Chapter 4: Stringing Up
The bathroom air was cold on Kevin’s wet skin. He stood shivering, the proof of Jason’s violation still trickling down his thigh. He felt hollowed out, a shell of the man who had walked into this gym, his hard-earned muscles rendered useless.
Jason zipped his jeans with a crisp, final sound. He looked Kevin up and down, his eyes lingering on the mess he’d made. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
“Look at you. Soaked and filthy,” Jason said, his voice a low rumble. “You need to dry off, Peterson. Can’t have you catching a cold.”
He stepped forward, his movement casual, but his eyes held a familiar, calculating gleam. Before Kevin could react, Jason hooked his fingers into the waistband of Kevin’s soaked boxers and shorts, which were still tangled around his thighs.
“What are you doing?” Kevin’s voice was hoarse, raw from choked water and suppressed screams.
Jason didn’t answer. He simply yanked, pulling the wet fabric up with brutal force. The elastic, stretched and heavy with water, dug viciously into the creases of Kevin’s groin and the cleft of his ass, a searing, familiar pain. It was a atomic wedgie, far worse than any he’d endured as a kid, now applied to his adult, muscular frame.
Kevin grunted, his body instinctively arching against the cruel pressure. Jason kept pulling, hoisting him upward until Kevin was forced onto his toes.
“This oughta do the trick,” Jason grunted, stepping toward the sturdy chrome towel rack bolted to the wall. With a practiced, cruel efficiency, he looped the stretched waistband over one of the hooks.
He let go.
Kevin’s full weight dropped for a fraction of a second before the fabric snapped taut. A strangled cry was torn from his lips. He was suspended, hanging by his own underwear, the brutal wedge cutting so deep it felt like it would split him in two. His bare feet scrambled for purchase on the slick tiles, finding none. His powerful legs kicked in the air, his defined abs clenching uselessly.
Jason took a step back, admiring his handiwork. Kevin was completely exposed, his body a taut, straining sculpture of humiliation. His cock, ridiculously, remained half-hard, bobbing slightly with his futile struggles.
“There,” Jason said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Now you can air dry.”
He moved closer again, his presence a dark cloud. He ran a rough, calloused hand over Kevin’s glistening pectorals, pinching a nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. Kevin flinched, a fresh wave of shame washing over him.
“All this muscle,” Jason murmured, his hand trailing down Kevin’s ribbed abdomen. “Just for show. Underneath, you’re still the same scrawny little bitch who used to cry when I’d take his lunch money.”
His hand closed around Kevin’s cock, squeezing it to full, aching hardness. Kevin gasped, his hips twitching involuntarily. He hated his body’s response, the traitorous pleasure that flared under Jason’s degrading touch.
“See?” Jason whispered, his breath hot against Kevin’s ear. “Your body knows who owns it.”
He began to stroke him, a slow, deliberate rhythm that was more about control than pleasure. His other hand groped and kneaded Kevin’s ass, his fingers digging into the flesh.
“Please,” Kevin breathed, the word barely audible. He didn’t know what he was begging for—to be released, or for Jason to never stop.
“Please what?” Jason’s voice was a taunt. He increased the pace of his strokes, his grip tightening. “You want to come, you filthy slut? You want to shoot your load while you’re hanging from a hook like a piece of meat?”
He spat into his palm and slicked Kevin’s length, the crude lubricant making the friction smoother, more intense. Kevin’s breath came in ragged pants. His world had narrowed to this: the burning strain in his shoulders and groin, the cold air on his skin, and the devastating, expert rhythm of Jason’s hand.
“I own this cock,” Jason growled, his fist a piston. “I own this ass. I own every fucking inch of you, Peterson. You’re my property.”
His words were a catalyst. The coil of shameful pleasure in Kevin’s gut tightened beyond bearing. His back arched, his whole body seizing as his orgasm ripped through him with violent force. He cried out, a broken, guttural sound, as streaks of come splattered across the tiles and his own trembling stomach.
He hung there, spent and panting, the aftermath a cold, sticky film on his skin.
Jason released his softening cock with a final, dismissive squeeze. He wiped his hand on Kevin’s thigh.
“All dried off,” he said, his voice flat.
He turned and walked toward the bathroom door, leaving Kevin dangling, a hollowed-out puppet on a string of his own shame. The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was louder than any insult. Kevin closed his eyes, the only sound the frantic, thumping rhythm of his own heart against his ribs. The hook dug deeper, a constant, painful reminder that some chains, no matter how much you changed on the outside, could never be broken.