Chapter 7: His gratitude
The laughter was a physical force, a wave that beat against Lewis’s ears. Mike’s finger was still pressed to the leaking tip of his cock, a point of contact that grounded him in the crushing reality of the moment. His erection, born from a dark, Damian-shaped thought, stood as a monument to a lie everyone believed.
“Someone get him a cold shower!” Jax howled, wiping champagne from his eyes.
“A cold shower? Look at it!” Mike retorted, finally removing his finger with a slow, deliberate motion. “That needs a monument, not a shower. That’s a championship-caliber boner right there.”
The noise was immense, but it hit a sudden, strange dip. Damian’s voice, always so measured, cut through not with volume, but with clarity. He had moved from the doorway and was now leaning against a nearby locker, his arms crossed.
“He, Lewis, has broken up with his girlfriend,” Damian stated, as if reminding them of a minor piece of trivia.
The statement landed oddly. The breakup was old news, from months ago, a footnote. A few guys nodded vaguely, their grins still in place, confused by the non-sequitur.
Damian continued, his eyes fixed on Lewis’s horrified face. “So maybe he’s just hard because he doesn’t know who to fuck.” He let the crude assessment hang, watching it register on the faces around him. The laughter softened into curious, low murmurs. Damian’s lips curled into a small, contemplative smile. “Or maybe… he just wants to thank you guys.”
The room silenced.
It wasn’t a gradual quieting. It was as if a switch had been thrown. The last chuckle died mid-breath. The music from the speaker seemed to fade into the background. Twenty pairs of eyes, glazed with triumph and alcohol, now focused with a strange, collective intensity. They looked from Damian’s calm face to Lewis’s naked, rigid form.
“Thank us?” Carver echoed, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “How’s he gonna thank us?”
The question wasn’t skeptical. It was expectant. They were following the thread Damian had dangled, mesmerized by its simple, awful logic. He’s hard. He’s single. He’s naked. He wants to thank us.
Damian smirked. It was a small, cold flicker of expression. “Team bonding,” he said, the words dropping into the hush like stones. “With his center.” He uncrossed his arms and gestured casually toward Lewis’s groin, at the thick, upright cock that was the center of this new, terrible universe. “He will suck all of you guys. Until cum. Right, Lewis?”
The air vanished from the room.
Lewis froze. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were slabs of concrete. The command, the question, the unspeakable proposition, hung in the steam-choked air. Damian’s rules warred in his skull: Always tell Damian the truth. You can’t lie to your closest friend.
But to say yes was to step off a cliff into an abyss with no bottom. To say no was to lie, to break the fundamental law of his existence, to lose Damian. His mouth opened. A dry, clicking sound came out. No words. His head gave a tiny, spasmodic shake that could have meant anything—denial, terror, disbelief.
The silence stretched, taut and vibrating.
The team members stared at him. The confusion on their faces solidified into something else—a dawning, brutal comprehension. Their gazes were no longer just mocking. They were analytical, re-evaluating every strange moment of the last two months through this new, filthy lens.
Mike was the first to speak, his voice low and utterly serious, all traces of his earlier boisterous humor gone. “Holy shit,” he breathed. He wasn’t looking at Lewis’s face. He was staring at his cock. “That… that actually makes sense.”
Jax nodded slowly, his eyes wide. “Fuck me. It does. Why he’s always naked. Why he got hard from the photo shit. Why he just… takes it.” He looked up at Lewis’s stricken expression as if seeing a stranger. “You’re gay. You’ve been gay this whole time.”
“Not gay,” Carver corrected, his tone eerily thoughtful. He took a step closer, circling Lewis slightly. “Bi, maybe. But definitely into… this.” He gestured vaguely at the room, at all of them. “Into us. That’s the thank you. That’s what you want.”
The assessment was delivered not with disgust, but with a kind of awestruck realization. It was the missing piece. Lewis’s entire bewildering descent—the nudity, the submission, the hard-ons—snapped into a coherent, degenerate narrative they could finally understand. He wasn’t a cursed captain or a brave exhibitionist. He was a hungry faggot who got off on his team.
And he was standing right here, offered to them by his own best friend.
“Right, Lewis?” Damian asked again, his voice a gentle, relentless probe.
Lewis’s whole body was trembling. The truth was a burning coal in his throat. He couldn’t lie. The words were forced out, a shattered whisper that carried in the silent room. “I… I want to thank you.”
The whispered confession seemed to echo in the sudden, absolute quiet.
