Chapter 11: Confessions
Sam’s sneakers echoed in the sterile hallway of the nondescript office building, a sound too loud in the afternoon quiet. He’d texted ‘Are you filming today?’ and the reply had been instantaneous: ‘Studio B. 3 PM. Be camera ready.’ No hello. No mention of the shower, the kiss, the offer. Just an address and a time.
It was professional. That’s what Sam told himself. He was here for a job. One more. The money from the first shoot was already a ghost in his bank account, devoured by a late tuition payment. He needed another hit. That was all. The fact that his pulse had kicked into a sprint the moment he saw the text, the way his stomach had twisted with a thrill that felt suspiciously like anticipation… that was just about the money.
Studio B was a heavy, unmarked door. He pushed it open.
The air was cool and smelled faintly of leather cleaner and ozone. Unlike Damon’s chaotic bedroom, this room was a study in controlled intent. Black soundproofing foam checkered the walls. Lights on towering stands were dark, their skeletal forms looming. In the center sat the couch: a huge, curving thing of glossy black vinyl that looked less like furniture and more like a predatory animal sleeping.
Damon was by a small table, checking a camera on a tripod. He wore simple black joggers and a tight grey t-shirt that hugged every muscle. He looked up, and his gaze was appraising, impersonal. “You’re on time. Good.” He gestured to a door in the corner. “Bathroom’s there. Strip, robe on. The usual.”
The clinical tone was a bucket of cold water. Sam nodded, wordless, and went to change. In the mirror, his reflection looked wired, eyes a little too bright. He tried to summon the reluctant anxiety from the first time. It was there, but it was buried under a layer of something else—a jittery familiarity. He knew the script. He knew the smell of Damon’s skin. He knew what was coming.
He tied the flimsy robe and walked back out.
Damon was now sitting in the center of the black couch, one arm stretched along its back. The camera on the tripod was pointed at the empty space beside him, its red recording light a single, unblinking eye.
“Sit,” Damon said, not looking up from his phone.
Sam moved to the far end of the couch.
“Not there.” Damon finally glanced over. He patted his thigh. “Here. We’re doing an intro. A little… catch-up interview.”
Sam’s feet rooted to the floor. An interview?
“Because the audience loves a story. Porn is better with a plot.” Damon’s smile was all sharp edges. “Makes it real. Now sit. We’re burning light.”
The walk across the room felt endless. Sam stopped in front of him. Damon’s expression didn’t change. He simply reached out, took Sam’s wrist, and guided him down. Sam sank awkwardly onto Damon’s lap, one leg curled under himself, the other foot on the floor. The black vinyl was cool and sticky against the back of his thigh where the robe fell open. Damon’s body was a furnace beneath him, solid and unyielding. He adjusted Sam with a few efficient shifts, pulling him back until Sam was fully seated, his ass cradled in Damon’s lap, his back against Damon’s chest.
Damon’s arm came around his waist, holding him there. It wasn’t an embrace. It was a bracket.
“Comfy?” Damon’s voice was a low rumble in his ear.
Sam gave a tight nod. He was already hard. The position, the searing heat, the memory of that morning—his body reacted with humiliating speed. He willed it down, focusing on the camera’s red eye.
Damon reached over with his free hand and clicked a button on the camera. The light began to blink. “And… we’re rolling.” He relaxed into the couch, his hold on Sam becoming almost casual. “So, Sam. Welcome back.”
“Thanks,” Sam muttered, staring at the lens.
“For the viewers who missed our first videos, why don’t you introduce yourself? Just the basics.”
Sam swallowed. “I’m… Sam. I’m twenty.” He sounded like a robot.
“And you came to me for your first and then second and third ever on-camera experiences, right?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you feel after that?” Damon’s hand splayed on Sam’s stomach, warm through the thin robe.
"How’d you feel after that first time?"
Sam stared at the blinking red light. His mouth went dry. "I don’t know. Sore, I guess."
