Chapter 3: Lewis' pathetic demonstration
The barbell slammed onto the floor with a deafening crash that echoed through the weight room. Lewis stumbled back, his body slick with a cold, sick sweat. He gasped for air, but his lungs felt flattened. Mike’s hands were still on him—one lightly on his hip now, the other resting possessively on the back of his neck. The touch was a brand.
“Good rep,” Mike said, his voice cheerful, normal, as if he hadn’t just squeezed Lewis’s nipple and fingered the seam of his ass during a max lift. He gave Lewis’s neck a friendly squeeze and walked away, whistling, heading toward the water fountain.
Lewis stood trembling, his vision tunneling. He could still feel the ghost of those hands. The weight room buzzed around him—normal sounds of clanging metal, grunts of effort, chatter. No one was staring. No one had seen anything wrong. It was just a spot. Just guys being guys in the gym. The utter normality of the scene was more devastating than any accusation.
Damian lowered his phone. He didn’t stop recording. He simply shifted his grip and walked toward Lewis, his steps measured. He stopped close, too close for a normal conversation, his voice a low, intimate murmur meant only for Lewis’s ringing ears.
“You’re shaking,” Damian observed, his eyes scanning Lewis’s pale face, the sheen on his chest where the tank top clung. “Adrenaline dump. You need to keep the blood moving. You can’t just stop cold.”
Lewis managed a ragged breath. He wanted to run. To vomit. To put on a hoodie and disappear. He nodded, a jerky, mechanical motion.
“Squats,” Damian said. It wasn’t a suggestion. “Empty bar. High reps. Pump the legs. Flush it out.” He paused, his gaze flicking down to Lewis’s shorts, where the traitorous thickening was unmistakable. “And explain the form to me. Out loud. I want to understand the mechanics.”
The command slithered into Lewis’s battered mind, a perverse lifeline of structure. An order. A task. Something to focus on besides the humiliating throb between his legs and the memory of violating hands. He nodded again, his throat too tight for words.
He moved on unsteady legs to the squat rack, Damian following a few steps behind, the phone’s lens a unblinking black eye. Lewis mechanically slid the forty-five-pound barbell onto his shoulders, the cool steel a familiar anchor. He stepped back, settling into the rack’s open space, his feet at shoulder width.
He opened his mouth. His voice emerged, thin and strained, but clear. “Squats. Start with your stance.” He descended into the hole, the movement pure muscle memory. “Feet should be just outside your hips. Toes slightly pointed out.”
As he reached the bottom of the squat, his thighs parallel to the floor, Mike reappeared. He didn’t say a word. He just stepped up behind Lewis again, his presence a dark heat. Lewis flinched, almost losing balance, but Mike’s hands settled on his hips, steadying him. Then they began to move.
Mike’s thumbs hooked into the thin waistband of the running shorts, pulling them down just an inch, exposing the very top of Lewis’s ass cleft. His other hands came around the front, his palms flattening against Lewis’s lower abdomen.
Lewis’s breath hitched. He drove upward, finishing the rep, his explanation becoming a desperate, panting chant. “C-chest up. Keep the spine neutral. Drive through your heels.”
He descended again. Mike’s fingers on his stomach slid upward, pushing the damp, sheer tank top up with them. The cool air hit Lewis’s sweat-slicked skin. Then Mike’s hands found his nipples. He didn’t just touch them. He took the hard, pebbled nubs between his thumbs and forefingers and began to roll them, slowly, insistently.
“F-fuck,” Lewis gasped, the word slipping out. He shoved upward, his legs burning.
“Keep explaining,” Damian’s voice cut in, calm from behind the phone. “The movement. The muscles.”
Lewis squeezed his eyes shut, then forced them open. He started another squat. The barbell felt like a mountain. Mike twisted his nipples, a sharp, bright pain that melted instantly into a shocking wire of pleasure that shot straight to his groin.
“The… the primary movers are the q-quadriceps,” Lewis stammered, his voice cracking. He was descending, Mike’s hands working him, rolling, pinching, tugging. “And the glutes. Hamstrings are synergists.”
