Chapter 14: Public Display
The cab seat was a torture device of cheap, sticky vinyl. Every pothole on the avenue jolted through Sam, a sharp upward thrust that drove the plug hard against that deepest, most sensitive spot inside him. He’d bitten his lip raw trying to stay silent. His cock was a rigid, throbbing line trapped in his jeans, so painfully full it felt like a separate entity, weeping a steady, hot leak that had soaked through his briefs and now chilled against his skin. The silicone inside him wasn't just present; it was active, a constant, taunting pressure that brushed his prostate with every slight shift of his hips, sending dizzying little sparks through his groin that never quite culminated, only amplified the ache.
His phone buzzed again in his hand, a violent bee against his palm.
Picture the cabbie’s face if he knew what you’re sitting on.
You’re probably squirming. I can see it.
That hole’s been clenching all morning, hasn’t it? Worn out and still begging.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white on the edge of the seat. He was. He was clenching, involuntarily, a rhythmic pulse around the invader as if his body was trying to milk something from it, something it couldn't give. The fullness was maddening. It wasn't enough. It was a promise without payoff, stretching him open for nothing, leaving him hollow in a way that had nothing to do with space. He was strung so tight he felt like a single plucked nerve, vibrating from his ass to the tip of his cock.
The loft building loomed. He threw crumpled cash at the driver and stumbled out, his gait awkward and stiff, each step a calculated misery. The elevator ride was an eternity of mirrored walls reflecting his flushed face, his damp hair, the obvious, shameful tent in his jeans. He kept his head down, his breath fogging the cool metal of the control panel.
He didn't knock. The door to Damon's studio was unlocked.
The hum hit him first—the low frequency of computer fans, the whisper of air conditioning. Then the light, the relentless, shadowless white of the ring lights. Damon sat shirtless on the edge of the black leather bed, his back to the door, facing a large monitor and a camera on a tripod. The sleek, sterile box of the studio felt both clinical and obscene.
On the monitor, a chat box scrolls with dizzying speed, a waterfall of disembodied usernames and crude, punctuated demands.
And Damon was complying, in his way. One hand was wrapped lazily around his own semi-hard length, stroking with an idle, possessive rhythm. He wasn't performing, not fully; he was conversing. He leaned towards a microphone. "…patience, guys. You think quality merchandise just falls out of the sky? You gotta cultivate it. Break it in nice and slow."
His voice was a low, conversational rumble that vibrated through the charged air, and Sam stood frozen in the doorway, his brain short-circuiting. The plug inside him gave a vicious, answering throb. He’d expected the dark, the aftermath, the singular focus. Not this. Not the camera’s unblinking red eye, not the scrolling testament of a hundred watching strangers. His shame, previously a private transaction, was now being broadcast.
His gaze was seared to Damon’s hand, to the thick, familiar cock it was fisting. He watched the slow, upward drag of skin, the beading moisture at the tip. His own mouth went dry. He couldn't look away. His hole tightened violently around the silicone plug, a desperate, clenching spasm that shook him, as if trying to mimic the grip it saw.
It was a heavy, arrogant thing, thick with prominent blue veins that corded along its length, pulsing with the slow, idle stroke of Damon's hand. The head was a smooth, ruddy crown, beading with a pearl of clear pre-cum that glistened obscenely under the studio lights. Sam’s breath hitched, his own neglected ache screaming in sympathy, his body clenching around the useless plug in a helpless, rhythmic cadence he couldn't control.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Damon’s voice cut through, warm and amused. He hadn’t turned around, but his eyes had found Sam’s reflection in the dark glass of a monitor. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face as he watched Sam stare. “Look who finally came home. Chat’s been asking about you all morning, baby.”
Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t form words. The scrolling chat exploded with emojis and demands.
Damon finally turned, his motion fluid and unconcerned, his hand not leaving his cock. “Cat got your tongue? Come here.” It wasn’t a request. His gaze hooked Sam and reeled him in. Sam took stiff, shuffling steps into the ring of light, feeling the camera’s focus like a physical heat on his skin.
Damon reached out, his fingers curling around Sam’s belt loop, and pulled him in between his spread knees. “Missed me, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured, his voice a low, private rumble meant for the microphone too.
Before Sam could stutter a denial, Damon’s other hand cupped the back of his neck and pulled him down into a deep, claiming kiss. Sam melted into it with a pathetic, hungry sound, his hands flying to Damon’s bare shoulders for balance. The smell of him—cologne, sweat, sex—was overpowering. The chat scrolled faster, a blur of ‘YES’ and ‘MORE’.
Damon broke the kiss, licking his own lips as he looked at the camera. “See? Told you he missed me. My boy had to go to class today.” He emphasized the word ‘boy’, his hand on Sam’s hip possessive. “Wasn’t the same without him here.”
