Chapter 11: The Aftermath of Possession
The triple connection held them in a brutal equilibrium. Dmitri leaned forward, his chest slick against Andrei’s back, one hand sliding around to roughly pinch Andrei’s flat, dark nipple between thumb and forefinger. "Fuck," Andrei hissed, his massive frame shuddering, the vibration transmitting through Josh’s body like an electric shock. "Harder, Dimka. Twist it." Dmitri obliged, his teeth sinking into the muscle of Andrei’s shoulder as he twisted the nub viciously. Andrei’s answering groan was pure pleasure-pain.
Simultaneously, Andrei’s own thick fingers found Josh’s hairy chest. He pinched a stiff nipple, rolling it cruelly, the sudden sharp agony piercing the haze of Josh’s pleasure. Josh screamed, the sound muffled and distorted by Dmitri’s cock filling his mouth to the root. The dual assault on his nipples, combined with the relentless pistoning of Andrei’s monstrous cock deep into his guts and Dmitri’s own forceful thrusts behind Andrei, shattered Josh’s control. His cock, trapped and ignored against his own stomach, pulsed violently. Thick ropes of cum erupted, splattering hot streaks across the polished mahogany desk, his abs, his chin. His asshole clenched like a vise around Andrei’s invading shaft, rhythmically spasming in the throes of orgasm.
"FUCK! YEAH!" Andrei roared, feeling Josh’s desperate internal contractions milk him. The intense pressure on his cock was too much. He slammed home, burying himself impossibly deep, and roared again as his own release flooded Josh’s churned passage. Thick, heavy spurts pumped deep, adding to the mess Dmitri had already left. The force of Andrei’s climax shook the entire chain of bodies linked together.
Dmitri felt it all. He felt the violent pulse of Andrei’s cock through the man’s body pressed against his own. He felt Josh’s ass squeezing around Andrei’s shaft. He saw the raw, primal ecstasy on Andrei’s face inches from his own. His own control evaporated. With a guttural cry torn from deep in his chest, Dmitri thrust one final time, hard and deep into Andrei’s heat, and emptied himself. Hot cum pumped into Andrei, pulsing in time with the aftershocks rocking them all. He collapsed forward, his forehead resting on Andrei’s sweat-slicked shoulder, panting like a bellows.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by harsh, ragged breathing and the wet drip of fluids onto the rug beneath the desk. The heavy scent of sweat, sex, and cum hung in the leather-and-paper scented air. They stayed locked together for long moments, a tangle of trembling limbs and overheated skin, utterly spent.
Dmitri was the first to move, pulling out of Andrei with a wet sigh. He staggered slightly, bracing himself on the desk. His grey eyes, usually so cool and distant, were soft, almost dazed. Without a word, he dropped to his knees behind Josh, who still lay bent over, dripping cum onto the wood. Dmitri buried his face directly between Josh’s gaping cheeks, his tongue lashing out with surprising tenderness. He lapped at the swollen, puffy rim, then speared deep inside the well-used hole, slurping messily at the combined fluids leaking out – his own seed, Andrei’s, Josh’s slick. "Christ," he murmured against Josh’s skin, the sound vibrating deliciously. "You taste… fucking perfect. Full." He ate with a focused hunger, cleaning Josh thoroughly, his tongue probing every sensitive fold.
Josh moaned weakly, the sensation of Dmitri’s tongue inside him a strange, intimate afterglow. He lifted his head, still lightheaded. Andrei had turned, leaning back against the desk edge, his monstrous cock slick and softening. His dark eyes watched Dmitri work, a possessive satisfaction in their depths. He spread his legs slightly. "Come here, whore," he rumbled at Josh, his voice hoarse but commanding. "Clean that mess Dimka left in my ass."