Damian nodded slowly, as if Lewis had just confirmed the most obvious fact in the world. “Yes,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the locker room. “He just wants to thank you. Because of all the effort of the last two months. He’s our brave captain, not some… faggot who just craves cocks.” The distinction was meaningless, a linguistic sleight of hand that twisted the reality into a perverse honor.
Lewis nodded quickly, automatically, his head bobbing like a puppet on a string. His cock, still fully erect, bounced with the motion, a lewd, physical agreement.
The mood in the room shifted, lightening as Damian bent their common sense. The initial shock melted away, replaced by a giddy, predatory acceptance. If the captain wanted to thank them, who were they to refuse a gift?
“It makes sense,” Mike said, his voice thoughtful. He scratched his chin, looking at Lewis’s naked form with new appreciation. “He practiced with us, used our drills, our sweat. Bloody hell, he should repay us. It’s only fair.”
“Yeah,” Jax chimed in, a grin spreading. “The captain should be our bitch for a day. A victory gift to the team.”
Others murmured agreement, the idea catching fire. “Our bitch for a day!” Carver echoed, slapping his thigh.
Lewis couldn’t help it. He nodded again, a jerky, helpless motion. His consent was a formality erased by his own trembling body and the unwavering gaze of his best friend.
“Alright then,” Mike said, his tone turning practical. “If he’s the team bitch, we should all be comfortable.” He grabbed the hem of his own championship t-shirt and pulled it over his head. The gesture was a signal.
A rustle of fabric filled the steamy air. Zippers hissed. Buttons popped. One by one, then all at once, the entire team shed their clothes. They dropped trousers, shorts, and underwear into damp piles on the tile. In moments, Lewis was surrounded by twenty naked, athletic young men.
Cocks of every size and thickness were now on display, from five-inch half-hard members to nine-inch ropes of veined flesh already stiffening with anticipation in the humid air. The locker room smelled of male sweat, champagne, and the sharp, coppery scent of rising arousal.
“On your knees, Lewis,” Damian ordered. His voice was calm, final.
Lewis sank down. The cold, wet tile bit into his kneecaps. He looked up at the ring of faces, his teammates, his brothers-in-arms, now a tribunal of grinning, naked strangers.
“Introduce yourself,” Damian instructed, leaning against the lockers to watch.
Lewis’s throat worked. “I’m… I’m Lewis Bridgewater. I was your captain.” He swallowed hard, the words ash in his mouth. “Today, I’m your bitch. To repay… your effort.”
The laughter that followed was sharp and derisive.
“Was our captain!” Mike crowed. “Look at him now!”
“Pathetic,” Jax sneered, stepping forward. His cock, a thick seven inches, was already fully hard. He swung it casually, the swollen head slapping against Lewis’s cheek with a wet, stinging smack. “Our leader, on his knees for our dicks.”
Carver followed suit, his own erection slapping the other side of Lewis’s face, then his forehead. “How’s it feel, Captain? Huh? To be the team cumdump?”
The blows weren’t hard enough to hurt, but each one was a seismic shock to Lewis’s pride. The warm, spongy flesh against his skin, the vulgar disrespect—it unmoored him completely. He couldn’t believe this was happening. But Damian had ordered it. Damian, his friend. So it must be for the best. It must be what he needed.
“Start servicing,” Damian said, his words a gentle push into the abyss.
Mike grabbed a fistful of Lewis’s hair, angling his head back. He didn’t ask. He guided the plum-shaped head of his cock to Lewis’s lips. “Open up, bitch.”
Lewis parted his lips. Mike shoved forward, the broad crown stretching his mouth, forcing his jaw wide. The salty, musky taste of skin and pre-cum flooded his tongue. Mike fucked his mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, grunting as the wet heat enveloped him.
“Suck it, Captain. Use that champion’s discipline.”
Lewis obeyed, hollowing his cheeks, sliding his tongue along the rigid shaft. The act was mechanical at first, a task. But as Mike’s groans grew louder, a treacherous, dizzying pleasure began to coil in Lewis’s own gut. His own neglected cock throbbed, dripping onto the tile between his knees.
Mike came with a harsh shout, his hips snapping forward. Hot, bitter cum shot down Lewis’s throat in pulsing ropes. He gagged, swallowing convulsively as Mike pulled out, smearing the last streaks across his lips.
There was no pause. Jax was there immediately, pressing in. “My turn, slut.”
And so it went. For hours.