He kept stroking himself, his grip tightening, the precum slicking his movements. Sam stood there, trapped in the frame, his face flushed, his eyes darting from Damon’s face to the mesmerizing, brutal rhythm of his fist. Every pass of Damon’s hand over that weeping tip made Sam’s stomach tighten.
Every pass of Damon’s hand over that weeping tip made Sam’s stomach tighten.
“Look at him,” Damon said to the camera, his voice a pleased rasp. His fingers moved to Sam’s belt buckle, making quick, efficient work of the clasp and button. “Can’t even talk, he’s so worked up. Had him walking around all day like this.” The denim, rough and confining, was shoved down Sam’s thighs in one rough push, pooling at his ankles and trapping his feet. The cool studio air hit his damp skin, raising goosebumps.
Sam stood there in just his grey cotton briefs, the fabric strained and dark with a spot of wetness at the front. The plug’s base was a subtle, telltale outline against the thin material. Damon’s hands slid around to grip his ass, kneading the firm muscles through the cotton. “Chat’s loving this,” he murmured, his eyes on the monitor. “User ‘RavageFan99’ says… look at that fat ass in those little panties.”
A hot wave of humiliation crashed over Sam. He tried to shift, but Damon held him fast.
“And ‘SirCumsAlot’ says…” Damon continued, his tone conversational, almost bored, as he leaned in to nuzzle Sam’s throat. “He’s got a cute little mouth, needs to be put on his knees.” He punctuated the crude comment with a bite to Sam’s collarbone, then sealed his mouth over Sam’s again in a deep, distracting kiss.
Sam kissed back, a weak, shuddering surrender, his hands tangling in Damon’s hair. The intimacy of the kiss clashed violently with the public degradation scrolling just beside them. Damon broke away, his breath hot on Sam’s cheek. “They think you’re sexy, baby. They wanna see you suck my cock.” He ground the heel of his hand against Sam’s trapped, aching length, and Sam jerked with a gasp.
“Damon…” Sam whined, the name a frayed rope of sound.
“Damon…” Sam whined, the name a frayed rope of sound.
He couldn’t form the sentence clawing its way up his throat. Please, just fuck me. I need it. I can’t think. The words dissolved into static, blocked by a dam of pure, choking pride. Sucking cock wasn’t the circuit he needed closed. His body was screaming for a deeper, more brutal connection, the one he’d been prepped for all morning, the one promised and then denied. He looked down, his gaze stuck on Damon’s thick, veined cock in that lazy, stroking fist, and his own throbbed in pathetic sympathy.
His hole gave a frantic, internal clench around the silicone plug, the pressure a direct line to his prostate that made his thighs tremble. He rubbed them together, a weak, involuntary grind against nothing, seeking any friction at all. It was a dead end. The plug just sat there, a brutal, unyielding reminder of its own insufficiency.
“You sound so needy,” Damon chuckled, his voice a low thrum for the microphone. He read the chat, his eyes flicking to the monitor. “They all want to hear you beg for it. Go on, baby. Ask nice for daddy’s cock.” His other hand slid from Sam’s ass around to his hip, thumb hooking in the waistband of his briefs. “What do you say?”
Sam swallowed, his mouth dry. He couldn’t. He just shook his head, a tiny, desperate movement. His cheeks burned under the lights.
“Cat got your tongue again?” Damon’s smile was all teeth. He didn’t pull the briefs down. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth against the damp cotton covering Sam’s erection, breathing hot moisture through the fabric. Sam hissed, his hips stuttering forward. Damon pulled back instantly, denying the contact. “Or is something else keeping you occupied?”
Damon’s grip on Sam’s hip tightened, steering him, turning him clumsily in the limited space so his back was to the camera’s lens. Sam’s trapped jeans tangled at his ankles, making him stagger. Damon’s large hands settled on Sam’s ass, kneading the muscles through the thin grey cotton. The plug shifted with the pressure, and Sam gasped.
The plug shifted with the pressure, and Sam gasped.
“See how jumpy he is?” Damon’s voice was a conspiratorial microphone-whisper aimed at the chat. His thumbs dug into the soft flesh under Sam’s cheeks. “Tense. Like he’s hiding a secret.” He gave another deliberate squeeze, and Sam’s back arched, a tiny, helpless motion. The cotton of his briefs was stretched thin, a faint darker oval of dampness visible at the front where he was leaking, and a subtle, rounded outline was just discernible between his cheeks if you knew where to look.
The chat scrolled, a relentless cascade.
RavagesBitch: looks like he’s gonna pop lol
HungObserver: that ass is begging for it. turn him around rav
CuriousGeorge: bet he’s got a plug in. u training him rav?
