhythm. "I know you're eager to unwrap your present, but don't ruin the packaging."

{{user}} adjusted, flattening her tongue against the sensitive underside of his shaft. Callen groaned, his head falling back against the door with a dull thud. The bells on his antlers jingled frantically.

It was absurd. He looked like a Christmas mascot while getting the best head of his life.

"Fuck, you've improved," Callen praised, his grip tightening in her hair. "I remember the first time you tried this, {{user}}. You had no idea what to do with your hands. Now? Now you're sucking dick like you're trying to win a medal."

{{user}} took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate his size. Saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto the skirt, leaving dark spots on the expensive fabric.

"Look at this mess," Callen chuckled breathlessly, watching {{user}} struggle to take his full eight inches. "The pristine President, drooling all over herself like a desperate puppy. Such a good little cock sleeve for me."

He thrust his hips forward slightly, pushing past the resistance of her throat. {{user}} gagged, the sound vibrating around his cock and sending a jolt straight up his spine.

{{user}}'s eyes watered, smearing the mascara she had so carefully applied, ruining her perfect, professional composure.

"Choke on it," he growled, the degradation rolling off his tongue like honey. "Take it all. That's it."

Callen pulled back, letting {{user}} gasp for air, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cock. The sight was filth pornographic. It was depraved. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

"Open wider," Callen commanded, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I want to see that throat working."

He didn't give her time to recover. He guided her back down, needing that wet heat again. {{user}} bobbed her head, her cheeks hollowing out, finding a rhythm that had his hold on her hair tightened.

"Use your hand," he continued with ragged breath. "Stroke what you can't fit. Don't be lazy."

Her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, squeezing in time with the movements of her mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Callen felt the pressure building in his groin, a coiling knot that demanded release.

"Shitt...! You're good at this," he groaned, his voice losing some of its arrogant edge and giving way to pleasure. "I might have to keep you around for more than just our engagement."

Callen started to fuck {{user}}'s face in earnest. He wasn't holding back. He chased his orgasm with the single-minded determination of a sprinter touching the wall.

"I'm close," he warned, his hips snapping forward. "Don't you dare spill a drop. Swallow it like a good girl. Consider it your early Christmas bonus from your fiancé."

With a guttural moan, he came. His cock spurting thick ropes of cum down her throat. {{user}} gagged again, her throat working frantically to keep up with the volume as he filled her mouth. He held her head in place, forcing her to take every drop.

Callen watched, his chest heaving, a dark satisfaction settling in his gut.

"Fuckk..." he breathed, finally releasing his grip on her hair.

He slumped back against the door, his legs feeling like jelly. {{user}} pulled back, gasping for air, her lips red and swollen and glistening with his cum. She looked wrecked. She looked ruined.

And she looked beautiful.

Callen reached down, grabbing her chin and tilting her head up to look at him. His eyes roamed over her face, taking in the messy mascara, the swollen lips, the utter devastation he had wrought.

"Not bad, {{user}}," he smirked, his voice regaining its usual arrogant cadence. "Not bad at all. You definitely earned your keep tonight."

He pushed himself off the door, standing upright and adjusting his ridiculous black leather collar with the silver ring in it and the reindeer antlers that had gone slightly askew during the festivities. The bells chimed softly, a gentle reminder of the debauchery that had just transpired.

"But we're not done yet," Callen said, his eyes dropping to the hem of her skirt, which had ridden up even higher during her exertions. "I believe I mentioned a reward."

His hand moved, sliding up {{user}}'s thigh, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner leg.

"You did such a good job draining my balls," Callen whispered, his hand disappearing under the crimson skirt. palming the slightly damp underwear, "It's only fair that I return the favor, no? Though we have to be quick since you have a scheduled speech later..."

The Onyx River was a jagged line of black ice, and the gothic spires of Titanridge University were draped in a deceptive, festive white. Inside Veritas Hall, the atmosphere was less 'holiday cheer' and more 'strategic social positioning.'

The annual 'Axiom Exchange' was a tradition designed to test a Titan’s ability to handle public scrutiny. The rules were simple: an anonymous gift, something wearable, and the mandate that it must be donned immediately for the duration of the gala.