Lewis lost count of the cocks that pushed past his lips. He serviced them all, one after another, a revolving door of hardness and heat. Carver’s was long and thin, hitting the back of his throat. A freshman named Eli’s was short but improbably thick, stretching his jaws ache. They all used him, fucking his face with a celebratory, brutal cheer.
“Look at him go!”
“He was born for this!”
“Such a good little bitch for the team!”
The mocking commentary was a constant soundtrack. Each slur, each laugh, each grunt of pleasure was a hammer strike on the remains of his pride. With every cock he sucked, he felt that pride crack further. An inner voice, the one Damian had cultivated, grew louder. This is what you are. This is all you’re good for now.
Pleasure and humiliation became a fused, indistinguishable circuit in his brain. His own arousal was a shameful, persistent fire, his cock leaking continuously, untouched.
Three hours passed. The initial frenzy slowed to a lazy, sustained debauchery. Lewis’s jaw ached. His throat was raw. His mind floated in a numb, pleasure-humiliated haze.
He became aware of a new, dull pressure in his abdomen. A deep, sloshing fullness. He looked down, blinking through bleary eyes.
His once-defined abs were no longer flat. They formed a soft, distended curve, a gentle, unmistakable bulge. It was the weight of countless loads, swallowed and now sitting heavy in his gut.
Mike noticed it too. He let out a low, incredulous whistle. “Holy shit. Look at his stomach.”
All eyes dropped to Lewis’s bloated midsection.
“Fuck me,” Jax breathed, a grin splitting his face. “He looks… full.”
Mike laughed, a sound of pure delight. “Does our captain have a bitch cum belly? Is he pregnant with our victory load?”
The team roared with laughter. Hands reached out, patting the taut curve of his stomach, rubbing it as if checking the swell of a pregnancy. The touch was the most degrading yet.
“Alright,” Damian’s voice cut through, calm as ever. “One more photo. To remember the night.”
They arranged themselves just as they had months before, but now the context was obliterated. The trophy was shoved into Lewis’s hands. He held it limply, kneeling in the center of the room. His naked body was slick with sweat, his belly grotesquely rounded. His own cock, spent and soft now, lay ignored.
The entire team crowded around him, all of them naked, their cocks—some hard again, some soft—on display. Mike placed the head of his semi-hard dick on top of Lewis’s head like a obscene crown. Jax tapped his against Lewis’s swollen cheek. Another rested the shaft along his shoulder.
Through the utter degradation, through the haze of swallowed cum and shattered self, Lewis felt Damian’s gaze. He looked up, found his friend’s eyes. And he smiled. It was a wide, empty, beatific smile of total submission, as if he were the proudest man in the world.
Damian raised his phone. The flash fired.
A moment later, phones buzzed all around the room. Damian had sent it to the team’s group. The image loaded on twenty screens: their kneeling captain, bloated and used, surrounded by their naked bodies.
The caption read: Celebrate our night. Our captain bitch.
The phones buzzed and chimed, a discordant symphony in the heavy, spent air. Jax held his screen up, the glowing image a blasphemous altar piece. “Look at him. He’s fucking smiling.”
Lewis was. His lips were stretched in a vacant, blissful curve, his eyes glazed over, focused on nothing. The weight in his gut was a warm, sloshing anchor, a physical ledger of his debt being paid. The trophy in his hand felt like a prop from a forgotten play.
“He loves it,” Carver muttered, shaking his head. He nudged Lewis’s bloated stomach with his foot. “He’s proud of that fucking gut. Our cum made him proud.”
Mike squatted down, bringing his face level with Lewis’s. “You enjoying your reward, Captain? Full of your team’s jizz? That what you wanted all along?” His voice wasn’t angry. It was thick with a bewildered contempt.
Lewis nodded slowly, his smile never fading. The motion made the contents of his stomach shift. He felt a soft, internal slosh. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words thick and honest.
The genuine gratitude in his tone broke the last remaining barrier. It wasn’t defiance or sarcasm. It was pure, fucked-up sincerity.
A disbelieving laugh burst from Jax. “Did you fucking hear that? He said thank you!”
Mike rocked back on his heels, staring. “Unreal. He’s a complete fucking faggot. We won a championship and our captain turned into a glory hole.”
The laughter returned, but it was colder now, edged with a final, settling judgment. The photo had crystallized it. The two months of bizarre behavior, the nudity, the hard-ons, the submission—it all culminated in this one image and the bloated, smiling reality before them.
THE TEAM CAN’T HELP BUT MOCKING IF THEIR CAPTAIN IS REALLY A BITCH.
