Chapter 1: The Interview That Wasn't Just an Interview
The studio hummed. It was a low, sterile sound, underneath the faint thump of bass testing the walls. Sam smelled leather and ozone. The black couch in the center of the room looked less like furniture and more like a preserved shape, molded by a thousand bodies, its edges worn smooth and cold. He sat on it, the material sticking slightly to his thighs through his jeans.
A single red light glowed above the lens of a camera on a tripod. It felt like an eye.
“Relax, kid. You’re tenser than a sophomore during finals.”
The voice came from behind him. Sam turned as a man emerged from a shadowed doorway. Damon “Ravage” Blackwood. He was older, maybe late thirties, and built like he’d been carved from granite. A tight black t-shirt strained over his chest and arms, which were a canvas of intricate tattoos—swirls and patterns and script Sam couldn’t read from here. His hair was dark, cropped close, and his gaze was a physical thing. It pinned Sam to the couch.
“I’m relaxed,” Sam said. His voice didn’t crack, which felt like a small victory.
Damon smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. He picked up a small remote, pointed it at a speaker, and the faint thumping bass faded into a slow, pulsing electronic track. It was ambient, oddly calming, and somehow that made everything worse.
He came over and sat down, not on the other end of the couch, but right in the middle. Close. The leather creaked under his weight. Sam could smell his cologne now, something sharp and clean, cutting through the leather smell. Damon casually draped an arm along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from Sam’s shoulder.
“So,” Damon purred. The word was soft, almost lost in the music. He reached out with his other hand, his fingers lightly playing with the collar of Sam’s simple grey t-shirt. The touch was casual, proprietary. “Tell me, college boy. What made a straight guy like you walk into a place like this?”
Sam’s throat was dry. He’d rehearsed answers in the mirror. It’s just a job. It’s transactional. But under that red light, with those fingers on his collar, the rehearsed lines evaporated.
“Money,” Sam said, the word coming out blunt and true. He cleared his throat. “I’m… drowning in it. Student loans, rent. My car shit the bed last month.”
Damon’s knee brushed against Sam’s thigh. A jolt, warm and sudden, went through him. He didn’t pull away.
“Money’s a good reason. The best reason,” Damon nodded, his fingers now tracing the seam of Sam’s collar. He leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping. “You play sports? Soccer, I’m guessing. The legs. The build.”
“Yeah. I mean, not varsity or anything. Intramural.”
“Athletes are good. You know how to take direction. You know how to push through discomfort.” Damon’s hand left his collar and came to rest, heavy and warm, on Sam’s knee. “That’s all this is. Discomfort. For a very specific sum of money.”
“The contract said… one scene,” Sam managed.
“One scene,” Damon confirmed, his thumb starting a slow, absent circle on the denim of Sam’s jeans. “My scene. My rules. You follow them, you walk out with enough to fix that car. Maybe even get the premium oil change.”
He tried for a laugh. It sounded strangled.
“You’re nervous. That’s fine. Expected. It’s the smart ones who get nervous.” His thumb stroked the tense tendon in Sam’s neck. “We’re just going to talk for the camera first. Get you comfortable. You just answer my questions. Be honest. The more honest you are, the easier the rest is.”
The more honest you are, the easier the rest is.”
Damon’s hand left his neck. He stood, the movement fluid and efficient, and walked to the camera. He tapped a button on its side. The red light brightened, a single, unblinking pupil now fixed on Sam.
“We’re rolling. Just look at me. Forget it’s there.”
He returned to the couch, but his posture shifted. It became more open, conversational, yet his presence seemed to expand, filling the frame Sam knew was capturing them. He sat sideways, one arm stretched along the couch back, his body angled toward Sam. A talk-show host from a very specific, very niche network.
“So, Sam. Let’s start simple. Tell the folks who you are.”
Sam swallowed, his eyes darting once to the lens before locking onto Damon’s. “I’m Sam. Sam Doe.”
“And what do you do, Sam Doe?”
“I’m a student. State university. Business major, sort of. I might change it.”
“A college boy. Nice.” Damon’s smile was all teeth. “And what brings a business major to my studio tonight? This isn’t exactly a standard internship.”
Here it was. The confession for the record. Sam’s palms were slick. He wiped them on his jeans. “I need money. A lot of it, fast. Loans are kicking in. My car died. My rent went up. I’m… I’m backed into a corner.”
“Understandable. The economy’s a bitch.” Damon nodded sympathetically, but his eyes were assessing, cold. “Now, a guy like you, athletic, decent looking… you could hustle drinks, wait tables. Why this?”
“The payout,” Sam said, the words blunt. “This pays more in an hour than I’d make in a month waiting tables.”
“It does. But there’s a trade-off, right? This isn’t serving pancakes. You’re straight, aren’t you, Sam?”