Josh crawled forward on shaky arms, the wood cool against his knees. He positioned himself between Andrei’s thick thighs, the potent musk of the man’s groin filling his nostrils. He pressed his face against Andrei’s hairy ass, licking firmly up the crease to the tight, used hole. It tasted of salt, musk, and Dmitri’s cum – a dark, complex flavor that sent a residual shiver through him. He pressed his tongue flat against the pucker, then pushed it inside, lapping at the remnants clinging to the inner ring. He sucked gently, drawing the salty-sweet mixture out. Andrei sighed, a low rumble of pleasure, his hand coming down to roughly tousle Josh’s sweaty blonde hair. "Good cunt," he grunted.
While Josh worked on Andrei, Dmitri stood. He moved around to face them, his own softening cock still glistening. Without prompting, Andrei reached out, took Dmitri’s cock in his big hand, and guided it towards his mouth. He engulfed the head, sucking gently but thoroughly, cleaning the shaft of Josh’s spit and the last traces of his own cum. It was slow, methodical, almost tender. Dmitri watched him, an expression of stunned wonder on his face, his hand resting lightly on Andrei’s shoulder.
They cleaned each other in silence, a strange, sticky communion in the aftermath. Josh finished licking Andrei clean and sat back on his heels, utterly exhausted, body trembling, every muscle protesting. Dmitri pulled his cock gently from Andrei’s mouth, now clean. He looked down at Josh, then at Andrei. A slow, genuine smile spread across Dmitri’s face, warm and relaxed, utterly unlike his usual reserved expression. He actually chuckled, a low, soft sound.
"Jesus. Time," Dmitri said, his voice still rough but lacking its earlier tension. He glanced towards the large, ornate mirror on the wall, catching their disheveled reflections – three men, sweat-streaked, marked, utterly debauched. He looked back at the antique clock on the mantelpiece. "Fuck. Eight o'clock."
Andrei grunted, pushing himself upright. His movements were heavy, tired. "Shit. Yeah." He looked down at Josh. "Alright, muscle pup. Show’s over. Time you got home." His tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact, the possessiveness now laced with a hint of exhaustion. "Go rinse off in the guest bath. Towels are there." He gestured vaguely towards a door off the study.
Josh stumbled to his feet, legs feeling like rubber. He gathered his sweatpants and t-shirt, avoiding looking at the mirror. The guest bathroom was opulent marble. The cold water felt like a shock, sluicing away sweat, spit, and the thick layers of cum clinging to his skin and hair. He scrubbed roughly, the events of the past hours crashing over him in waves of surreal exhaustion. He dressed in his damp, slightly stained clothes, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror.
When he emerged, Dmitri and Andrei were also dressed in fresh, casual clothes – dark trousers and t-shirts that strained over their powerful frames. The tension between them was gone, replaced by a quiet, shared exhaustion. Dmitri clapped Andrei on the shoulder. "I'll drive him," he offered, his voice warmer than Josh had ever heard it. "You look dead on your feet."
"Fuck off, I'm fine," Andrei grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He tossed Dmitri a set of keys. "Don't wreck the Aston."
The penthouse elevator descended in silence. The sleek, black Aston Martin Vantage purred to life, cutting through the city's evening glow. Dmitri drove with focused ease, the earlier ferocity replaced by a quiet calm. He glanced over at Josh, slumped in the passenger seat. "Alright?" he asked, the single word surprisingly gentle.
Josh managed a nod, his throat raw. "Yeah. Just… wiped."
A faint smile touched Dmitri's lips. "Understandable." He didn't say more, but the silence wasn't oppressive. It felt… companionable. Different. He pulled up smoothly outside Josh's apartment building. "Get some rest," Dmitri said, his grey eyes meeting Josh's. There was no mockery, no cool distance. Just a look of shared understanding, a flicker of something almost like respect. "Andrei… he doesn't let just anyone in. Not like that." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Josh mumbled a thanks, fumbling with the door handle. The Aston Martin pulled away silently into the night. The familiar hallway of his building felt alien. Inside his small apartment, the silence was deafening. He stripped again, the smell of his own skin still faintly mingled with leather, sweat, and sex. The shower spray, hotter this time, felt like a baptism, scouring the physical residue away but leaving the deep, trembling exhaustion in his bones.
