Chapter 14: damon's true self
The rhythm was tectonic. Each deep, grinding rotation of Rhys’s buried fist sent shockwaves through Damon’s core, reverberating up his spine and pooling in his groin as a bright, burning thrum. His untouched cock, standing rigid and leaking, was a testament to a neurological hijacking, a brutal clarity written in the taut flesh. He was going to come. It was an avalanche with no off-ramp. The pressure built not in gentle waves but in sharp, seismic spikes with every inward thrust of that gloved hand.
He could hear his own sounds—wet, slapping flesh, his ragged, sobbing pants, the low grunt of Rhys’s effort. The crowd was a silent, hungry void around them, drinking in the spectacle of his unraveling.
“He’s close,” Rhys announced, his voice strained but perfectly controlled. He could feel it, the internal fluttering, the convulsive tightening of a channel stretched beyond reason. “You see it in his eyes. That blankness. That’s not subspace. That’s system overload.”
Damon’s hips began to jerk in tiny, desperate circles, chasing the devastating pressure. The orgasm coiled in his balls, a tight, electric spring about to snap. He was saying it—a broken, silent mantra behind his clamped teeth. Now, now, now…
Just as the first detonating pulse gathered, just as his whole body tensed for the violent release, Rhys stopped.
Not slowed. Stopped.
His fist went deathly still, buried to the wrist inside Damon’s body. The sudden cessation of movement was more shocking than the penetration had been. The promised climax, wrenchingly imminent, slammed into a wall. A high, agonized whine, pure animal frustration, ripped from Damon’s throat.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Rhys tsked, his breath hot near Damon’s ear. “I didn’t say you could.”
With a sharp, clinical motion, he began to withdraw. It was not a slow, careful retreat. It was a deliberate, unyielding pull. The tight seal of Damon’s ravaged muscle fought the exiting bulk, creating a brutal, dragging friction. Damon screamed again, the sensation a backwards version of the entry, just as overwhelming.
Then came the sound.
A thick, wet, vacuum-pop as Rhys’s knuckles finally cleared the stretched rim. It echoed in the silent room, obscenely loud. A collective, muted gasp rose from the crowd.
Rhys stood back, holding his glistening, oil-slick fist aloft like a trophy. He nodded toward Damon’s splayed body. “Observe.”
Damon felt the cool air of the room whisper across his exposed hole, a sensation so intimate and violating it made him want to vomit. He knew what they were seeing. The gaping, pulsing ring of muscle, slack and well-used, unable to close. It fluttered openly, a dark, pink blossom against his pale skin. The humiliation was a cold bath, dousing the last embers of his resistance. He was laid bare, an open book written in ruined flesh.
“Beautiful,” someone murmured.
Rhys stripped off the filthy glove with a snap. He did not clean his arm. Instead, he placed his bare forearm along the edge of the padded table, his fist resting on the leather surface. His skin shone under the lights, slick with oil and Damon’s own internal sweat.
“Up,” Rhys commanded, his voice devoid of all warmth. “You’re not finished. Your orgasm belongs to me. You will take it. On your own.”
Damon’s mind fractured. The command was impossible, insane. Yet his body, thrumming with denied release, trembled with a need that overshadowed thought.
“The table. My arm. Ride it. Fuck yourself on it until you come. No hands. Just that greedy, filthy hole. Show everyone what you really are.”
The world did not just break then; it dissolved into a silent, screaming static. Every rule, every memory of who he had been, evaporated. There was only the aching void inside him and the object that could fill it. There was only the audience and their judgment. There was only Rhys, and his will.
With a shudder that wracked his entire frame, Damon moved.
He pushed himself up on trembling arms. He pivoted his body, his movements clumsy and graceless. He swung one leg, then the other, over Rhys’s waiting arm, positioning his ravaged entrance above the pronounced knuckles of his mentor’s clenched fist. He could feel the heat radiating off the skin. He hovered there for a second, a grotesque parody of a rider mounting a saddle, the audience holding its breath.
Then he let his weight drop.
A ragged, guttural cry was punched from his lungs as his body reclaimed the massive intrusion. It was smoother this time, his muscle memory accepting the familiar, brutal stretch with a wet, yielding slide. He was fully impaled, sitting on Rhys’s forearm, the man’s fist buried deep inside his gut.
“Move,” Rhys hissed, his own face a mask of intense concentration.
Damon’s true side, the side forged in these weeks of humiliation and retraining, took over completely. It was mechanical, desperate, and utterly obscene. He planted his feet on the table, braced his hands on his own knees, and began to fuck himself on the implanted arm.
He raised his hips, sliding up until just the tip of Rhys’s fist remained, his hole clinging desperately. Then he dropped back down, taking the full length in a deep, plunging fall. The sound was wet and loud, a rhythmic, squelching punctuation to his choked gasps.
Up. Down. Up. Down.
He was a machine of despair. Sweat flew from his brow. His cock bounced, hard and neglected, against his stomach. His vision blurred, focused only on the internal target, on finding the angle that would finally, finally grant him release. He fucked himself with a brutal, single-minded focus, his body used as a sleeve for Rhys’s arm.
“Look at him go,” a woman’s voice said, dripping with awe and disdain.
“Like a bitch in heat on a fencepost,” another answered.
The words washed over him, meaningless. There was only the plunge and retreat, the filling and emptying, the relentless friction against his screaming prostate. The orgasm, so cruelly denied, rebuilt itself swiftly, a tsunami gathering force from the very waves that denied it.
His rhythm became frantic, erratically pounding himself down onto the solid flesh. His sounds lost all language, becoming primitive grunts and keening wails. He was nothing. He was a hole, fucking itself on a master’s arm for the entertainment of strangers, and it was the most true, most honest thing he had ever been.
“That’s it,” Rhys goaded, his arm rigid, letting Damon use him absolutely. “Show them. Show them all the desperate, cock-hungry slut you are. Milk my arm like it’s the last fuck you’ll ever get.”
The final coil snapped.
Damon’s body locked, his back arching in a violent bow. A sound tore from him that was neither scream nor sob but a raw, uninterrupted note of utter surrender. His spilled release was ridiculous—a pathetic, weak spurting that striped his own chest and stomach in thin, transparent ropes. It wasn't the powerful jets from his past; it was the spent, mechanical output of a broken system, dribbling from his tip as his ass convulsed in frantic, milking pulses around the deep-invading arm.
He collapsed forward, his forehead hitting his own knees, his body still shuddering through the feeble aftermath. He stayed there, speared, panting, covered in the evidence of his own spectacular ruin.
Rhys let him hang there for a long moment, letting the image sear into every onlooker's mind. Then, slowly, he withdrew his arm. This time, there was no pop, just a soft, slick sigh as Damon’s ruined muscle offered no resistance at all.
Damon slumped to the side on the table, a boneless heap. Rhys looked at the chalkboard. Under ORGASM SOURCE, below Solitary Fisting, Julian had already written the final line.
Self-Penetration (Arm Riding).
The chapter of his redesign was complete.