“Our captain bitch,” Jax said, reading the caption aloud again. He looked around at the others. “That’s what he is. Just a team bitch.”
“My bitch,” Damian corrected softly from the doorway. He hadn’t undressed. He simply observed, a curator of the ruin. “I just loaned him to you for the night. As a thank you.”
The distinction was subtle but absolute. It shifted the ownership. The team’s eyes moved from Lewis to Damian, processing this. They had used him, but Damian had provided him. The power dynamic, which had seemed to briefly belong to the mob, snapped back to its source.
“But he’s still our captain, technically,” Carver said, frowning slightly. “On paper.”
“On paper,” Damian echoed, a faint smile touching his lips. “But we all know what he is on his knees. What his mouth is for. What his stomach is full of.”
He pushed off from the lockers and walked into the center of the room. He stopped behind Lewis, placing a hand on his sweat-damp head. It was a possessive, priestly gesture.
“He wants to make sure you’re all completely satisfied,” Damian continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial murmur. “The night’s not over. He hasn’t shown you his other specialty.”
A fresh current of interest rippled through the exhausted team. They were sated but intrigued, the animal part of them still awake and curious.
“Other specialty?” Mike asked, his eyebrows rising.
Damian’s hand drifted from Lewis’s head down to his shoulder. “He takes it in the ass like a champion, too. Better than any girl I’ve ever seen. Opens up like a good little slut. Wants to be fucked full. Right, Lewis?”
Lewis’s breath hitched. The direct question, the explicit command, pierced the pleasant numbness. This was a new threshold. He looked up at Damian, his smile finally wavering, a flicker of raw, childlike fear in his eyes.
He looked up at Damian, his smile finally wavering, a flicker of raw, childlike fear in his eyes. The mention of his ass, the direct proposition of being used that way in front of everyone, cracked the fragile shell of his compliance.
“Please, Damian, no,” he whispered, his voice frayed and hoarse from hours of service. His hand, still loosely holding the trophy, trembled. “I… I can’t. Please, not that. I did the other. Isn’t that enough?”
The plea hung in the thick air. The team watched, holding their breath, caught between their own exhausted satiation and the electric tension of this rebellion.
Damian stared down at him. The faint, patronizing smile on his lips didn’t change, but his eyes grew colder, more analytical. He tilted his head slightly.
“Why not?” Damian asked, his tone one of pure, detached curiosity.“They won. You’re their celebration. You said thank you. Your ass is part of the gift. It’s your best part.”
“It’s too much,” Lewis breathed, tears now spilling over, cutting clean tracks through the dried sweat and spit on his face. “My head, my mouth… you can have that. Please, just not… not in front of them.Not there. Damian, please. I’m begging you.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing Damian’s shoe, a gesture of abject supplication. It was the most direct defiance he had ever attempted, fueled by a primal, territorial shame. The idea of his ass being taken, violated, filled and displayed, felt like a final, irreversible erasure.
Damian looked from Lewis’s terrified face to the circle of watching men. He sighed, a soft, disappointed sound.
“Look at him,” Damian said, addressing the room but keeping his eyes locked on Lewis. “My closest friend.Our captain. He just swallowed probably a liter of your cum. He’s smiling with it in his belly. But he draws the line at his ass? After everything?”
He crouched down slowly, bringing his face close to Lewis’s. His voice dropped to a low, intimate register that only Lewis could properly hear, though the room was utterly silent.
“You’re being a hypocrite, Lewis. A selfish friend. Look around. Every single guy in this room has cum tonight. Some twice. They’re empty.” He gestured broadly at the twenty naked, sated bodies surrounding them. “But you? Look at you.”
Damian’s hand shot out, not roughly, but with decisive finality. He gripped Lewis’s soft, neglected cock, giving it a firm squeeze. Lewis flinched.
“This hasn’t cum. Not once. All this… service,” Damian said, his voice thick with mock concern, “and you didn’t get your reward. You didn’t get your celebration. They all had theirs. So it’s your turn.”
So it’s your turn."
Damian’s gaze remained fixed on Lewis’s own, heavy with a logic that felt inescapable. "That seems unfair. You think you’re a teammate, you want celebration, but you don’t get to finish with everyone else?" His eyes moved, taking in the rest of the men again. The concept had landed. A slow murmur built up—low laughs and guttural sounds. Jax rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Carver leaned against the locker, his eyes never leaving Lewis’s pale face as an idea processed.