Damon’s laugh vibrated through him. "Sore is an understatement, sweetheart. I wrecked you." His fingers traced idle patterns low on Sam’s belly. "You were so tight. A real virgin. I had to fuck that sweet mouth of yours first just to get you to relax, remember? You cried."
"I didn’t cry," Sam lied, his face heating. He remembered the choking, the helpless gagging, the way his eyes had watered uncontrollably.
"Sure you didn’t." Damon’s other hand came up to brush Sam’s hair back from his forehead, a grotesque parody of tenderness. "Then I took that virgin ass. Hard. You were sore for days, weren't you? Felt opened up."
Sam’s silence was confirmation enough. Damon’s hand slid lower, a heavy, undeniable weight. “Then you came back for a second round. Said you needed the money. But we both know that wasn’t the only reason.”
“It was the money.” The protest was weak, automatic. Sam could feel himself thickening against his thigh, a traitorous swell he tried to shift away from.
Damon’s arm clamped tighter, pinning him. “Sure. And on that second visit, I taught you something new, didn’t I? You came without a single touch. Just from getting fucked.” He said it directly to the camera, a proud curator explaining an exhibit. “His whole body just… locked up. Beautiful.” He turned his head, his lips brushing Sam’s ear. “You screamed into the pillow. Remember the sound you made?”
A full-body shiver wracked Sam. He remembered. The shocking, seizure-like peak that had torn through him, wholly separate from his own hand. His face burned.
“And the third time,” Damon continued, his voice conversational, “you were so eager. But I made you wait. Just my hand on your face, my fingers in you, watching you beg for it. You were a wreck afterward. All shaky and quiet.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He’d laid on that same couch afterward, feeling hollowed out and used, and yet…
“And then you didn’t leave.” Damon’s tone shifted, becoming almost fond, which was worse. “My good boy was so tired. I took care of him. Gave him his kisses. Held him. And he fell asleep right in my bed, curled up on me so sweet.” He chuckled.
The memory was a soft, dangerous blur—the solid chest under his cheek, a hand stroking his hair, a foreign sense of safety that had swallowed him whole.
"Sam, tell them what happened in the morning."
Sam’s throat constricted. The camera’s blinking light seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. “I woke up. We, uh… we messed around a little. That’s it.”
He could feel the curve of Damon’s smile against his temple. “Messed around.” The words were a soft, mocking echo. “That’s adorable. You’re so cute when you lie.”
Damon’s arm tightened, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant for the microphone. “Here’s what really happened. My boy woke up with this desperate little hard-on, grinding against my leg like a teenager. Whimpering in his sleep.” His hand slid from Sam’s stomach, palm pressing flat and possessive over the growing heat between Sam’s legs through the robe. Sam jerked.
“He was so fucking needy,” Damon continued, his tone almost admiring. “All that tension from the night before, right? We didn’t finish properly. So he woke up hungry for it. Couldn’t help himself.” He gave a gentle, squeezing press. “You needed that dick you missed, didn’t you? Weren’t you just begging for it with your whole body before you even opened your eyes?”
Sam’s breath hitched. He tried to curl forward, to hide his face and the obvious bulge now straining against the black fabric. He attempted to pull his legs up, to collapse his posture and vanish.
“Ah-ah.” Damon’s hands moved swiftly. One clamped on Sam’s outer thigh, the other on the opposite knee, and he forced Sam’s legs apart, spreading them wide over his own. The robe fell open completely, showcasing the full, rigid line of Sam’s erection to the unblinking lens. “Let them see. That’s the point, sweetheart. Show them how your body tells the truth even when your mouth won’t.”
Sam made a choked sound and shoved his face against Damon’s shoulder, the heat of his own humiliation scorching his cheeks. He was fully exposed, angled perfectly for the camera, his cock twitching pathetically in the cool air.
