Chapter 13: The Bargain
Sunlight, sharp and accusing, cut through the loft’s large windows. Sam woke with a start, the kind where you don’t remember falling asleep and the world reassembles itself in jagged pieces. He was on his side, cheek mashed into a pillow that smelled like Damon’s shampoo and, faintly, himself. The black leather couch from the studio was a distant, shameful memory. This was Damon’s bed—a low, massive platform with crisp grey sheets.
And he was painfully, unequivocally hard.
It was a deep, throbbing ache that had nothing to do with fantasy and everything to do with the unconscious press of his body against the mattress. A full, hot stiffness that felt urgent and stupid. The humiliation from last night—the comments, the forced stillness, the feeding, the whispered daddy—came rushing back, but it was tangled now with the raw physical need. His face burned in the clean morning light.
He felt movement behind him. Damon’s arm was slung heavy over his ribs, his broad chest a furnace against Sam’s back. A low, sleep-rough voice hummed against the nape of his neck. “Morning, sunshine. Someone’s eager.”
Sam froze. He hadn’t moved. How did he know? “I’m not—it’s just morning,” he mumbled, the excuse withering in his own ears.
Damon’s chuckle vibrated through him. His hand slid down from Sam’s ribs, over the dip of his waist, and palmed the firm curve of his ass through his boxer-briefs. “Sure it is.” He rutted forward, his own evident hardness pressing against Sam. The friction was electric, a bright spark that made Sam gasp and push back instinctively, seeking more.
For a few minutes, it was just that: a slow, grinding rhythm in the quiet room. Damon’s mouth found the sensitive spot behind Sam’s ear, biting and sucking gently. His hands wandered, mapping the terrain of Sam’s stomach, his hips, teasing along the waistband of his underwear. Sam was lost in it, the embarrassment sublimating into pure sensation. He arched into the touch, a soft, pathetic noise escaping him. This, he could understand. This was a release valve. He needed it.
“Damon,” he breathed, the name a plea.
“Mm?” Damon kissed his shoulder, his hand smoothing back over Sam’s hip. He hooked his fingers in the elastic and tugged, peeling the briefs down just enough. Sam lifted his hips to help, his breath coming faster. This was it. They’d finish what the night had started. He’d get the desperate friction, the messy, meaningless conclusion, and maybe then the twisted knot in his gut would loosen.
Instead of the expected touch, Damon reached over him. There was a click of a bottle cap, the sound shockingly loud. Something cool and slippery dribbled onto the small of Sam’s back. He flinched.
“Wh—”
“Shh. Just getting you ready.” Damon’s voice was calm, conversational. His slick finger circled a place that made Sam tense completely. “Relax. You know how this goes.”
“No, wait, I thought—” Sam’s protest was cut short as a thick finger pressed inside, not waiting, just invading. It was a familiar stretching burn, but in the context of his urgent morning need, it felt incongruous, a detour. He clenched around it, a reflex. Damon’s other hand soothed his hip.
“You thought I was just gonna let you hump the bed like a dog and get off? That’s not how this works.” He worked the finger in deeper, crooking it. A jolt, alien and deeply unsettling, shot through Sam. He buried his face in the pillow. “See? You’re tight. Need to be opened up.”
Sam panted, his own neglected hardness trapped painfully against the sheet. He pushed back again, not away from the intrusion, but into it, a confusing mix of resistance and need. “Just… fuck me then. Get it over with.”
Damon laughed, a genuine sound of amusement. He added a second finger, the stretch blooming into a sharp ache. “So bossy, baby.” He scissored his fingers slowly, the slick sounds obscene in the sunlit room.
“You need more than this,” Damon murmured, his breath hot against Sam’s neck. He worked his fingers with a ruthless, knowing precision, brushing that spot again until Sam’s thighs trembled. “All that fuss yesterday, but this little hole remembers.”
He withdrew his fingers, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before Sam could protest, a strong arm hooked around his waist and flipped him onto his back. The morning sun blinded him for a second. Then Damon was over him, caging him in, and his mouth was on Sam’s—demanding, deep, and tasting of sleep.