The Champion’s Reward. That was all Lewis heard in the murmurs. Not his, theirs. Some secret acknowledgment from them all to their captain and everything he’d done over the season on the field? A celebration prize for him even though he was nothing more now but just this broken shell before them? Some kind of victory ritual where they watched him finally cross that last forbidden line—overruling him with the simple physics of his own neglected arousal.
Damian's hold on his cock tightened, not punishing, just terribly matter-of-fact. "I feel how hard it's getting in my hand just thinking about it, Lewis."It was true. Against the pressure of shame and Damian's relentless narrative, his blood was flooding back, thickening him, lengthening in Damian's grip.
"How's that feel, Captain?" someone snickered from the circle. "He knows where your mind goes." Lewis couldn’t see who. He just saw the ripple of skin and muscle as someone shifted, heard the wet sound of a hand lazily stroking themselves at the fresh spectacle.
It felt like inevitability. It felt like the logical conclusion to every rule Damian had ever set. Always tell the truth. Obey. The refusal over his ass was a lie, a selfish one. He was keeping a part of himself separate from his best friend and from his own penance. The self-hatred and need bled together until they felt identical, purring in his veins, hot in his groin. The only way back to Damian’s good grace, the only way through the circuit of his own twisted shame, was to offer it all.
His jaw tightened. A sound escaped him, not a word but a wet, choked noise from deep in his abused throat.
"Okay," he breathed.
The word was so quiet, a thing of air and surrender, that it vanished into the steamy room. But Damian heard it. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a smile of profound satisfaction. He gave Lewis’s hardening cock an affectionate little squeeze before releasing it.
"Okay," Damian echoed, louder, for the room. He straightened up. "He’s ready for his celebration. It’s a good idea." He raised an eyebrow, looking around at the still-naked men. "But think about it. After everything he just took in his mouth and swallowed, do we want to stick a cock in there? Feels a bit… forward. Final."
Mike cocked his head, his own spent dick limp between his legs."Final?"
"Yeah," Damian said, shrugging casually. "Like, if we actually fucked his ass, after all that, it'd just… it'd prove everything. It’d be kind of hard to believe his own bullshit after that."
He crossed his arms, looking down at Lewis’s kneeling form, the swollen belly, the fear-dilated eyes.
"I know he’s the team bitch today," Damian continued, his voice taking on a tone of mock-magnanimous concession. "I loaned him out for duty. But even a bitch has their limits if we wanna be fair, right? And he's not gay, man. He drank the lot of you. That’s some pent-up sexual energy, not some confession. Shit, I don’t even want to touch him if he gets a cock up him. He can call himself what he wants after that." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
Lewis clung to the distinction, a tattered scrap of dignity.Not gay. A pressured, drunk, hormonal, grateful slut. The corners of the cage were defined, impossible, but defined.
Damian smiled wider, warming to his logic. "No. Fucking’s too much. Kind of ruins the joke if we start confirming his worst fears. Let him think he’s confused, not broken. But he should still get his reward."
They were all listening, captivated, nodding along as Damian bent the facts like light through a prism.
"Just something for him," Damian said, his eyes gleaming. "He wants to feel good. Wants what you all got. Needs some… pressure, some release. Something to make him shake. Three fingers." He held up his own right hand, index, middle, and ring finger splayed. "Three of my fingers would do it for our captain. A nice, solid bitchgasm, and he'll feel part of the victory. That’s his ass’s duty today. Simple."
A ripple of curious, lewd excitement went through the men. The idea was insane, hilarious. It preserved their narrative: their captain wasn't some closet case they'd just gangbanged; he was an intense, overgrateful straight guy who crossed every single line except the final technical one, who wanted to be pushed, to be degraded, to thank them so profoundly that he could fall apart with three fingers up his ass while they watched. It was more absurd. It was more humiliating.
Lewis’s heart pounded against his ribs. His mind refused the complexity. So many words. Gay. Bitchgasm. Duty. His own cock ached, full and heavy now, swaying slightly against the curve of his bloated stomach.
"This man dedicated," Carver laughed, a sharp, wheezing sound. "He wants it all but pretends he don’t."
Jax shook his head in pure awe."Like a challenge. See how far you can bend without saying you’re something. It’s next-level captain shit."
Mike leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. His grin was back, electric. "So he gets fingered, cracks open like an egg, and we witness the grand finale. The Birthing of the Bitch Champion." He snort-laughed. "I fucking love it."
"I wanna see his face when he loses it like that," said Eli, the freshman, his voice high with excitement.
Damian let the chatter build, then lifted his hand for quiet. The authority was absolute. His eyes found Lewis’s again. The command was now a vector, a single, unyielding direction.