“There he is,” Damon murmured, smoothing a hand up Sam’s chest, his thumb brushing roughly over a nipple. He kept talking to the camera. “So fucking desperate. So slutty for it, right Sam? You woke up and just had to have me inside you again.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And you did. And you loved it. You came so hard you saw stars. We should have filmed it. Pity.”
Sam just shook his head against Damon’s shoulder, a weak denial. Every nerve felt scraped raw and hyper-alert.
“Now,” Damon said, his voice shifting back to that false, conversational ease. “What about that girlfriend you mentioned the first day? Jessica, was it? You two still together?”
The question was a door slammed into a wall Sam had been leaning against. His whole body went rigid. “That’s… that’s private.”
“Nothing’s private here. That’s the deal.” Damon’s fingers combed through Sam’s hair, a soothing gesture that felt like a threat. “Are you with her?”
Sam swallowed against the sudden, hollow ache in his chest. “No.”
“No? Since when?”
“A week.” The words were ashes in his mouth.
“A week ago.” Damon let that hang, letting the timeline connect in the silent room. A week after the first shoot. A few days after the second. He kissed the side of Sam’s head, a firm, smacking kiss. “Wow. Coincidence?”
“It’s not—it wasn’t because of this.” Sam’s protest was feeble.
“Sure,” Damon said, utterly unconvinced. He traced the shell of Sam’s ear. “Did you fuck her after you left here? After you had my cock in your ass?”
“Stop.”
“Did you?”
“No!” Sam hissed, the truth torn out of him. He hadn’t been able to. He’d tried, and he’d just… stalled out, his mind full of black vinyl and the taste of sweat.
“So you left here, went to your girl, and couldn’t get it up.” Damon synthesized it neatly, clinically. His hand stroked down Sam’s flank, a territorial claim. “And then you broke up. And then you texted me.” He chuckled, the sound dark and rich with satisfaction. “The progression is so fucking perfect. You’re coming along so nicely.”
Sam felt dizzy. The narrative was being woven around him, tight and inescapable. He was just a thing in the story Damon was telling, his own life reduced to a crude, convincing plot.
The sound of the camera’s fan was the only noise for a long moment. Damon’s hand, still splayed on Sam’s chest, felt like a brand. Sam’s breath was shallow, his thoughts a scrambled mess of shame and a dizzying, unwanted arousal. He was naked in every way that mattered.
“Look at me.” Damon’s voice wasn’t a request.
Sam couldn’t. He kept his face buried in the soft cotton of Damon’s shirt, inhaling the faded cologne and the stark, clean smell of his skin.
A strong finger hooked under his chin and pulled, forcing his head up and around. Damon’s eyes were close, an arresting gray flecked with green. They held no mercy, only a warm, amused certainty. “There’s my good boy,” he murmured, just for Sam. Then he tilted Sam’s face toward the camera. “Look at him. All flushed and confused. Breaking him is half the fun.”
He kissed Sam then, not on the head, but full on the mouth. It wasn’t tender. It was a firm, claiming press of lips, a deliberate performance for the lens. Sam froze, his body going stiff. A silent protest died in his throat. He didn’t pull back. His lips parted, just slightly, under the pressure. The taste of Damon’s mouth—coffee and mint—was shockingly familiar.
When Damon leaned away, Sam’s lips were tingling. He stared, dazed, at the older man’s smirk.
Damon’s thumb swept over Sam’s bottom lip, which felt swollen and tingling. “Eyes on me, not the camera. I’m your only audience right now.” Sam’s gaze flickered back, helpless, drowning in that calm, predatory gray. “Good.” Damon’s hand slid up to cradle Sam’s jaw, his touch somehow both commanding and tender. “My boy gets so spacey after a kiss.”
He leaned in again, closing the distance slowly, giving Sam every chance to turn away. Sam didn’t. He met the kiss this time, his mouth opening under Damon’s with a soft, yielding sigh. The world narrowed to the slick heat of Damon’s tongue, the scratch of his stubble, the firm hand holding him still. A low, embarrassing noise vibrated in Sam’s throat.