Sam kissed back, his hands flying up to clutch at Damon’s shoulders. This was more like it. Urgent, mouth-to-mouth, a direct circuit for his frustration. He ground his hips up, seeking friction, but Damon held himself just out of reach, controlling the contact. The kiss was everything; a rough, swallowing possession that made Sam’s head swim.
When Damon broke away, Sam was panting, his lips slick and bruised. “Please,” he heard himself whisper, the word scraped raw from his throat.
“Please what?” Damon nudged Sam’s legs apart with a knee, settling between them. He looked down, his gaze a physical weight. “Use your words, college boy. Tell me what you want.”
Sam swallowed, his face burning. He hated this game. “You,” he managed. “Just… fuck me. Okay? Now.”
Damon’s smile was a slow, wicked curve. He leaned down, kissing the hollow of Sam’s throat. “Your vocabulary’s shit, but your body’s begging for it.” One hand slid back down, fingers teasing the furl of muscle, now loosened and slick. “This is what wants me. Look how open you are already. Greedy.”
He pressed two fingers back inside, and Sam arched off the mattress with a choked gasp. The stretch was easier now, a hot, full ache that spiraled directly into the base of his cock. Damon watched his face, his expression one of cool analysis.
“See? Talking to me. It’s saying ‘don’t leave me empty, daddy’.” He dragged the title out, savoring Sam’s flinch and subsequent shiver. He twisted his fingers. “Isn’t that right?”
Sam couldn’t answer. He was coiled too tight, suspended between the need for relief and the degrading truth of Damon’s words. He nodded, a frantic little dip of his chin.
“Good boy.” Damon pulled his fingers out with a soft pop. He reached toward the nightstand again. Sam heard the click of a cap, more slick sounds. He braced himself, eyes screwed shut, body thrumming with anticipation. This was it. Finally.
The pressure wasn’t a cock. It was something cooler, blunter, and insistent. Sam’s eyes flew open. “Wha—?”
“There you go, baby,” Damon hushed, his voice a low soothe as he pushed. The object, smooth and tapered, slid in with shocking ease, filling him with a solid, unyielding presence. It was deep, wider than the fingers, a permanent, stretching claim. “Won’t leave you empty.”
Sam gasped as the firm, silicone bulb seated itself fully inside him. The stretch was undeniable, a constant, foreign pressure that somehow magnified the emptiness he felt everywhere else. It wasn’t pain; it was a deep, resonating fullness that brushed against a nerve cluster, sending a weak, pleasurable jolt through his groin. His cock, still painfully hard, twitched against his stomach.
“See?” Damon patted his flank, his voice infuriatingly cheerful. “Now you’re prepped for the day.” He rolled off the bed in one fluid motion, leaving Sam exposed and impossibly yearning on the rumpled sheets. The morning air felt cold on his damp skin.
Sam could only lie there, breathing heavily, as Damon walked, naked and unconcerned, toward the kitchen. The plug shifted inside him with a subtle, internal movement as he clenched in frustration. He heard the fridge open, the clatter of a pan on the stove. “Get dressed, sport. You’ve got class.” Damon called out, as if commenting on the weather.
“You can’t be serious,” Sam croaked, pulling himself up on his elbows. The movement made the plug press there again, a cruel tease. He could feel every contour of it.
“Dead serious. Bacon and eggs?” The sizzle of fat hitting a hot pan punctuated the question, followed by the rich, salty scent. Sam’s stomach growled, a traitorous sound.
He stumbled out of bed, his movements awkward and stiff. Pulling on his jeans was a special kind of torture; the denim pressed against the base of the plug, a constant, maddening reminder as he zipped up. He had to move carefully, each step sending a small, electric pulse through him. He stood in the doorway of the sleek kitchen, watching Damon’s bare back muscles flex as he scrambled eggs. “Take it out.”
Damon glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why? It’s keeping you company.” He flipped the bacon with a pair of tongs. “You’re all wound up from last night. This’ll help you… focus.”