The question hung in the humming air. Sam felt a flush creep up his neck. “Yes.”
“Say it for the camera.”
“I’m straight.”
“Girlfriend?”
Sam hesitated. “Yeah. She, um… she doesn’t know I’m here. Obviously. She thinks I’m driving for a rideshare tonight.”
“Sarah,” Damon repeated, letting the name sit there, a piece of Sam’s real life now exposed in this black room. “So you’ve never been with a man before. Never even experimented.”
“No. Never.”
“Not even a curious drunk blowjob in a dorm? A little wrestling team fun?” Damon’s tone was light, teasing, but it felt like a scalpel.
“No. Nothing. I’m not… I don’t like men. Like that.” Sam’s voice tightened. He was fidgeting again, his knee bouncing. Damon’s own hand came down, firm and heavy, stopping the tremor.
“It’s okay,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “That’s what makes this valuable. That’s the whole point. The audience likes to see the journey. The… awakening.” He let the word drip, suggestive and loaded. “So, to be crystal clear for the paperwork and the fine people at home: You are a completely straight, heterosexual male, with a girlfriend, who has never engaged in any sexual activity with another man. You are here solely for the financial compensation. Is that correct?”
Every word was a nail in a coffin. Sam’s coffin. The coffin of the person he was when he walked in. He saw the number in his head. The check. The relief.
“Yes,” Sam said, forcing his chin up. “That’s correct.”
“Perfect.” Damon’s smile was triumphant. He gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze that wasn’t quite friendly. It was possessive.
He stood up again and walked over to the camera. He didn’t stop the recording. He just looked back at Sam over his shoulder, his silhouette blocking the red light for a moment.
“Now the real fun starts, college boy. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
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Damon didn’t move from the camera. He just watched Sam, letting the silence stretch. The electronic track pulsed, a synthetic heartbeat in the dark room.
“Stand up,” Damon said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
Sam’s legs felt like water. He pushed himself off the couch, the cold leather releasing him with a faint sigh. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling exposed under the lights and the unblinking red eye.
Damon approached, a predator assessing his terrain. He circled Sam slowly. He stopped behind him. Sam flinched as Damon’s hands landed on his shoulders, broad and heavy. They kneaded the tense muscles once, a mockery of a massage, then slid down his arms.
“The audience likes a little show before the main event. A little… tease.” Damon’s voice was a low rumble by his ear. His hands came around to Sam’s front, fingers hooking into the hem of his grey t-shirt. “This comes off. Now.”
Sam’s breath hitched. He’d known it would. Knowing didn’t help. He raised his arms, stiff as a marionette’s, and let Damon peel the shirt up and over his head. The studio air was cool on his skin. He crossed his arms over his chest, then, realizing how that looked, forced them to his sides.
“Don’t cover up. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Yet.” Damon tossed the shirt onto the couch. He stepped back into Sam’s line of sight, his gaze a physical scrape over Sam’s torso. “Turn around. Let’s see the back.”
Sam turned, the motion stiff. The cool air of the studio whispered across his bare back. He felt utterly seen, the camera’s red eye memorizing every ridge of his spine, every shift of his shoulder blades.
Damon’s silence was worse than commentary. Sam heard the soft scuff of boots on the concrete floor as Damon circled him again. A calloused thumb pressed into the dimple just above Sam’s jeans. Sam jerked.
“Good. Responsive.” Damon’s voice was a low murmur, almost to himself. “Now the jeans. And the boxers. Everything off.”
Sam’s fingers fumbled at his belt. The buckle clinked, too loud in the humming room. He told his hands to stop shaking. They didn’t listen. He pushed his jeans and briefs down in one awkward motion, kicking them aside into a heap on the floor. The air felt different now, a comprehensive chill that raised goosebumps on his thighs and arms. He kept his eyes fixed on the black wall ahead, on a single smudge he could pretend was important.
Damon stepped in close behind him. Sam could feel the heat radiating from him. A hand, warm and heavy, settled on the curve of his ass. It wasn’t a caress. It was an appraisal.
“Cute little ass,” Damon said, his tone conversational, as if noting the weather. His other hand came around Sam’s hip, his fingers curling loosely around Sam’s flaccid cock. Sam sucked in a sharp breath, every muscle locking. “And, huh. A cute little cock, too.” Damon gave it a slight, indifferent squeeze. “You fuck your girlfriend with this thing?”
Humiliation, hot and sharp, lanced through Sam’s chest. It tightened his throat. He couldn’t speak.
The hand on his ass lifted and came down in a swift, crisp spank. The sound cracked through the music. The sting was bright, shocking, blooming across his skin. Sam gasped, his body lurching forward a step from the force.