When Damon finally broke away, Sam chased the taste for a half-second, a dazed puppet with its strings cut. “See?” Damon murmured, his lips brushing Sam’s as he spoke. “You don’t need words. Your mouth has better things to do.” He kissed him once more, quickly, a punctuation mark.
He kissed him once more, quickly, a punctuation mark. Damon’s hand slid from Sam’s jaw down the column of his throat, feeling the frantic pulse there, before coming to rest over his heart. “Thumping like a rabbit,” he observed, his voice a low hum against Sam’s ear. He looked directly into the camera, his expression one of amused conquest. “Interview portion’s over. Now we get to the main event.”
In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting Sam with him as if he weighed nothing. Sam gasped, his legs instinctively wrapping around Damon’s waist, his arms flying to his shoulders for balance. The robe fell away completely, puddling on the black vinyl behind them. Damon carried him the few steps to the center of the room, where the lights were primed, and lowered him onto the couch. The material was shockingly cold against his bare back.
“Gonna make you feel so good, baby,” Damon said, his tone shifting from interviewer to something darker, more intimate. He stripped off his shirt, the tattoos on his chest and arms a intricate map of old ink and raised scars. He didn’t hurry. He let Sam watch, let him breathe in the sight and the implicit threat of it.
He knelt on the couch, caging Sam in. His fingers traced the line of Sam’s hipbone, the defined V that soccer had carved. “Still so pretty.” His thumb brushed a nipple, and Sam arched off the couch with a sharp inhale. “Still so sensitive everywhere.” He leaned down and licked a stripe from Sam’s navel to his sternum.
Sam’s hands fisted at his sides, his knuckles white. He stared at the ceiling, at the acoustic foam squares, trying to find an anchor.
“Look at me,” Damon commanded, his voice rough.
Sam’s eyes dragged back to him. Damon was holding a bottle of lube, popping the cap with a loud click. The sound was obscenely clinical. “You remember how this goes, right? My good boy remembers his routine.”
He poured the cool gel onto his fingers. Sam tensed, his whole body locking in anticipation of the burn, the stretch. But Damon just smiled, swirling his fingers, warming it. “Relax. I’ll take care of you.” He moved his other hand to Sam’s inner thigh, pushing it wider, opening him up to the hot gaze of the lights and the lens. “This is mine to take care of now.”
The first touch was a slow, deliberate circle that made Sam jolt. His back left the couch. A choked sound escaped him.
“Shhh,” Damon soothed, but his eyes were alight with a fierce joy. He pushed one finger in, just past the knuckle. Sam’s breath hitched, shuddering out of him. It was easier than the first time, his body shamefully accustomed. Damon worked him with a practiced, relentless rhythm, adding a second finger before Sam could fully adjust. The stretch was a bright, sharp sensation that blurred into a deep, unsettling pleasure.
“See?” Damon murmured, curling his fingers, searching. “You open up so nice for me now. Like you were made for it.” He found the spot, that bundle of nerves that short-circuited thought, and pressed.
Sam cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound. His hips bucked off the couch.
“There it is.” Damon’s smile was triumphant. He scissored his fingers, stretching him further. “Your little pussy remembers exactly what it needs.” He leaned close, his breath hot on Sam’s cheek. “Does a straight boy’s ass remember how to take a dick this well, Sam? Hmm? Do straight guys usually clench around fingers like they’re begging for more?”
“Stop talking,” Sam gasped, his face aflame. He was painfully hard, his cock weeping onto his stomach.
Damon just chuckled and removed his fingers. The emptiness was a shock. Sam whimpered, the sound seeming to come from someone else. He heard the tear of a foil packet, the rustle of Damon shedding his joggers. The weight of him settled back between Sam’s thighs, heavy and inevitable.