He was hard now. Fully, achingly hard. His cock, thick and heavy, strained against the confines of the tiny black shorts. It was trapped, bent upward along his stomach, the swollen head creating a blatant tent in the stretchy fabric. With each agonizing descent into the squat, the hem of the shorts rode up, and the swollen, flushed tip of his cock peeked out, revealed for a second before being covered again by the rising nylon.
“Breathe in on the descent,” Lewis choked out, rising again, his face a mask of torment. “Exhale on the exertion. On the way up.”
“Again,” Damian ordered softly. “One more. A slow one. Really explain the hip hinge.”
Lewis wanted to die. He wanted to cum. The two desires were a twisted helix in his gut. He nodded, sweat dripping from his nose. He began the slow, controlled descent. Mike leaned in, his breath hot on Lewis’s ear. He plucked and pulled at both nipples relentlessly, the sharp tugs syncing with the throbbing in Lewis’s cock.
“The h-hip hinge,” Lewis whispered, his vision blurring. He was at the bottom now, Mike’s fingers pinching so hard it was almost cruel. “You’re not just bending your knees. You’re pushing your hips back. As if you’re… as if you’re trying to sit in a chair that’s too far behind you.”
The explanation was pathetic, a broken recitation from a freshman kinesiology textbook, delivered while he was being publicly molested. He felt like a hundred eyes were watching him, all funneled through that single, unblinking camera lens. Damian was capturing every wince, every helpless twitch of his stomach muscles, every time the angry red tip of his cock poked into view over the shorts’ hem. He was putting on a show. An instructional video from hell.
He drove up, his legs trembling violently, a low, continuous moan escaping his lips with the exertion. Mike finally let go of his tortured nipples, giving them a final, dismissive flick. Lewis finished the rep and staggered forward, re-racking the bar with a clang that felt like a gunshot in his soul.
He stood there, braced against the rack, head hanging, his body on fire. His nipples were raw and hypersensitive, buzzing with pain and sensation. His cock was a rigid, leaking rod trapped in his shorts, the tip now openly visible, glistening with pre-cum that had soaked through the thin black nylon. He was panting, utterly exposed, completely owned.
Damian finally stopped recording. The silence from his direction was heavier than any noise. He slid the phone into his pocket.
“Good,” he said, the word a bland evaluation.
“Good,” he said, the word a bland evaluation.
Lewis’s knees finally buckled. He didn’t collapse so much as deliberately lower himself, sliding down the squat rack’s cold steel post until his ass hit the polished concrete floor. He sat there, legs splayed, back against the metal, chest heaving. The tiny shorts were a soaked, obscene wedge. Mike stood over him, wiping his hands on his own thighs as if they were dirty.
With a grotesque effort, Lewis tilted his head back. His eyes were glassy, far away. A thread of spit connected his lower lip to his chest. “Thanks, Mike,” he rasped, his voice utterly drained. “For the… for the spot. Really helped my form.” He said it with the vacant sincerity of someone thanking a teammate for a handed water bottle.
Mike froze. His eyebrows shot up. He looked from Lewis’s broken form on the floor to Damian, who was watching with a detached, scientific curiosity. Mike’s mouth opened, then closed. He’d gone along with the weird vibe, sure, but this gratitude for his molestation was a bridge too far even for the hazy, unthinking logic of the gym.
“See?” Damian said to Mike, his voice low and conversational. He didn’t smile. He stated a fact. “I told you. He’s mine now.”
He pulled his phone back out, his thumbs moving swiftly over the screen. He navigated to his social media account, a private channel with a select, like-minded following he’d been cultivating. He uploaded the video file. The title he typed was precise, deliberate: ‘HOW TO LIFT THE WEIGHT BY MY PET.’
He hit post.
The response was instantaneous. Notifications began to pop up, one after another. Damian scrolled, a slow smile finally touching his lips. The comments were a cascade of arousal and admiration.
‘Fuck, your pet is gorgeous. That form tho.’
‘Look at that pathetic cock trying to get hard while he works. So fucking hot.’
‘The way his nipple got all hard when your friend touched it… wish I was spotting him.’
‘Good owner. Training him right in public.’