Wrapped in a towel, he dug out the small, vacuum-sealed bag of potent new strain weed Marco had given him. He packed a small bowl in his glass pipe, lit it, and inhaled deeply. The thick, skunky smoke burned his throat, then spread a warm, heavy blanket over his frayed nerves. The sharp edges of the day blurred. The pounding in his head softened to a dull throb. He stumbled to his unmade bed, collapsing face down onto the cool sheets.
He was out before the pipe hit the nightstand. The deep, dreamless sleep claimed him instantly, pulling him under the weight of spent muscles, chemical haze, and the profound, unsettling shift in the world he thought he knew. The scent of Dmitri’s unexpected warmth lingered in his fading consciousness, a confusing counterpoint to the raw animality of the hours before. Oblivion swallowed him whole.
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, warm seepage. Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, sliced through a gap in the blinds, painting a stripe across Josh’s closed eyelids. He groaned, rolling onto his back, the movement pulling at muscles still tender from the previous night’s exertion. A familiar, insistent pressure pulsed against his thigh. He glanced down. His cock stood rigid against his stomach, flushed dark, the head slick and gleaming with a thick bead of precum already welling at the slit. "Fuck," he muttered with delight, voice thick with sleep. He wrapped a rough, calloused hand around the shaft, giving it a slow, possessive stroke. The precum smeared easily. He lifted his fingers to his lips, tasting the familiar salty-sweet tang. "Morning, soldier."
Work loomed. Discipline kicked in, overriding the immediate urge to rut into his fist. He swung his legs out of bed, the cool wood floor shocking his bare feet. First, the routine. The "ass cleaner" shake – a utilitarian concoction of psyllium husk, activated charcoal, and electrolytes – went down with a grimace and a large glass of water. He settled onto the worn yoga mat in the corner of his bedroom. Twenty minutes of meditation, focusing on breath, pushing the lingering phantom sensations of Dmitri’s tongue and Andrei’s brutal grip from his mind. Then stretching: deep lunges that pulled at his hamstrings, spinal twists that elicited satisfying pops, shoulder openers that eased the residual ache. Finally, the contortion. He sat on the edge of his leather armchair, knees together, feet planted flat. He rounded his spine, collapsing his top half forward, allowing his spine to rest in a deep convex. His hands snaked under his thighs to grip together where they met, angling his head further down towards his engorged, wet cock. It was a process he was still developing, his muscles protested, breath coming in a short, controlled rhythm. He managed to press the swollen, leaking head against his lips. Just the tip. He opened wide, sucking the bulbous crown into his mouth, smiling in delight at the progress he was making. One day he hoped to give himself a real blowjob.
His tongue flicked urgently against the sensitive underside, lapping at the slit where more precum seeped. He worked it furiously, saliva pooling and cascading down the shaft, slicking his balls and dripping through to his hands, where they gripped underneath him. He kissed the head, licked it like a lollipop, sucked hard, trying to force more of himself in. Impossible. For now. His jaw worked, the saliva feeling thick and sensual on his meat. He focused solely on the engorged head trapped in the wet heat of his mouth, the frantic flicking of his tongue. The pressure built fast, a tight coil low in his belly. He grunted around his own flesh. He sucked harder, tongue jabbing the slit. The orgasm poured through and out of him, momentarily intense. Thick jets of cum erupted from his cock, splattering hot in his mouth, thick and salty. He gobbled and licked, letting the fluids escape his mouth to run down his cock, using his tongue to try and recapture them. He gasped, shuddering, hips jerking weakly.
He stayed there panting, covered in his own release, the taste sharp on his tongue. Slowly, he uncurled his spine. He scooped the cooling mess from his lips and chin with two fingers, examining the viscous white strands before pushing them into his mouth, sucking them clean. He swallowed. Another scoop from his cock, another swallow, another from his balls, another swallow, until it was mostly clear. He licked his lips. He toileted, cleaning out nicely. The shower was scalding, washing away the sweat, the dried cum, the lingering musk of the previous night and his own morning exertion and ensuring his hole was ready for anything the day may, or may not, bring. Towelling off, he felt scrubbed raw, present.