The blunt, broad head of him pressed against Sam, a promise of ruin. Damon didn’t push. He just held it there, a sweet, torturous pressure. “You want it?”
Sam shut his eyes tight, tremors running through his limbs. He nodded, a frantic little jerk of his chin.
“Words, sweetheart. My good boy uses his words when he’s asking for my cock.”
“Please.” It was a scrap of sound.
“Please what?”
Sam’s mind screamed. His body answered. “Please. Fuck me.”
Damon surged forward, burying himself in one deep, devastating stroke. Sam’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his back bowing. It was too much, a blinding fullness that stole the air from his lungs. He felt split open, owned.
Damon stayed there, fully sheathed, letting Sam feel every inch. He bent and captured Sam’s mouth in a searing kiss, sucking on his tongue. Sam kissed back instinctively, a dazed and hungry response, his fingers digging into Damon’s biceps.
“You take it so good,” Damon growled against his lips. He began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips that rubbed against that blissful, terrible spot with every thrust. “So damn good for me.” He picked up the pace, the sound of skin on skin filling the sterile room, punctuated by Sam’s ragged breaths.
The tease was a current under the physical act. “This what you needed, baby? This what your straight-boy life was missing?” Damon’s voice was gravel, his thrusts brutal and perfect. “You think a girl could ever fuck you like this? Find this spot inside you and just… drill it until you lose your mind?”
“N-no,” Sam panted, the admission torn from him.
“No,” Damon agreed, hammering into him. “Could a pretty little girlfriend make you scream like this?” He punctuated the question with a particularly vicious angle, and Sam did scream, the sound echoing off the foam panels.
Damon’s hand slid between them, wrapping around Sam’s cock. The dual sensation was catastrophic. Sam’s vision whited out at the edges. “You don’t need pussy,” Damon stated, his rhythm never faltering. “You can’t even handle pussy now. Your pussy needs to be taken care of. My boy needs cock in him, yeah? Needs to be filled up.”
Needs to be filled up.”
The truth of it was a barbed wire wrapping around Sam’s ribs, tightening with every thrust. His heels dug into the vinyl, his body arching to meet Damon’s, a broken rhythm of pure need. Damon’s hand on his cock was a rough, perfect counterpoint, twisting on the upstroke, and Sam knew with horrifying certainty he wouldn’t last.
“And your useless little dick is so sweet and wet, just there to flop around while I fuck you.”
The words weren’t a question. They were a fact, drilled into him with every piston-drive thrust of Damon’s hips. Sam could only nod, a broken, wet sound escaping his throat as Damon’s fist moved on him in time with the pounding descent of his body.
“Yeah,” Damon breathed, his own control starting to fray, sweat dripping from his chin onto Sam’s chest. “You’re just a hole for me now. A sweet, used-up hole that can’t get enough.” He leaned down, his pace becoming relentless, a punishing rhythm that stole the rhythm of Sam’s breath. “Tell me,” he grunted. “Tell me what you are.”
Sam shook his head, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, squeezed shut. The pleasure was a cresting wave, huge and terrifying, built on a foundation of sheer degradation.
Damon’s hand left his cock, a sudden loss that made Sam sob. He grabbed Sam’s jaw instead, forcing his eyes open. “Look at me when I’m ruining you. Tell me what you are.”
“I… I don’t know,” Sam whimpered. The emptiness where Damon’s hand had been was an agony. He was achingly close.
“You’re my good little fucktoy,” Damon supplied, hammering the words home with his body. “Aren’t you? Say it.”
The need for release was a physical panic, a scream in his blood. “I’m your… your fucktoy,” Sam gasped, the syllables slicing his throat.
“And my baby too.”
“Good boy.” Damon’s hand returned, a brutal, twisting stroke. “Now who do you belong to? Who owns this tight little ass?” He stilled, buried to the hilt, an immovable object. The throbbing fullness was maddening.