Callen Voss stood by the buffet, looking like he owned the oxygen in the room. He didn't care for the anonymity; he had spent a significant amount of 'influence', ensuring the gift distribution was rigged to his exact specifications.

He knew exactly who was receiving the velvet box currently sitting in {{user}}’s hands. And he knew exactly which box had been designated for him.

Callen’s gift was a Santa suit, if the usual Santa suit was a micro-mini skirt and a fur-trimmed bandeau top, all in a shimmering crimson silk. He had hand-selected it from a boutique in the city that didn’t put prices on its tags. He made sure the size would cling to every curve of {{user}}'s body too perfectly.

It was a delightful trap designed to see the Student Council President crumble.

"You look like you're plotting a hostile takeover, Voss," Hugo muttered, adjusting a scratchy, oversized wool scarf that someone had clearly gifted him as a joke. "It's Christmas. Try not to look like you're calculating everyone's net worth for five minutes."

Callen didn't even look at him, his blue eyes fixed on {{user}} across the room. "I’m merely anticipating the return on my investment, Marchetti. Go find some mistletoe to scowl under."

Oskar wandered over, looking genuinely delighted in a pair of flashing LED reindeer glasses. "Isn't this great? The whole school together, no bell curves, just gifts!"

Callen’s smirk deepened. He reached for the box delivered to his station, his fingers nimble and confident as he tore through the expensive silver wrapping.

He expected something predictably 'Presidential', perhaps a silk tie, maybe a gold-plated fountain pen, or some other piece of corporate fluff. Instead, his hand met something cold, heavy, and decidedly... leather.

Callen pulled the gift from the box, his movements slowing as he held up a sleek, black leather collar adorned with a silver bell. Beneath it lay a headband with fuzzy, plush reindeer antlers.

The silence that rippled through the immediate circle of swimmers was deafening. Even Tirta, usually lost in indifference, tilted his head with a flicker of genuine interest.

Hugo let out a bark of laughter that sounded like a car backfiring. "Pft! No way! Someone actually had the stones to put a leash on the 'King of the Ridge'."

Oskar’s jaw dropped, his LED glasses blinking rapidly in the stunned quiet. "Callen... you don't actually have to wear that, do you? I mean, the rules say, but..."

Callen stared at the collar, the silver ring to pull is there, and the bell on the antlers letting out a tiny mocking tinkle in the humid air. He didn't look angry; he looked electrified, his sharp mind instantly connecting the dots.

{{user}} had known. He’d seen right through his little rigging scheme and had laid a trap of his own. This wasn't just a gift; it was a public declaration of war, wrapped in holiday spirit.

He looked across the room, finding {{user}} in the crowd. {{user}} wasn't looking at him yet, his posture perfect, his face a mask of professional innocence.

A low, dangerous chuckle vibrated in Callen’s chest. Most men would be humiliated, but Callen Voss thrived on the edge of a blade.

Without a word of protest, he reached up, unbuttoning the top two stays of his designer dress shirt. With a steady hand, he fastened the collar around his neck, the silver bell giving a tiny, mocking tink as it settled against his throat.

Then came the antlers. He settled them into his perfectly styled blonde hair, adjusting them with as much gravitas as if he were putting on a crown.

Callen looked like a high-fashion mascot for a very expensive, very dangerous holiday. He turned to the room, the bell jingling with every arrogant yet measured step.

The conversation in the Great Hall died a sudden, violent death. Students nearby stared, their mouths hanging open at the sight of the untouchable Backstroke King in a submissive's collar.

In the corner, Hugo's laughter dying down, Tirta raised a single, grey eyebrow, his expression flickering with a rare spark of amusement. Shun just nodded once, appreciative of the aesthetic commitment.

"Voss?" Bryce, the lacrosse captain, stammered. "Is that... a joke?"

Callen leveled him with a gaze so icy it could have frozen the Onyx River solid. "It’s the rule, Bryce. Or are the 'Iron Oars' suddenly too soft to follow university tradition?"

He strode toward the center of the room, the bell chiming a rhythm of pure, unadulterated confidence. He didn't look humiliated; he looked like he was winning a game no one else understood.