The kitchen smelled of sizzling fat. Eggs scrambled with sausage crumbles, crispy bacon strips, sautéed mushrooms, slices of creamy avocado piled onto two pieces of wholewheat toast. A bowl of mixed berries – strawberries, blueberries, raspberries – glistened beside it. A large mugs of strong black coffee steamed on the counter. He'd have two today. He liked to really fuel his body after his sessions at Vlad's, and before a busy day. He ate methodically, the rich flavours grounding him. The lingering phantom aches faded beneath the satisfying fullness.
He checked himself in the mirror before he left. The light blue button down and navy tapered slacks blending well with his deep brown polished boots. A matching brown belt, a small wooden lapis lazuli ring on his left little finger. His stomach was a little rounder after breakfast, but he rather vainly enjoyed his reflection. The temptation to unbutton his shirt and start twisting his nipples was strong, but he could control himself.
The sleek, minimalist lines of his downtown office felt sterile after the apartment's leather-and-musk comfort. He settled behind his desk, reviewing files. First appointment: Luca Rossi. The door opened precisely at ten. Luca filled the doorway – broad shoulders stretching a fitted navy Henley, thick dark hair swept back, olive skin smooth over defined jawline and powerful forearms. He moved with the easy grace of someone who lived in the gym. "Morning, Josh," Luca said, his voice a warm baritone with a faint Italian lilt. He settled into the client chair opposite, radiating contained energy. "Morning, Luca. How was the week?" Josh asked, keeping his tone professional, neutral. He remembered the initial hypnosis probe months ago, searching for subconscious blocks to Luca's commitment phobia. Nothing. Just deep-seated anxiety wrapped around vulnerability, completely devoid of any latent sexual fixation Josh could turn his specific skills to. A shame. Luca was objectively stunning. But Josh’s power required a hook, a hidden thread of desire he could pull. Luca didn't have one Josh could ethically exploit. Not how I work, Josh reminded himself, focusing on Luca’s recounting of another failed attempt at exclusivity. They worked into his deeper subconscious and Luca left feeling positive.
Mrs. Kimora arrived next, a transformed woman radiating confidence. Three months of Josh’s hypnosis-augmented weight loss protocol had reshaped her body and mindset. She beamed. "Josh, I cannot thank you enough! That dress I bought for my anniversary? It zipped!" Her genuine joy was infectious. Then her expression turned earnest. "This is my son, Hiro. Hiro, this is Dr. Carter." The young man stood in the office, dressed in a button-down shirt, a tweed vest, and a burgundy bow tie that hinted at a playful side beneath his serious demeanour. His glasses framed a studious face, and he carried a leather satchel over his shoulder, a projection of organisation and seriousness. His hand was casually tucked into his pocket, conveying a sense of quiet confidence. He offered a firm handshake. "Dr. Carter. An honour. My mother speaks very highly of your methods." His gaze was direct, assessing. "As you know she’s hoping I might intern with you. Learn from the best." Josh met Hiro’s gaze, sensing a quick, analytical mind behind the polite deference. "Pleasure to meet you, Hiro," Josh said, shaking his hand. "Yes, we have discussed it. But internship does require a mutual fit. Why don’t we schedule a proper meeting? Say…" He glanced at his calendar. "...this afternoon? Four o'clock?" Hiro nodded, a small, professional smile touching his lips. "Perfect. I’ll be here."