Damon read the last one aloud, his tone light. “Training him? Maybe.” He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Sam’s briefs, the elastic snapping lightly against his skin. Sam flinched. “You think my boy here needed training? He’s a natural. A quick study.” He began to pull the fabric down, millimetre by agonizing millimetre, revealing the top of Sam’s ass cleft. The studio lights felt like interrogation beams.
“But you know what?” Damon paused, his lips close to Sam’s ear. Sam could feel his own heartbeat in his throat. “He has been a little preoccupied today. Couldn’t focus in class. Couldn’t sit still in the cab.” The briefs slid another inch. The first glimpse of the silicone base, a sleek black disc nestled snug against Sam’s skin, came into view. The chat exploded.
SirCumsAlot: CALLED IT
Analyst88: holy shit he’s plugged!!!
PowerBottomPride: thats why hes so fucking desperate look at him
Damon chuckled, a rich, dark sound. “Bingo.” He yanked the briefs down to Sam’s knees in one swift motion, leaving him utterly exposed from the waist down, the black plug a glaring, obscene fixture in his body. The cool air kissed his wet, exposed skin. Sam made a sound, a choked-off whimper, and tried to hunch his shoulders forward, but Damon’s hands on his hips held him in place, presented.
“Say hello to the chat, baby,” Damon said, his voice dripping with false cheer. He slapped Sam’s ass lightly, the crack making Sam jump. The impact reverberated through the plug. “They’ve been wondering why you’re so goddamn horny you’re dripping through your pants. This is why. He’s been walking around campus, sitting in lecture, with my plug buried in his ass all morning. Keeping him ready. Keeping him empty.”
The comments came faster, a blur of arousal and mockery.
VoyeurVM: fuck that’s hot. straight boy lol
TakeItAll: looks so good in him rav.
Owned: u do that to him before class? nasty. i love it.
Damon’s hand smoothed over the exposed curve of Sam’s ass, his thumb tracing the rim of the black silicone base. “See this?” he said to the camera, his voice a mix of pride and mockery. “This is why he was squirming in his seat. I let him stay over last night. Fed him, even.” He leaned closer to the microphone, his breath huffing against Sam’s skin. “Made a mess on his pretty face, stretched him open nice and slow with my fingers... but I didn’t give him any cock. Not in his mouth, not in this desperate little hole.” He tapped the plug, and Sam jolted. “Went to sleep denied. And guess what? Woke up this morning humping the mattress like a bitch in heat.”
The chat roared its approval.
SirCumsAlot: u fucking starved him rav. thats cruel lol
PowerBottomPride: thats how u train a straight boy. make that denial hurt.
CuriousGeorge: did u move ur boy in rav? looks like he lives there now
Damon laughed, reading the comments aloud. “Move him in? Might as well have.” His hands gripped Sam’s hips, his touch possessive. “He kinda lives in my bed now, doesn’t he? Can’t get enough. He doesn’t need an apartment, he just needs a steady supply of cock.” He gave Sam’s hip a rough shake. “Isn’t that right, baby? What do you really come here for?”
Sam’s mind was a humming blank of shame and need. The memory was pixelated fragments: the sting of Damon’s release on his cheeks and eyelids, the deep, probing stretch of his fingers, the hollow, aching emptiness that followed. He’d wanted more then. He was screaming for it now. He gave a tiny, aborted nod, his forehead damp with sweat.
“Use your words for the nice people,” Damon purred, his hand leaving Sam’s hip to stroke his own cock again, which was now fully, impressively hard.
“Damon..” Sam whispered, the word torn from him.
“Damon…” Sam whispered, the word torn from him.
“Damon?” He repeated, his voice dripping with playful scorn. He leaned in, his stubble scraping Sam’s ear as he addressed the camera, his grip still working his own cock. “He doesn’t call me that when he’s really worked up. Do you, baby?” His free hand snaked around Sam’s hip, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above his trapped, throbbing length. “What did you moan last night when I had my fingers in you? When you were shaking and trying not to cum?”
Sam’s breath hitched. The memory was a physical blow. His own voice, ragged and unfamiliar, pleading in the dark. He shook his head again, a feeble denial.
The chat was already guessing.
SirCumsAlot: did he call u sir?? lol
PowerBottomPride: bet he said please. pretty please.
Damon’s laugh was a warm puff against Sam’s neck. “Close.” He twisted his wrist on his own cock, a slow, slick corkscrew motion that Sam couldn’t look away from. “He said ‘please’. He said ‘more’. And then he said…” Damon paused, letting the hum of the computers fill the space. “He said ‘daddy’.” He let the word hang, gross and intimate in the sterile light. “Couldn’t help himself. This straight boy, all broken in and messy, begging daddy to ruin him.”