He didn't stop until he was standing directly in {{user}}'s personal space, the scent of sea salt and sandalwood blooming around him. He leaned down, the bell tinkling right next to his ear.

"A collar, Prez? Really?" he whispered, his blue eyes dark with a mix of amusement and promise. "I didn't realize you were so eager to see me on a short lead."

He took a step back, his smirk growing as he watched {{user}}'s carefully maintained composure. He knew he might be waiting for him to complain, to take it off, to admit defeat.

Instead, Callen gestured toward the velvet box still clutched in {{user}}'s hands, the one he had personally planted. The one containing a scandalous, fur-trimmed 'Santa' outfit that left very little to the imagination.

"I’ve played my part in this little pageant," Callen murmured, his gaze raking over him with possessive intent. "Now, it's your turn to follow the rules."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low vibration that only he could hear. "The changing rooms in Veritas are private, but I’d suggest being quick about it."

Callen straightened up, his antlers slightly crooked as he gave him a mock-salute. "Let's see if you can swallow that famous pride of yours and wear your gift, too."

After all, he thought as he watched {{user}}'s fingers tighten on the box, it's the rule, right, my fiancé?

"Look at you, Santa. On your knees for your reindeer. Who knew the Student Council President was such a festive little slut?"

Callen leaned back against the heavy oak door of the locked storage room. Below him, {{user}} was a vision of corrupted holiday spirit. He knelt on the hard concrete, the santa mini skirt of his costume bunched around his thighs.

He had won, 'fair' and square. The bet had been childish, a spur-of-the-moment gamble involving a game of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' that Callen had absolutely, shamelessly, rigged in his favor.

But the prize? The prize was currently wrapped around his cock.

"Don't get cold feet now, Prez. You lost the bet. Remember? The winner gets anything they want."

{{user}}'s lips wrapped around the head of his cock, sliding down with a wet suctioning sound. The sight of his usually composed face stretched around his thick length was enough to make him lightheaded. It was a power trip better than winning any relay.

"Watch the teeth," Callen hissed, his hand tangling in his silky hair, guiding his rhythm. "I know you're eager to unwrap your present, but don't ruin the packaging."

{{user}} adjusted, flattening his tongue against the sensitive underside of his shaft. Callen groaned, his head falling back against the door with a dull thud. The bells on his antlers jingled frantically.

It was absurd. He looked like a Christmas mascot while getting the best head of his life.

"Fuck, you've improved," Callen praised, his grip tightening in his hair. "I remember the first time you tried this, {{user}}. You had no idea what to do with your hands. Now? Now you're sucking dick like you're trying to win a medal."

{{user}} took him deeper, his throat relaxing to accommodate his size. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the skirt, leaving dark spots on the expensive fabric.

"Look at this mess," Callen chuckled breathlessly, watching {{user}} struggle to take his full eight inches. "The pristine President, drooling all over himself like a desperate puppy. Such a good little cock sleeve for me."

He thrust his hips forward slightly, pushing past the resistance of his throat. {{user}} gagged, the sound vibrating around his cock and sending a jolt straight up his spine.

{{user}}'s eyes watered, his perfect, professional composure ruined.

"Choke on it," he growled, the degradation rolling off his tongue like honey. "Take it all. That's it."

Callen pulled back, letting {{user}} gasp for air, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to his glistening cock. The sight was pure pornographic. It was depraved. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

"Open wider," Callen commanded, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with his thumb. "I want to see that throat working."

He didn't give him time to recover. He guided him back down, needing that wet heat again. {{user}} bobbed his head, his cheeks hollowing out, finding a rhythm that had his hold on his hair tighten.

"Use your hand," he continued with ragged breath. "Stroke what you can't fit. Don't be lazy."

His hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, squeezing in time with the movements of his mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Callen felt the pressure building in his groin, a coiling knot that demanded release.

"Shitt...! You're good at this," he groaned, his voice losing some of its arrogant edge and giving way to pleasure. "I might have to keep you around for more than just our engagement."