“Focus?” Sam’s voice cracked. He was throbbing, aching. The cool granite of the kitchen island bit into his palms as he leaned against it, trying to find a stance that didn’t make the pressure more intense. Every shift was a tiny, unsatisfying nudge.
“On your studies. Not on how bad you wanna get railed.” Damon plated the food with a casual flair, sliding a heaping portion toward Sam. “Eat. You need protein.”
Sam stared at the food, his appetite warring with a more immediate hunger. He slid onto a stool, the hard surface making the plug sit up straighter inside him. He jerked slightly. Damon watched, chewing a piece of bacon, his eyes alight with amusement. Sam picked up a fork, his knuckles white. He took a bite. It tasted like nothing.
“I can’t go to class like this,” Sam muttered, pushing the eggs around his plate.
“Sure you can. It’s just a little secret.” Damon leaned on the counter opposite him, his gaze dropping meaningfully to Sam’s lap. “Mine and yours. Think about it all through lecture. Wonder if anyone can tell.”
The humiliation was a hot wave. Sam squirmed, and the plug shifted again, a direct, internal caress that made him suck in a sharp breath. He was dripping pre-come into his underwear, a damp, embarrassing spot. “Damon. Come on.”
“Come on, what?” Damon walked around the island, stopping beside Sam’s stool. He ran a hand through Sam’s untidy morning hair, a mockingly gentle gesture. “Use your words.
“I need to…” Sam couldn’t say it. He looked down at his own lap, then up at Damon, desperation stripping him bare.
“You need to cum?” Damon finished for him, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He trailed a single finger down the side of Sam’s neck. “I know you do, baby. You’re begging for it without saying a thing.” His hand slid to Sam’s belt buckle, and for a dizzying second, Sam thought he’d relent.
He just gave the buckle a tiny, dismissive flick. “But you’ve got Macro-Economics at ten, right? You’ll be late.” He checked an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Better hustle.”
Sam’s disbelief curdled into a furious, humiliated ache. He was strung tighter than a bowstring, every nerve alight, and this man was talking about class schedules. He stood up abruptly, the stool screeching on the floor. The sudden motion sent a shockwave of sensation straight to his core, so intense his knees almost buckled. He grabbed the edge of the counter, steadying himself.
Damon just sipped his coffee, watching the struggle. “The base is flared, obviously. It’s not going anywhere.” He set the mug down. “Might feel it if you have to sit through a long lecture, though. A little reminder.”
“You’re an asshole,” Sam spat, the words trembling.
“And you’re late,” Damon replied, his tone breezy. He stepped closer, invading Sam’s space. He cupped Sam’s face, his thumb stroking Sam’s cheekbone with a tenderness. “Come straight back here after. No detours.” He leaned in, his lips brushing Sam’s ear. “If you’re good, and you’ve thought about it all day… daddy might fuck it out of you.”
The words hung in the sunlit air, a promise that felt like a threat. Sam stood there, vibrating with unmet need, the solid silicone inside him a brutally constant anchor to this reality. He wanted to argue, to demand, but his body was a traitorous wire of raw sensation, and all his protests died before they reached his lips.
Damon read the surrender in his posture. He closed the final distance, his hand sliding to the nape of Sam’s neck. He didn’t ask. He just took Sam’s mouth.
This kiss wasn’t like the one in bed. It was deeper, slower, a claiming that bypassed Sam’s fried nerves and went straight to his marrow. Damon’s tongue mapped his mouth with a lazily possessive thoroughness, one hand fisted in his hair, the other palming the ass cheek that housed the plug. Sam whimpered into the kiss, his own hands clinging to Damon’s bare shoulders for balance. He was being consumed, and the part of him screaming in humiliation was being steadily, meticulously drowned out by a wave of submissive heat.
When Damon finally pulled back, Sam was breathless, lips slick and parted, his eyes glazed.
“Now go,” Damon murmured, his own breathing slightly ragged. He gave Sam a gentle push toward the door.