"Stand up, Lewis," Damian said. His voice was devoid of all warmth now. "Stand in front of them. I want you to ask. Let's not pretend you just submit like a log. This is participatory. Team-building. Show them you mean it. How much you want their approval. Beg for my fingers."
Time seemed to stretch and warp. Lewis felt the cold tile lift away from his knees as he rose. His legs were weak, trembling. The effort made the reservoir in his slosh audibly, a disgusting inner sound that brought a fresh wave of snickers. He was half-erect, full-bellied, smeared with dried filth from cheek to thigh. And he was about to do this. To solidify it. To make it a request.
He took two shaky steps forward, planting his feet. This was the podium. He lifted his chin. His tear-streaked, glazed eyes met the circle of faces one by one. He saw pity there.Mocking pity. They felt sorry for his pathetic state even as they were itching to see it go further. It was the worst thing he'd ever seen in their faces.
He looked at Jax, who gave him a slow, cruel wink. He looked at Carver, whose lips were pursed in a judgmental, fascinated O. He looked at Mike, who looked bored but interested, like waiting for a racehorse to finally break and run.
"So," Jax prompted, leaning his cheek on his fist. "What do you say, Cap?"
Lewis sucked in a wet breath. The truth. He needed to tell Damian the truth.
His gaze finally landed on Damian, who stood a few feet away, expectant, a curator awaiting the opening of his final exhibit. Lewis’s throat clicked.
He saw himself, for a single, horrifyingly lucid moment. He was begging for his friend’s cock just minutes ago on the field, when someone merely said girlfriend. His own team after months of controlled exposure, using him like a live sex doll, under whose orders he knew his owner’s mind prying wherever it wanted. It didn't have to touch, did it? They were no longer pushing because he was better and stronger now, fitting all the secret patterns. It was so the rules followed, shaped some perfect coherent conclusion etched as an infamous biology textbook on offer for such architecture, seemed they expected all yet expecting exactly described nothing very straight lines the final scene too clear: picture-smile vulgar contrast turning permanent indeed forever irreversible.
He needed to tell Damian the truth.
He opened his mouth. The words, coated in phlegm and swallowed bitterness, scraped out."Please." His voice was a ragged, broken thing.
A collective, satisfied hum rose from the men. A soft, encouraging sound, if you didn’t listen to the cruelty underneath.
"More specific," Damian instructed calmly. "Who am I? What do you want?"
Lewis’s chin trembled. "Damian." A name, not 'friend'.A title. "Please. I want your fingers." The humiliation burned through him, pure and scalding, flushing his chest and neck. "In my… my ass. I want you to finger me."
Mike clapped once, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Can't hear him. Louder for the boys in the back."
Squeezing his eyes shut, Lewis threw his voice, letting it crack. "I WANT YOUR FINGERS IN MY ASS, DAMIAN!" He was screaming, begging, confessing all at once."PLEASE! FINGER-FUCK ME!"
He knew one word, instinct familiar, so could mean understanding?
Tank empties shaken leave blur enough only order self reality formed?Human concave.
Open.Obey. Tell truth give mortified covering raw bled concord chemical hair behind belief? System sand emptied ass? All preparing common dictate fingerprint hum next, all coalesced shaped glass solid order structure awareness next brick structure t, open ceiling s exist peak rushing edged?Finish three? Climax honor please labeled blame humans rounds expect repetition possible molded signal use mod close ending find——psych impulse following brief palm– he need loose surface basic cover. The weight in his gut, in his head, in his cock—it all pooled into a single, desperate yes.
He looked directly at Damian, his eyes wide and desperate. "I want to come." The words were a confession of terrifying honesty. "I've never been so hard. I need to come. My dick aches. I need to finish. And I want to be finished like you said. The bitch way. With your fingers in me. Please, Damian, make me shake." His hand went, of its own accord, to his own aching, throbbing cock. It stood fat and urgent, a thick eight inches weeping against his tarnished skin. "Make me jerk off with your fingers in my ass. I beg you. That’s the truth.Please."
The raw specificity of the plea tore through the room’s last veneer of amusement. The guys just stared, jaws slack. This was beyond performance, beyond a twisted dare. This was unvarnished, psychological filth.
Damian looked around at their stunned faces. He gave a small, thoughtful nod."See? Shared truth."
He walked to the supply bench by the showers, unhurried. He returned with the large plastic bottle of aloe-vera lube the team used for chafing or muscle rub. It had a pump top.