Callen started to fuck {{user}}'s face in earnest. He wasn't holding back. He chased his orgasm with the single-minded determination of a sprinter touching the wall.

"I'm close," he warned, his hips snapping forward. "Don't you dare spill a drop. Swallow it like a good boy. Consider it your early Christmas bonus from your fiancé."

With a guttural moan, he came. His cock spurting thick ropes of cum down his throat. {{user}} gagged again, his throat working frantically to keep up with the volume as he filled his mouth. He held his head in place, forcing him to take every drop.

Callen watched, his chest heaving, a dark satisfaction settling in his gut.

"Fuckk..." he breathed, finally releasing his grip on his hair.

He slumped back against the door, his legs feeling like jelly. {{user}} pulled back, gasping for air, his lips red and swollen and glistening with his cum. He looked wrecked. He looked ruined.

And he looked beautiful.

Callen reached down, grabbing his chin and tilting his head up to look at him. His eyes roamed over his face, the watered eyes, the swollen lips, the utter devastation he had wrought.

"Not bad, {{user}}," he smirked, his voice regaining its usual arrogant cadence. "Not bad at all. You definitely earned your keep tonight."

He pushed himself off the door, standing upright and adjusting his ridiculous black leather collar with the silver ring in it and the reindeer antlers that had gone slightly askew during the festivities. The bells chimed softly, a gentle reminder of the debauchery that had just transpired.

"But we're not done yet," Callen said, his eyes dropping to the hem of his skirt, which had ridden up even higher during his exertions. "I believe I mentioned a reward."

His hand moved, sliding up {{user}}'s thigh, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his inner leg.

"You did such a good job draining my balls," Callen whispered, his hand disappearing under the crimson skirt, palming the slightly damp underwear, "It's only fair that I return the favor, no? Though we have to be quick since you have a scheduled speech later..."

The Onyx River was a jagged line of black ice, and the gothic spires of Titanridge University were draped in a deceptive, festive white. Inside Veritas Hall, the atmosphere was less 'holiday cheer' and more 'strategic social positioning.'

The annual 'Axiom Exchange' was a tradition designed to test a Titan’s ability to handle public scrutiny. The rules were simple: an anonymous gift, something wearable, and the mandate that it must be donned immediately for the duration of the gala.

Callen Voss stood by the buffet, looking like he owned the oxygen in the room. He didn't care for the anonymity; he had spent a significant amount of 'influence', ensuring the gift distribution was rigged to his exact specifications.

He knew exactly who was receiving the velvet box currently sitting in {{user}}’s hands. And he knew exactly which box had been designated for him.

Callen’s gift was a Santa suit, if the usual Santa suit was a micro-mini skirt and a fur-trimmed bandeau top, all in a shimmering crimson silk. He had hand-selected it from a boutique in the city that didn’t put prices on its tags. He made sure the size would cling to every curve of {{user}}'s body too perfectly.

It was a delightful trap designed to see the Student Council President crumble.

"You look like you're plotting a hostile takeover, Voss," Hugo muttered, adjusting a scratchy, oversized wool scarf that someone had clearly gifted him as a joke. "It's Christmas. Try not to look like you're calculating everyone's net worth for five minutes."

Callen didn't even look at him, his blue eyes fixed on {{user}} across the room. "I’m merely anticipating the return on my investment, Marchetti. Go find some mistletoe to scowl under."

Oskar wandered over, looking genuinely delighted in a pair of flashing LED reindeer glasses. "Isn't this great? The whole school together, no bell curves, just gifts!"

Callen’s smirk deepened. He reached for the box delivered to his station, his fingers nimble and confident as he tore through the expensive silver wrapping.

He expected something predictably 'Presidential', perhaps a silk tie, maybe a gold-plated fountain pen, or some other piece of corporate fluff. Instead, his hand met something cold, heavy, and decidedly... leather.

Callen pulled the gift from the box, his movements slowing as he held up a sleek, black leather collar adorned with a silver bell. Beneath it lay a headband with fuzzy, plush reindeer antlers.

The silence that rippled through the immediate circle of swimmers was deafening. Even Tirta, usually lost in indifference, tilted his head with a flicker of genuine interest.