“Eyes on me, boy.”
Damon moved around to face him. Sam’s gaze dropped, then snapped up to Damon’s face, but not before he saw. Damon had unzipped his own jeans, freeing his erection. It was thick, veined, and unmistakably large. Sam’s brain stuttered, his mind going blank and noisy at the same time. He’d seen porn, he’d seen guys in locker rooms, but this was different. This was here, now, demanding a reaction in the pitiless red light.
His face felt feverish. He was flustered, his earlier resolve crumbling into a jumble of panic and a strange, detached curiosity.
“Knees,” Damon said. It wasn’t a shout. It was a calm, implacable command.
Sam’s body obeyed before his mind could form a protest. The concrete was hard and unforgiving against his kneecaps. The perspective shifted dizzyingly; he was now eye-level with Damon’s hips, with the reality of what was expected.
The perspective shifted dizzyingly; he was now eye-level with Damon’s hips, with the reality of what was expected. The smell of clean skin and that sharp cologne filled his head. He could see the coarse hair, the heavy weight of him, the faint throb of a vein. Sam’s mouth went dry as ash.
Sam’s mouth went dry as ash. The concrete bit into his knees. His own breath sounded ragged in his ears, competing with the low thrum of the music. Up close, the reality was different from any idea he’d ever had. It was just a body part, but it wasn’t. It was Damon’s. The sheer size of it, the blunt fact of its presence, made his stomach tighten.
The sheer size of it, the blunt fact of its presence, made his stomach tighten.
“Look at you,” Damon said, his voice a low chuckle. “Eyes all wide. Never seen one up close before, have you, straight boy?”
Sam’s throat worked. He couldn’t form words.
“Put your hands on your thighs. Palms up.” Damon waited until Sam complied, his own hands trembling slightly as he laid them on his legs. “Good. Now you’re going to use one of those. You’re going to touch me.”
A violent shake of his head was Sam’s first, instinctive response. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Damon cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the job. You think the money’s for standing there looking pretty? Touch it.”
Sam’s gaze flickered from Damon’s face down to the reality before him. The studio lights gleamed off damp skin. He became aware of the second camera then, a silent black shape positioned off to the side behind Damon’s leg. It was aimed directly at his face. Every flinch, every grimace, would be recorded in high definition. His humiliation had a close-up.
“My patience isn’t part of the package, boy.”
Swallowing hard, Sam lifted his right hand. It felt detached, someone else’s limb. The air seemed thicker as he brought it closer, the distance closing in centimeters that felt like miles. His fingertips brushed against hot skin.
His fingertips brushed against hot skin. It was a strange, feverish heat, utterly foreign. The texture wasn't like his own; it was smoother, tighter, with ridges of veins mapping a territory he didn't know. His hand jerked back an inch, a reflexive flinch.
"You pull away again and the paycheck gets smaller." Damon's voice was flat, absolute. "Grab it. Properly."
Sam’s fingers closed, tentatively forming a loose ring. His palm barely made contact.
"That's not a grip, that's a suggestion." Damon’s hand covered Sam’s, forcing it tighter, squeezing Sam’s fingers around his own girth. The pressure was startling, intimate in a way that made Sam’s stomach lurch. "There. Feel that? That's what you're working with. Now move."
Sam began a stiff, up-and-down motion, his wrist rigid. The slide was slicker than he anticipated. He focused on a point on Damon’s belt, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
"Look at it, boy. Don't be shy." Damon’s free hand came under Sam’s chin, tilting his face down. "See what you're doing? Your first time. Camera loves this."
Sam’s eyes dragged downward. His own hand, tanned and familiar, looked alien wrapped around that thick, flushed cock. The second camera, positioned just behind Damon’s hip, was a dark cyclops pointed directly at his face. He knew it was capturing every micro-expression—the confusion, the shame, the reluctant fascination.
"Isn't it big?" Damon’s tone was conversational, almost friendly, which made it worse. "Come on, say it. Admit it. You're impressed."
Sam’s throat locked. He increased the speed of his stroke, hoping action would silence the demand.
"Words, straight boy. Or we start over." Damon’s hips pushed forward minutely, filling Sam’s hand completely. "It's big. Say it."
"It's big," Sam mumbled, the words scraping out.
"Louder. And look at me when you say it."
Sam lifted his gaze. Damon’s eyes were dark, amused, and utterly in control. "It's big."
"Damn right it is. Makes yours look like a thumb, doesn't it?" Damon chuckled, his thumb stroking the hinge of Sam’s jaw. "Bet you've had girls tell you you're hung. Not here, you're not. Here, you're just the boy with the little dick and the willing hands."
The humiliation was a live wire under Sam’s skin. His own cock, soft and ignored between his legs, seemed to shrink further into his body. He wanted to反驳, but the truth was a cold stone in his gut. It was bigger. Much bigger.