Sam moved like a sleepwalker, collecting his backpack from where it had been dumped days ago. He felt disassembled, his biology rewritten around that internal, persistent pressure. Every step was a negotiation with it.
He had his hand on the doorknob when Damon’s voice stopped him. “Forgot something, baby.”
Before Sam could turn, a stinging, open-handed smack landed squarely on the seat of his jeans. The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet loft. The impact reverberated through the muscle, sending a sharp, bright jolt through the plug, directly into his core.
Sam cried out, a sharp, unbidden gasp. He shoved the heel of his hand against his mouth to stifle it. His whole face burned, a crimson wave of utter mortification. The shock of the smack melted instantly into a deep, throbbing pulse that seemed to emanate from the very center of him, blending with the plug’s presence into one unbearable, distracting ache.
“That’s so you don’t forget to think of me.” Damon’s voice was full of dark amusement. “Class starts in twenty. You’ll have to jog.”
The door clicked shut behind Sam, leaving him alone in the sterile hallway. He stood there for a count of five, trembling. The point of impact on his ass bloomed with heat. The plug felt ten times larger, a glowing, alien weight. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, his movements stiff and awkward, and began the walk to campus.
The rhythm of his steps was a torture. Each footfall sent a small, seismic shock up his spine, a nudge that was never enough, only a reminder of what wasn’t happening. The fabric of his jeans rubbed the tender spot where Damon’s hand had connected. He was excruciatingly hard, the constraint of his zipper a secondary prison.
He passed other students, their conversations a distant buzz. He caught a snippet about a chemistry midterm, another about a party. Their realities were planets away from his. His was reduced to a single, humiliating point of focus, a secret stretching him open with every stride. He tried to think about his debt, the terrifying number that had started this, but the number just blurred, replaced by the memory of Damon’s voice. Daddy might fuck it out of you.
The lecture hall was a cavern of murmuring students. Sam slid into a seat near the back, the hard plastic unforgiving. As he sat down, the plug shifted, seating itself more firmly at a slightly different angle. He froze, his pen clattering to the floor. A girl in the next row glanced over. He bent to retrieve it, a maneuver that required a careful, clenched tightening that made stars burst behind his eyes.
The professor began speaking, droning about fiscal policy and market corrections. The words were meaningless symbols. Sam stared at the whiteboard, his vision swimming. His entire consciousness had migrated south, hyper-focused on that relentless, internal pressure. It was a possession, a placeholder. He was literally filled with the absence of Damon, a walking, sitting reminder of his own subjugation.
He squirmed, trying to find a position that didn’t make it worse. Every micro-shift was a tiny, electric telegraph from his body to his brain, repeating the same message: you are owned, you are waiting, you are desperate. Pre-come soaked coldly into his cotton briefs. He was burning up. He pulled at the collar of his t-shirt.
For an hour, he endured a dual lecture: one on economic indicators, the other on the specific geography of his own humiliation. The plug was a teacher, ruthless and effective. It taught him about anticipation as a physical condition. It taught him that shame could be a liquid heat pooling in his stomach. It taught him that his body was no longer a simple, straightforward machinery of need, but a complex instrument tuned to someone else’s hands.
When the professor dismissed them, Sam stood up too quickly. The sudden movement, the release of pressure from the seat, created a dizzying vacuum that was instantly filled by the plug’s unyielding presence. He stumbled, catching himself on a desk. His backpack felt like it held stones.
His backpack felt like it held stones. The short walk to the humanities building was a fever dream of uncomfortable fullness. Every shift of weight, every curb step, sent a fresh, unwelcome pulse through him, a constant echo of the morning’s denial. His phone buzzed against his thigh like a live wire.
He ducked into a dim stairwell, leaning against cold cinderblock. The screen glowed with a notification from an unknown number, but he knew. It was the phone Damon had given him, a cheap burner for ‘work’.
The first text was just an image. A video file. Sam’s thumb hovered, then tapped. The video loaded, silent at first, then Damon’s low, rough voice filled the tinny speaker. “Thinking about you in class, baby.” The camera was close, an intimate, jostling view of Damon’s fist working slowly over his own thick, flushed cock in what Sam recognized as his own bathroom. The morning light glinted off the pre-come beading at the tip. “Thinking about this stretching that hungry little pussy you’re sitting on.”