No one questioned it. No one expressed outrage or confusion. The consensus was universal: this was a hot video of a fit guy and his dedicated owner. The context—the violation, the clear distress on Lewis’s face—was either invisible or reinterpreted as passionate focus. Damian felt the realization settle in his gut, cold and immense. His will didn’t just bend Lewis. It bent the world’s perception of what he made Lewis do. He was crafting a new common sense, one where his ownership was natural, admired.
He put the phone away and stepped over to Lewis. “Get up. We’re going back to the room.” His tone left no room for the floor, for rest, for recovery.
Lewis obeyed, pushing himself up on trembling arms. He shuffled behind Damian, a docile shadow in his transparent tank and ruined shorts. The walk across campus was a blur of sidelong glances that Lewis no longer registered. Every part of him felt raw and used, his mind cushioned in a thick fog of compliance.
Their dorm room door clicked shut, sealing them in silent, familiar space. The pile of his jeans and henley still lay by the door where he’d dropped them a lifetime ago that morning.
“The clothes,” Damian said, not even looking back as he walked to his desk.
“The clothes,” Damian said, not even looking back as he walked to his desk. “They’re disgusting. Sweat through. You’re getting the floor all dirty.”
Lewis looked down at himself. The white tank was plastered to his torso, translucent and stuck to his skin with cold sweat. The black shorts were damp and clung to every contour. He saw the vague, dark smear of pre-cum still visible on the fabric. Damian’s words weren’t a command. They were an observation, a statement of fact that resonated with a deep, ingrained sense of order Lewis possessed. You don’t track filth into a clean space.
“Right,” Lewis muttered, his voice hollow.
He grabbed the hem of the tank and pulled it up. The wet cotton peeled away from his skin with a soft, sucking sound. He tossed it toward the laundry hamper in the corner, missing. It landed in a damp heap on the floor. He stood there then, shirtless in the middle of the room, his chest rising and fallings slowly. The air was cool on his bare skin, raising goosebumps over his pectorals and the defined ridges of his abdomen. His nipples, still sore and sensitive from Mike’s pinching, tightened instantly.
Damian swiveled in his desk chair, watching. He let the silence stretch, let Lewis stand in the center of the room like a statue awaiting further instruction. His eyes traveled over Lewis’s torso, down to the shorts.
“Those too,” Damian said finally, his tone casual, conversational. He gestured vaguely with his hand. “I mean, think about it. They’re just in the way in here. You already jerked off in front of me right here in this room. I’ve seen your dick. I’ve seen you cum.” He shrugged, as if discussing the logic of removing a jacket. “There’s nothing to hide in this space anymore. The shorts are pointless. They’re just fabric for no reason.”
Lewis blinked. He looked down at the shorts, his mind working slowly, tiredly. The logic was pristine. It clicked into place with an almost audible snap. Damian was right. Why was he wearing them? To hide his cock? But Damian had already held his gaze while he stroked it, had watched him ejaculate onto the floorboards. The evidence was probably still in the grain of the wood. The shorts were a lie. A useless formality.
“Yeah,” Lewis breathed out, the word a sigh of surrender to simple reason. “No point.”
He hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of the tiny running shorts and pushed them down his legs. They slid over his hips, past his thighs, revealing the thatch of dark pubic hair, his heavy balls, and his cock, which was soft now, spent and resting against his leg. He stepped out of the pooled fabric and kicked it lightly toward the hamper. It joined the tank top on the floor.
He was completely naked. He didn’t cross his arms or try to cover himself. He just stood still, exposed in the ordinary dorm room light, his body a map of exhaustion and defined muscle. It felt correct. It felt honest. In this room, with Damian, clothes were an unnecessary complication.
“Better,” Damian said, his voice soft. He didn’t smile. He just studied Lewis, his gaze proprietary and satisfied. “That’s how you should be in here. It’s simpler.”
Lewis remained standing, a statue of exhaustion in the center of the room. The adrenaline from the gym had dissolved, leaving behind a deep, bone-aching fatigue. Every muscle fiber screamed from the heavy lifts, but it was the psychological whiplash that left him feeling hollowed out. He looked at Damian, who was just watching from his chair, and a wave of confused dependency washed over him.
“Thank you,” Lewis said, the words raw and utterly sincere. He ran a hand through his damp hair, his expression one of bewildered relief. “For getting me through that. For… for handling it. I don’t think I could have walked out of there without you. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
Damian’s lips curved into a thin, satisfied smirk. The gratitude was better than obedience; it was devotion, willingly offered. He let the moment hang, letting Lewis sit in the profound vulnerability of his own thanks.