The door clicked shut behind Hiro and Mrs. Kimora took her seat. She was concerned her old eating habits were beginning to return. Josh reassured her they would work on that today. After the session was over, Josh leaned back, the leather chair sighing. Luca’s frustrated energy still lingered faintly in the room. Hiro’s sharp, observant presence promised something different. He checked the time. Just past noon. He had reports to finish, calls to make. Routine reasserted itself. The door to the waiting room opened softly. Josh looked up, expecting his receptionist. Hiro Kimora stood framed in the doorway, his expression calm, holding a simple cardboard folder. "Dr. Carter? Apologies, I know our meeting isn't until four," Hiro began, his voice measured. "But I took the liberty of preparing a preliminary case analysis based on the publicly available testimonials and your published methodology abstracts." He stepped fully into the office, placing the folder neatly on the edge of Josh’s desk. "I wanted to demonstrate initiative. I am very skeptical, but my mother is testament to your work. And no other area in my field has given me the slightest interest." Josh nodded, smiled, and Hiro left.
Josh watched Hiro’s retreating back, the crisp line of the tweed vest disappearing through the door. The folder sat like a challenge on his desk edge. Prepared. Ambitious. Interesting. He flipped it open, scanning the first page. Hiro’s analysis was sharp, almost clinically dissecting Josh’s public claims against observed outcomes. Skepticism indeed radiated from the precise bullet points. Good. Skeptic meant open-minded, malleable maybe, given the right leverage. He closed the folder, setting it aside. Reports first.
The afternoon dissolved into the familiar rhythm of case notes and billing summaries. Names scrolled past: Mrs. Kimora’s progress (reinforced appetite control triggers stable), Luca Rossi’s commitment anxieties (subconscious resistance still high, no exploitable sexual thread found). He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He was always horny. He used to try to push it away. Ignore it. But acceptance had been the key. Lean into who you are, Josh, his mentor had told him, and find your Circle. His mind wandered to Mr Athanasiou, his landlord. His next scheduled encounter. Age. His lips twitched in anticipation. And he realised it was time to prepare. He went to the bathroom and relieved himself, lightly douching to ensure everything was in perfect order, knowing he wouldn't have to rush around later.
He sat back at his desk, the Circle solidifying in his mind. His mentor’s teachings whispered: The Circle completes the circuit. Four quadrants, three anchors in each, a closed system amplifying your power, reflecting your own needs. For Josh, it was a map of control, a way to channel his own complex hungers.
Anonymity: Marco, the intellectual pretender, a "Pro Bro" mindset, his own masculinity all that mattered. He believed he was paying for "Four Pillar Training: Strength, Courage, Mastery and Honour". Brad, the hedge fund manager whose "121NSS" coaching training (one to one no sissy shit) in fact involved him begging Josh for permission to cum. And one slot open. Men who paid him, trusted him, and had no conscious idea it was even happening. He was rewriting their deepest desires, with their full consent, believing the rouse imprinted in their deep subconsciousness, turning their bodies into his private playgrounds. The hidden foundation.
Brutality: Vlad (with his dungeon and his whips), Andrei (the penthouse, the sheer physical dominance), and now Dmitri (whose quiet intensity had shifted, warmed, but still held that core of dangerous strength). They pushed him, tested his limits physically and mentally, made him feel the raw power he wielded and craved in return. They knew the game, embraced the violence of it. His crucible.
Youth: Mark, a sweet 19 year old computer nerd whose mother had sent him to Josh over worries about his socialisation. Josh helped him to accept his deepest desires and was his regular Saturday appointment. Two empty spaces. Potential. Vulnerability. The thrill of shaping raw material, coaxing blossoming desire onto a path he designed. His garden.
Age: two of the three here. Mr Athanasiou. Tonight. The prospect sent a different kind of thrum through Josh. Older men. Experience. A different kind of power dynamic. Not just fucking, but learning. Absorbing. Considering. Reminding them their fire still burned, could be stoked… by him. Mentorship twisted into possession. Wisdom consumed. Ken, his new patient, was very likely to be the second anchor here. His final quadrant still had one space.
The circuit was incomplete. But it was a part of his work that needed time and attention. It couldn't be rushed. His gaze drifted to the clock: 3:55 PM. Time for Hiro.