Sam’s breath hitched. He clenched instinctively around the plug, and the resulting tightness made him see stars. His free hand braced against the wall.
Another text pinged. All you can think about now, isn’t it? Bet you’re dripping.
A third. That plug’s just a tease. My cock would split you open. Make you scream in that library.
Sam’s vision blurred. He was dripping, a hot, shameful leak that had nothing to do with piss. He typed a shaky reply with one thumb. stop.
The response was immediate. A photo this time. Damon, shirtless, a dark, knowing smirk on his face, his other hand gripping the base of his shaft. Make me. Come back and make me.
A final text. Your professor’s gonna see how distracted you are. He’ll know something’s in that pretty ass.
Sam shoved the phone deep into his pocket as if it were burning him. He took the stairs two at a time, the brutal impact of each step a punishing counterpoint to the filth flooding his brain. He was trembling, a live wire of need and fury. Why hadn’t Damon just fucked him? Why this prolonged, meticulous torture? His body had a single, screaming answer, and his mind was too scrambled to argue with it.
Professor Ellison’s office was a cave of dusty books and stale coffee. Sam stood in the doorway, knocking lightly on the already-open door. “Professor? You said to come by about the midterm?”
Ellison looked up from his monitor, a smile spreading across his narrow face. He was in his fifties, with a beard that always looked like it had crumbs in it. “Sam. Come in, come in. Shut the door, will you? The hallway draft is vicious.”
Sam complied, the click of the latch feeling terribly final. He sat in the worn visitor’s chair, perching on the edge to minimize the contact. “I know my last paper wasn’t great,” he started, the rehearsed apology dying in his throat.
“It was a fascinating attempt,” Ellison said, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach. His eyes, magnified by thick glasses, didn’t leave Sam’s face. “You seem like a young man with a lot on his mind. Distracted by… other pursuits.”
“I’ve just had some personal stuff,” Sam muttered, looking at a stack of papers on the desk.
“Of course, of course. We all do.” Ellison’s tone was oddly gentle, almost conspiratorial. He took his glasses off, polished them slowly on his sweater. “The university can be a lonely place. It’s important to find… communities. Even unconventional ones.” He paused, letting the word ‘unconventional’ hang in the dusty air. “I’m quite adept with social media, you know. The algorithms show one such interesting things.”
Sam’s blood turned to ice. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.
“A person’s private life is their own business,” Ellison continued, his voice a soft, insinuating murmur. He put his glasses back on, his gaze sharpening. “But it does make one wonder about where a student’s true… motivations lie. His true passions.” He smiled again, a thin, lipless stretch. “The door is always open, Sam. For extra help. Anytime. You look like you could use a friend.”
The meaning, veiled but utterly clear, wrapped around Sam’s throat. This man had seen him. Seen the videos, the comments, the degradation. He knew. And instead of disgust, he offered this… this sly, greasy invitation. It was a different kind of violation, colder and more calculating than Damon’s forceful heat. It made his skin crawl.
“I should go,” Sam said, standing up too fast. The world tilted.
“Of course,” Ellison said, waving a hand dismissively, his eyes dropping pointedly to Sam’s torso, then back up. “Don’t be a stranger. We can discuss a make-up assignment. Perhaps… over coffee.”
Sam fled. He didn’t walk; he shoved out of the office and into the bright, indifferent hallway, his heart hammering against his ribs. The plug inside him felt like a beacon, a brand announcing what he was to anyone who knew where to look. Ellison’s knowing smirk was seared onto the back of his eyelids, mingling with the video of Damon’s hand on his cock.
He was out of the building in a blur, the cool autumn air doing nothing to douse the fire in his veins. He needed it gone. The shame, the desperation, the teasing, the knowing glances. There was only one place where it all made a twisted sense, where the humiliation had a clear, physical price that ended in a brutal, cleansing release.