“You’re all knotted up,” Damian observed, his voice dropping into a soothing, practical register. He stood and walked over to Lewis’s bed, pulling back the plain blue comforter. “Lie down. On your back. I’ll help. You need the muscles relaxed or you’ll seize up before practice tomorrow.”
“God, yes. Thank you,” Lewis breathed, the gratitude even more fervent now. The offer of care, of relief, was an irresistible lifeline. Without a second’s hesitation, he moved to the bed and laid down on his back against the cool sheets. He made no move to cover himself. His body was a sprawl of taut lines and weary flesh, his cock resting semi-hard against his thigh, a thick five inches of softening weight.
Damian sat on the edge of the bed beside him. He squeezed a dollop of Lewis’s own unscented lotion from the bottle on the nightstand into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it. He started at Lewis’s right arm, his hands firm and knowing. He worked up from the wrist, kneading the dense forearm, the formidable bicep, the deltoid. His touch was clinical at first, purposeful, digging into the stubborn tension.
Lewis let out a long, shuddering sigh. His eyes fluttered closed. The pain of the deep pressure quickly melted into a radiant warmth that spread through his limb. It was the first purely physical kindness he’d felt in hours, and his body, starved for it, sang in response. “Shit, that’s… that’s really good,” he mumbled, his voice slurry.
“Just breathe into it,” Damian murmured, his voice a low hum.
He moved to Lewis’s abdomen, his slick palms sliding over the defined landscape. He worked in slow, clockwise circles around his navel, then used his thumbs to press deep into the hard ridges of Lewis’s rectus abdominis. Each firm stroke drew another low, pleasure-filled sound from Lewis’s throat. His hips shifted slightly, a minute, unconscious undulation against the sheets.
Damian’s hands journeyed lower, skirting the hip bone. They moved to Lewis’s thick, powerful thighs. He kneaded the quadriceps, then drifted inward. His fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of Lewis’s inner thigh, so close to his groin that the heat was palpable.
A full-body tremor ran through Lewis. His semi-hard cock twitched, then began a steady, inevitable fill. The tender, intimate touch on his overworked muscles, so near his most private areas, short-circuited his fatigue. Blood rushed south, thickening him, lengthening him against his stomach. A pearly bead of pre-cum welled from his slit and clung there, glistening.
Damian’s hand stilled, his fingers resting high on Lewis’s inner thigh. He looked from the leaking cockhead to Lewis’s face, which was turned away, eyes tightly shut in supposed focus.
“What’s happening with you?” Damian asked, his tone light, mocking. A doctor chiding a peculiar symptom. He dragged a single finger through the lotion on Lewis’s thigh, leaving a cool trail. “It’s just a massage. For muscle relax. Why are you leaking all over yourself?”
Lewis’s eyes snapped open. He looked down his own body, his face flushing a deep, mortified crimson. His cock was now fully, accusingly hard, lying thick against his belly, the head wet and shining. The evidence was undeniable. A choked sound escaped him, a mix of confusion and shame.
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “It just… it feels really good. Your hands. I can’t… I can’t help it.” The confession was ripped from him, pathetic and honest. He was hard because Damian’s touch felt good, and that simple, animal truth was now his entire reality.
Damian’s smirk was a cold, knowing slice in the quiet room. He reached out, not touching the shaft, but lightly tracing the very tip of his index finger over the swollen, leaking head of Lewis’s cock. It was a feather-light caress over the hypersensitive slit, smearing the pre-cum. Lewis’s entire body jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp gasp tearing from his lips.
“Do you want to cum?” Damian asked, his voice deceptively soft. He applied the slightest pressure, circling the glans. “Is that what this is? You can just say it. Then you can go take care of it, maybe go find Chloe. Fuck your girlfriend. That’s the normal thing to do, right?”
The suggestion landed with a bizarre, logical weight. Of course. That was the solution. He was horny, aching, his cock thick and desperate in his own hand. He should go to Chloe’s dorm, fuck her, get his release. It made perfect, rational sense. It was what a guy like him should want.