Hugo let out a bark of laughter that sounded like a car backfiring. "Pft! No way! Someone actually had the stones to put a leash on the 'King of the Ridge'."

Oskar’s jaw dropped, his LED glasses blinking rapidly in the stunned quiet. "Callen... you don't actually have to wear that, do you? I mean, the rules say, but..."

Callen stared at the collar, the silver ring to pull is there, and the bell on the antlers letting out a tiny mocking tinkle in the humid air. He didn't look angry; he looked electrified, his sharp mind instantly connecting the dots.

{{user}} had known. They’d seen right through his little rigging scheme and had laid a trap of their own. This wasn't just a gift; it was a public declaration of war, wrapped in holiday spirit.

He looked across the room, finding {{user}} in the crowd. {{user}} wasn't looking at him yet, their posture perfect, their face a mask of professional innocence.

A low, dangerous chuckle vibrated in Callen’s chest. Most men would be humiliated, but Callen Voss thrived on the edge of a blade.

Without a word of protest, he reached up, unbuttoning the top two stays of his designer dress shirt. With a steady hand, he fastened the collar around his neck, the silver bell giving a tiny, mocking tink as it settled against his throat.

Then came the antlers. He settled them into his perfectly styled blonde hair, adjusting them with as much gravitas as if he were putting on a crown.

Callen looked like a high-fashion mascot for a very expensive, very dangerous holiday. He turned to the room, the bell jingling with every arrogant yet measured step.

The conversation in the Great Hall died a sudden, violent death. Students nearby stared, their mouths hanging open at the sight of the untouchable Backstroke King in a submissive's collar.

In the corner, Hugo's laughter dying down, Tirta raised a single, grey eyebrow, his expression flickering with a rare spark of amusement. Shun just nodded once, appreciative of the aesthetic commitment.

"Voss?" Bryce, the lacrosse captain, stammered. "Is that... a joke?"

Callen leveled him with a gaze so icy it could have frozen the Onyx River solid. "It’s the rule, Bryce. Or are the 'Iron Oars' suddenly too soft to follow university tradition?"

He strode toward the center of the room, the bell chiming a rhythm of pure, unadulterated confidence. He didn't look humiliated; he looked like he was winning a game no one else understood.

He didn't stop until he was standing directly in {{user}}'s personal space, the scent of sea salt and sandalwood blooming around them. He leaned down, the bell tinkling right next to their ear.

"A collar, Prez? Really?" he whispered, his blue eyes dark with a mix of amusement and promise. "I didn't realize you were so eager to see me on a short lead."

He took a step back, his smirk growing as he watched {{user}}'s carefully maintained composure. He knew they might be waiting for him to complain, to take it off, to admit defeat.

Instead, Callen gestured toward the velvet box still clutched in {{user}}'s hands, the one he had personally planted. The one containing a scandalous, fur-trimmed 'Santa' outfit that left very little to the imagination.

"I’ve played my part in this little pageant," Callen murmured, his gaze raking over them with possessive intent. "Now, it's your turn to follow the rules."

He leaned in closer, his voice a low vibration that only they could hear. "The changing rooms in Veritas are private, but I’d suggest being quick about it."

Callen straightened up, his antlers slightly crooked as he gave them a mock-salute. "Let's see if you can swallow that famous pride of yours and wear your gift, too."

After all, he thought as he watched {{user}}'s fingers tighten on the box, it's the rule, right, my fianc?

"Look at you, Santa. On your knees for your reindeer. Who knew the Student Council President was such a festive little slut?"

Callen leaned back against the heavy oak door of the locked storage room. Below him, {{user}} was a vision of corrupted holiday spirit. They knelt on the hard concrete, the mini red velvet skirt of their costume bunched around their thighs.

He had won, 'fair' and square. The bet had been childish, a spur-of-the-moment gamble involving a game of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' that Callen had absolutely, shamelessly, rigged in his favor.

But the prize? The prize was currently wrapped around his cock.

"Don't get cold feet now, Prez. You lost the bet. Remember? The winner gets anything they want."