A fresh torrent of comments flooded the screen.
CuriousGeorge: STRAIGHT BOYS DONT CALL MEN DADDY
Owned: daddy’s little cockslut now
VoyeurVM: fuck thats so hot. say it again for us sam
The heat that flooded Sam’s face was merciless. It wasn’t just the studio lights now; it was a primal burn of exposure. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could disappear.
“Look at him,” Damon cooed, his hand leaving his own erection to grip Sam’s chin, forcing his face back toward the camera. Sam’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing glassy, desperate eyes. “He’s so embarrassed. But his body doesn’t lie.” His other hand moved back, fingers tracing the silicone base of the plug with a proprietary familiarity. “This doesn’t lie.”
With a deliberate, clinical slowness, Damon began to work the plug. Not pulling it out, just applying pressure, rocking it gently in its snug socket. The movement was tiny, but inside Sam it was seismic. A sharp, dizzying drag against walls that were oversensitive and hungry. Sam’s knees buckled, a soft, punched-out groan escaping his lips. He clutched at Damon’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the hard muscle.
“See that?” Damon’s voice was a low, thrilled rasp for the mic. “See how his whole body just folds? He’s not fighting it. He’s leaning into it.” He pushed the plug in a little deeper, halting its subtle rocking to lodge it firmly, achingly deep. Sam cried out, back arching. “He loves it. He loves when daddy plays with his hole, keeps him full.” He slowly pulled the plug back, not removing it, just letting the widest part stretch the rim anew before pushing it back in. A slick, obscene sound accompanied the motion.
Sam was panting, each breath a ragged sob. The dual sensation was unraveling him—the degrading commentary and the relentless, internal stimulation. His cock wept a steady stream onto the floor.
His cock wept a steady stream onto the floor, a silent testament to the agony of constant, unforgiving arousal. Each tiny shift of the plug inside him was a lightning strike to his oversystem, a promise of a climax that remained perpetually out of reach. He was a live wire grounded in his own shame, vibrating with a need so profound it felt like a form of grief.
"Listen to that," Damon murmured, his voice a intimate thrum in Sam's ear as he worked the plug with a gentle, back-and-forth rhythm that produced soft, wet sounds. "Sounds hungry. Sounds empty even when it's full." The chat beside them pulsed with agreement.
Cocksleeve99: that whimper. fuck. straight boy music.
Owned: bet he’s seeing stars rav. do it harder.
SirCumsAlot: he is NOT straight. look at him take that toy. that’s a born bitch.
"See?" Damon said, reading the comments aloud with a chuckle that vibrated through Sam's chest. "They know. They see right through you, college boy." He gave the plug a sharp, inward thrust that forced a ragged cry from Sam's throat. "All that 'I need the money' talk. All that 'just this once'." He twisted it slowly. "This isn't about money anymore, is it? This is about what you are. What you've always been."
Sam shook his head, a furious, denying motion, but his hips pushed back against Damon's hand, seeking more of that devastating friction. His body was a traitor, speaking a language of clenches and shivers that drowned out his silent protests.
"You're a fucking sissy slut," Damon stated, his tone conversational, almost kindly, as if explaining a simple truth. "A desperate little cockslut who gets wet for daddy. A bitch in heat." He punctuated each filthy noun with a soft pull on the plug, stretching Sam's rim taut around the widest part before letting it sink back in. "And the whole world's watching you figure it out."
The shame was a scalding liquid in his veins, but it fused with the pleasure, creating a new, awful alloy of feeling. He was hard, so hard it was pain, and the plug was both the source of his torture and the only thing anchoring him to reality. The comments kept coming, a waterfall of validation for Damon’s words.
AnalArchivist: his hole is swallowing it. literally begging for the real thing.
PowerBottomPride: that’s the face of a faggot who’s finally home.
Damon’s grip on the plug stilled, buried to the hilt. He leaned forward, his chest a solid, warm wall against Sam's back, and spoke directly into the microphone, his lips brushing Sam's ear. "You wanna see what he's really hungry for? Watch this." In one smooth, fluid motion, he pulled the plug free.
The sound it made was obscenely loud in the quiet studio—a thick, wet pop. A dizzying, overwhelming sense of vacancy followed, a cold rush of air against his oversensitized, stretched rim. Sam groaned, a deep, wounded sound from his gut, and his body convulsed in a single, hard shudder. He felt gaping, hollow, bereft. The emptiness was a physical pain, worse than the stretch, a yawning chasis that demanded to be filled.
"Look at that," Damon breathed, turning Sam clumsily by the shoulder to face the camera again, giving the audience a clear view of his glistening, fluttering hole. "Wide open. Used. All that dignity, gone. Just a hungry little pink hole waiting for daddy."