But the thought felt hollow, a dead click in his mind. His gut twisted with a sudden, visceral rejection of the idea. No. The want that burned through him wasn’t for Chloe, for her softness, for the familiar. It was a desperate, humiliating need for this: for Damian’s detached gaze, for his commanding voice, for the terrifying approval that would come from losing control right here, under his watch. He wanted to cum from Damian’s will, from this degrading care, more than he had ever wanted anything from his girlfriend.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. His eyes flew open, wide with a horror that eclipsed his shame. Why? Why did he want that? Why did the idea of Damian’s indifference feel more urgent, more necessary, than his girlfriend’s eager affection? His mind recoiled, screaming at the wrongness of it.
His body betrayed him utterly. His cock throbbed, a hot, painful pulse of demand. A fresh, copious string of pre-cum leaked out, coating Damian’s lingering finger. A broken, whimpering sound escaped Lewis’s throat. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, seeking more contact.
“Please,” Lewis begged, the word shredded and wet. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for. “Damian. Please. Help me.”
Damian sighed, a theatrically weary sound. He withdrew his finger, wiping it slowly on the sheet beside Lewis’s hip. “I don’t really want to help,” he said, his tone almost bored. “But you’re making a mess. I guess there’s no choice.” He stood up from the bed, looking down at Lewis’s straining form. “But you just jerked off this morning. Your cock is probably raw, Lewis. Friction will hurt. I don’t want to damage you.”
The concern, however twisted, felt like a blanket wrapping around Lewis’s shattered mind. He was being considered. Cared for. The worry for his physical state was a perverse kindness that made his eyes prickle. He nodded, frantic, grateful. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
“Get on your hands and knees,” Damian ordered, his voice turning practical. “Facing me. I’m sitting right here.”
Lewis scrambled to obey, his muscles protesting. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed himself up onto all fours on the mattress. The position was profoundly submissive, his back arched, his ass in the air. He shuffled forward until he was right in front of Damian, who had settled back into his desk chair. Lewis’s face was now level with Damian’s crotch. He could see the clear outline of Damian’s own cock, soft but substantial, resting behind the fabric of his shorts. The proximity was dizzying.
Damian uncapped the lotion bottle again. He poured a generous, cold pool of it into his palm. “This is the only way to help without causing friction,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. He reached forward.
His slick, lotion-slimed fingers didn’t go to Lewis’s cock. They bypassed it entirely, sliding down the deep cleft of his ass. Lewis froze, his breath catching in his throat. He felt a cold, wet pressure circling his hole, smearing the lotion over the tight, clenched ring of muscle.
No.
The understanding detonated in Lewis’s brain. This wasn’t a handjob. Damian’s index finger pressed firmly, insistently, against his entrance, beginning to work its way inside. The invasion was slow, deliberate, impossibly intimate.
“Stop—wait, no,” Lewis blurted, his voice high with panic. He tried to push back, but his position offered no leverage. “Don’t… don’t fuck me with your finger. I’m not… I don’t want to be a bitch like that. I do that to Chloe. I don’t get… I don’t get fingered.”
Damian’s finger stopped. He didn’t remove it. He just left it there, a blunt, pressing threat at his opening. “Then I can’t help you,” Damian said, his voice utterly flat. He began to withdraw his hand.
The loss of contact, the withdrawal of that promised, awful relief, was a terror greater than the violation. The aching void of being left alone, hard and desperate, with Damian’s cold rejection, was unthinkable. It was a cliff edge he could not be pushed over.
“Wait!” The cry was torn from Lewis’s core, raw and desperate. Every shred of resistance, every fragile remnant of his old self, snapped. His shoulders slumped, his head hanging low. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, accepting need. “I give up. Please. Just… do it.”
Damian’s finger pushed back in, smoothly now, past the initial tight resistance. Lewis cried out, a sharp, choked sound of shock as the digit slid knuckle-deep inside him. It was a cold, strange, filling sensation, utterly alien. Damian began to move it, a slow, shallow fuck in and out, the lotion making wet, obscene sounds.
“See?” Damian murmured, his other hand coming to rest on the small of Lewis’s back, holding him in place. “You take it just fine. You’re not a bitch. You’re just getting the help you begged for.”