Sam’s hips bucked, seeking friction, seeking completion. “You! You do.”
Damon started moving again, a slow, torturous grind. “No one else, just me?” He sped up abruptly, slamming into him. “You don’t want other dick?”
“No!”
“Did your girl ever make you feel like this? Huh? All desperate and sloppy?”
Sam couldn’t think, couldn’t lie. “No.”
“You need your man to take care of you, yeah baby.” Damon’s voice dropped, a gravelly coax. “Say it. You need me to take care of you.”
Sam’s composure shattered. “I need it. Please.”
“You’re gonna come for Daddy, aren’t you?” The title landed like a thunderclap in the room. Sam went rigid, a fresh wave of heat flooding his face.
“No… don’t call me that.” It was a weak protest, swallowed by the sound of skin hitting skin.
“Why not?” Damon chuckled, his rhythm never breaking. “You are. My good boy. My baby. You’re gonna come for Daddy because I said so, and you do what Daddy says.” He tightened his grip, his thumb swiping over the slick head. “Do it. Come.”
The command was the final crack. Sam’s entire world narrowed to a white-hot point low in his belly, then detonated. He came with a ragged cry, stripes of release painting his stomach and chest, his body seizing around Damon in helpless, rhythmic clenches.
Damon followed him over, surging deep with a final, guttural groan, his own release a hot pulse inside Sam that seemed to go on forever. He collapsed forward, his weight crushing Sam into the couch, the smell of sex and sweat engulfing them.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breaths. Damon finally shifted, pulling out slowly, and Sam winced at the sudden, hollow sensitivity. Damon didn’t go far. He stretched out beside him, pulling Sam against his side, one heavy arm thrown across his stomach. He fumbled for a discarded t-shirt and wiped them both down with a few clumsy, efficient swipes.
Then he pulled Sam in closer, tucking Sam’s head under his chin. His lips found Sam’s temple in a soft, lingering kiss. “You did so good,” he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. His hand came up to card through Sam’s sweat-damp hair. “So fucking perfect for me. My good boy.”
Sam trembled, all the fight and tension leaching out into a boneless exhaustion. The words, the touch, they were a balm on the raw, abraded feeling inside him. He hated how well it worked. He nuzzled into the hollow of Damon’s throat, breathing him in. “’M sorry,” he mumbled, unsure what he was apologizing for.
“Shhh. Nothing to be sorry for.” Damon kissed his hair again. “Daddy’s so proud of you.” He let the silence settle, his fingers tracing idle patterns on Sam’s shoulder. “Got you a present.”
Sam blinked, drowsy. “Hmm?”
“For being so good. For coming back.” Damon’s voice was smug, pleased. “Remembered you love soccer. Got tickets. Box seats. City versus United, next weekend.”
Sam’s sleepiness evaporated. He tried to pull back to look at him, but Damon held him fast. “What? No. Damon, those are like… a thousand bucks each.”
“So?”
“I can’t… you can’t just…”
“I just did.” Damon finally let him lean back enough to see his face. His expression was soft, but his eyes were shrewd. “We’ll go together. Make a day of it. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
It was an unimaginable kindness, welded to a claim. Going together. In public. Sam’s face flamed again, a different kind of heat. It was so much more intimate than anything they’d done on the couch. “I don’t know…”
“I do.” Damon cupped his face, drawing him in for a long, deep kiss that tasted of salt and possession. When he broke away, Sam was pliant, his thoughts syrupy and slow. “You’ll have fun. Daddy wants to see you happy.”
Sam could only nod, the weight of the gift and its implications too heavy to hold in his drained mind. He slumped back against Damon, who hummed contentedly and resumed stroking his hair. The gentle, rhythmic touch was hypnotic. The sharp edges of the world softened, blurred by exhaustion and the relentless, confusing warmth spreading through his chest. He was already half asleep when he felt the lightest press of lips to his forehead.