"Pick up the pace. You jerk off, don't you? Use some rhythm." Damon shifted his weight, his muscles flexing. "That's it. Now, you get girls to do this for you all the time, right? You lay back and let them work. Today, you're the girl. Today, you're my girl. How's it feel, being my girl on your knees?"
Sam’s rhythm faltered. The pronoun landed like a slap.
"Don't stop." The command was sharp, brooking no argument. "And answer me. How does it feel?"
"Degrading," Sam spit out, the word bursting from him before he could filter it.
Damon’s laugh was genuine, rich with pleasure. "There it is. Honesty. It is degrading. You're degrading yourself for money. And you'll keep doing it, because I say so, and because that check is the only thing waiting for you after this." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur meant for the microphones. "But part of you doesn't totally hate it, does it? Part of you is awake now. Watching your hand. Feeling the heat. Wondering."
Sam’s breath hitched. A treacherous awareness was growing—of the power in his grip, of the responding twitches under his palm, of the perverse intimacy of the act. His stomach churned with disgust, but beneath it, a thread of something else pulsed, low and confused.
"Use your other hand. Cup the balls. Show me you know how to treat a man right."
"Show me you know how to treat a man right."
Sam’s left hand moved as if guided by wires. He cupped the heavy weight beneath, his fingers tentative. The skin here was different, softer, a vulnerable heat. The contrast between what he held in each hand was profound and humiliating. His right hand continued its mechanical stroke, up and down, the motion becoming slicker, easier.
“There you go,” Damon murmured, his head tilted back just a fraction. He watched Sam through half-lidded eyes. “You’re a quick study. Bet you’re a good little overachiever in class, huh? All those tidy notes. This is just another skill to master.”
Sam’s blush deepened, a scorching heat that spread from his face down his neck to his chest. He was painfully aware of his own nakedness, his knees aching on the concrete, while Damon stood over him, mostly clothed, fully in command. Every pull of his hand felt like a subtraction from himself, a piece of his old identity handed over.
“You’re blushing,” Damon said, a note of delight in his voice. He shifted his hips, his cock sliding through Sam’s tightened fist. “That’s good. The camera eats that up. The straight boy, red-faced, jerking off a man. Your girlfriend ever make you blush like this?”
The question hung in the air, rhetorical and sharp. Sam’s blush was its own answer, a furious heat across his cheeks. He focused on the motion of his hand, trying to lose himself in the repetitive up and down, hoping the rhythm would become a mindless blur.
It didn’t.
He went harder. Faster. His wrist began to ache but he pushed through, gripping tighter. The logic was simple, desperate: if he could just finish this with his hands, it would end. The contract would be fulfilled. He could stand up, get dressed, and walk out. The thought was a lifeline. He chased it, his strokes becoming more urgent, a frantic piston.
Damon let out a low, humming sound. He rocked his hips slightly, meeting Sam’s rhythm. “Look at you go, boy. Getting into it. Eager.” His hand came down and tousled Sam’s hair, a rough, condescending gesture. “What’s the rush? You got somewhere to be?”
Sam didn’t answer. He kept his eyes down, on the task. Up, down, twist at the top like he’d seen in clips. He poured every ounce of his will into his hand.
“You think if you work me fast, you get to go home early?” Damon laughed, the sound rich and mocking. He shifted his stance, widening his legs, making himself a more solid fixture. “Cute. But no. I decide when it’s over. And we’re just getting warmed up.”
Sam’s rhythm faltered for a second, a hitch of pure frustration. Damon’s hand fisted in his hair, not yanking, just holding, a reminder of control.
“Don’t pout. Use your tongue if your hand’s getting tired.”
Sam froze. The words landed like a physical block. His hand stilled.
“I didn’t say stop.” Damon’s voice was a warning. He used his grip in Sam’s hair to guide his head forward, until Sam’s face was inches away. The heat and musk were overwhelming. “You’re not done. You’ve just upgraded.”
Damon tapped Sam’s cheek with the head of his cock, once, twice. The touch was light, almost playful, and utterly degrading. A hot, damp smear was left on his skin. “Give it a kiss, straight boy. Say hello properly.”
Sam’s stomach turned over. His lungs felt tight. He stared at the veined flesh in front of him, the reality of the command shutting down his higher thought. The camera to the side was a silent witness, zooming in, he was sure, on the conflict in his eyes. He saw the money. He saw the door. He saw the check clearing.
He closed his eyes, leaned the fraction of an inch forward, and pressed his lips to the skin in a dry, closed-mouth kiss. It was brief, less than a second.
Damon’s laugh was a shot of pure gratification. “There it is. First man you ever kissed.”