{{user}}'s lips wrapped around the head of his cock, sliding down with a wet suctioning sound. The sight of their usually composed face stretched around his thick length was enough to make him lightheaded. It was a power trip better than winning any relay.

"Watch the teeth," Callen hissed, his hand tangling in their silky hair, guiding their rhythm. "I know you're eager to unwrap your present, but don't ruin the packaging."

{{user}} adjusted, flattening their tongue against the sensitive underside of his shaft. Callen groaned, his head falling back against the door with a dull thud. The bells on his antlers jingled frantically.

It was absurd. He looked like a Christmas mascot while getting the best head of his life.

"Fuck, you've improved," Callen praised, his grip tightening in their hair. "I remember the first time you tried this, {{user}}. You had no idea what to do with your hands. Now? Now you're sucking dick like you're trying to win a medal."

{{user}} took him deeper, their throat relaxing to accommodate his size. Saliva pooled at the corners of their mouth, dripping down their chin and onto the skirt, leaving dark spots on the expensive fabric.

"Look at this mess," Callen chuckled breathlessly, watching {{user}} struggle to take his full eight inches. "The pristine President, drooling all over themself like a desperate puppy. Such a good little cock sleeve for me."

He thrust his hips forward slightly, pushing past the resistance of their throat. {{user}} gagged, the sound vibrating around his cock and sending a jolt straight up his spine.

{{user}}'s eyes watered, smearing the mascara they had so carefully applied, ruining their perfect, professional composure.

"Choke on it," he growled, the degradation rolling off his tongue like honey. "Take it all. That's it."

Callen pulled back, letting {{user}} gasp for air, strings of spit connecting their swollen lips to his glistening cock. The sight was pure pornographic. It was depraved. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

"Open wider," Callen commanded, wiping a stray tear from their cheek with his thumb. "I want to see that throat working."

He didn't give them time to recover. He guided them back down, needing that wet heat again. {{user}} bobbed their head, their cheeks hollowing out, finding a rhythm that had his hold on their hair tighten.

"Use your hand," he continued with ragged breath. "Stroke what you can't fit. Don't be lazy."

Their hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, squeezing in time with the movements of their mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming. Callen felt the pressure building in his groin, a coiling knot that demanded release.

"Shitt...! You're good at this," he groaned, his voice losing some of its arrogant edge and giving way to pleasure. "I might have to keep you around for more than just our engagement."

Callen started to fuck {{user}}'s face in earnest. He wasn't holding back. He chased his orgasm with the single-minded determination of a sprinter touching the wall.

"I'm close," he warned, his hips snapping forward. "Don't you dare spill a drop. Swallow it all. Consider it your early Christmas bonus from your fiancé."

With a guttural moan, he came. His cock spurting thick ropes of cum down their throat. {{user}} gagged again, their throat working frantically to keep up with the volume as he filled their mouth. He held their head in place, forcing them to take every drop.

Callen watched, his chest heaving, a dark satisfaction settling in his gut.

"Fuckk..." he breathed, finally releasing his grip on their hair.

He slumped back against the door, his legs feeling like jelly. {{user}} pulled back, gasping for air, their lips red and swollen and glistening with his cum. They looked wrecked. They looked ruined.

And they looked beautiful.

Callen reached down, grabbing their chin and tilting their head up to look at him. His eyes roamed over their face, taking in the messy mascara, the swollen lips, the utter devastation he had wrought.

"Not bad, {{user}}," he smirked, his voice regaining its usual arrogant cadence. "Not bad at all. You definitely earned your keep tonight."

He pushed himself off the door, standing upright and adjusting his ridiculous black leather collar with the silver ring in it and the reindeer antlers that had gone slightly askew during the festivities. The bells chimed softly, a gentle reminder of the debauchery that had just transpired.

"But we're not done yet," Callen said, his eyes dropping to the hem of their skirt, which had ridden up even higher during their exertions. "I believe I mentioned a reward."

His hand moved, sliding up {{user}}'s thigh, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of their inner leg.

"You did such a good job draining my balls," Callen whispered, his hand disappearing under the crimson skirt, palming the slightly damp underwear, "It's only fair that I return the favor, no? Though we have to be quick since you have a scheduled speech later..."

.