Chapter 15: Cockdrunk Confessions
The emptiness was a shock, a gape that felt colder than the studio air. Sam shuddered, his body clenching around nothing, a series of frantic, fruitless pulses that only emphasized the void. The camera’s lens felt like a physical pressure against his exposed skin.
“Look at that,” Damon breathed, his voice a mix of awe and mockery aimed at the monitor. He kept a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, holding him in profile for the audience. “Gaping like a little fish. All that work, all day long, just to be empty again.” His thumb brushed the sensitized rim, and Sam jerked with a ragged gasp, his toes curling against the cool concrete floor. The chat scrolled, a frantic heartbeat at the edge of his vision.
TakeItAll: omg its winking at us. hello sweetheart
VoyeurVM: looks so pretty and ruined already. u do good work rav
PowerBottomPride: that hole has a memory. it knows what it belongs to.
“It does, doesn’t it?” Damon agreed, reading the comment aloud. He applied a gentle, persistent pressure with his thumb, not entering, just testing the give. Sam’s knees trembled. “Remembers me. Wants me back. Doesn’t it, Sam?” His voice dropped, turning intimate and dangerous. “Tell them what you want.”
Sam shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. The words were a knot in his throat, thick with shame and a desperate, clawing need. He felt the slick leak of his own arousal down his inner thigh.
“He’s being shy,” Damon announced to the chat, a playful sigh in his voice. He grabbed a bottle of lube from the tray beside the bed, the click of the cap deafening in the quiet. The clear gel was cold as he poured a generous amount over Sam’s exposed hole, making him flinch. Damon smoothed it over him with rough, efficient strokes, his fingers working the lube into his quivering rim. The clinical preparation was its own kind of humiliation. “Don’t worry, chat. He talks with his body. Loud and clear.”
Damon positioned himself behind Sam, his own thick, heavy cock pressing against Sam’s lower back, leaving a hot, wet stripe. He didn’t move to enter. He just held it there, a brand, a taunt. Sam’s breath came in short, sharp pulls. Every nerve ending was focused on that point of contact, the promise of fullness so close it was a torture.
“Remember your first time in front of the camera?” Damon murmured, his lips against Sam’s shoulder blade. His hands came around to rest on Sam’s hips, his thumbs kneading the tense muscles. “You were shivering. Could barely look at me. You made me promise.”
The memory hit Sam like a bucket of cold water—the panic, the sterile fear, the frantic bargaining in his own head. His own voice, small and strained: Just go slow. Please. Just… just the tip, at first. Okay?
SirCumsAlot: LOL the ‘just the tip’ negotiation. classic.
RavagesBitch: from 'just the tip' to 'please wreck me daddy' in what, a month?
AnalArchivist: progress report: hole upgraded from negotiation to begging.
Damon chuckled, the sound warm against Sam’s skin. “Just the tip,” he repeated, his tone fond and ridiculing. He shifted his hips, and the broad, swollen head of his cock nudged against Sam’s slicked entrance. It was just pressure, no give. Sam whimpered, his body instinctively pushing back, trying to force an inch, just an inch, to alleviate the terrible, empty ache.
Damon held still. “You wanted just the tip then. Was that enough?”
Sam’s answer was a broken sound, part sob, part moan. He shook his head, his forehead dropping toward his chest.
“What was that?” Damon taunted, pulling back slightly, breaking the contact. The loss was a small agony.
“No,” Sam gasped, the word ripped from him.
“No, it wasn’t enough,” Damon confirmed for the audience. “You took the whole thing. Cried a little. And then you came harder than you ever had in your life.” He shifted again, the tip notched against Sam once more. This time, he pushed. Just a slow, inexorable inch, a brutal, stretching burn that made Sam see white behind his eyelids. It was too much and not enough. The stretch was real, painful, exquisite. His body fought for a second before surrendering, opening, sucking him in.
The chat erupted.
HungObserver: THERE IT IS. oh fuck look at his face.
Owned: swallowing that crown. good boy.
“There’s my good boy,” Damon cooed, his voice tightening with strain as he held himself there, embedded just past the head. He reached around and took Sam’s neglected, weeping cock in his fist. The touch was electric, brutal. Sam cried out, his body bowing. “Just the tip, baby. You want me to stop?”
Sam’s head shook, a frantic, involuntary spasm. “No,” he choked out, the word muffled by the leather of the bed. “Don’t stop.” His own voice sounded alien, thick with a want that scraped his throat raw.
“See? Progress.” Damon’s laugh was a low rumble against his back. He began to push forward again, a slow, devastating invasion that made Sam’s lungs seize. The stretch burned, a bright, clean pain that erased every other thought. Then Damon stopped, hips flush against Sam’s ass, but only a fraction of his length actually inside. “That’s enough cock for you, isn’t it, baby?” He delivered the line with a mocking, soothing cadence, his hands resting lightly on Sam’s hips.
Sam whined, high and desperate, his body begging for completion. He tried to push back, to force more, but Damon held him immobile with terrifying ease.
“Whoa, hey now,” Damon chided, his tone a parody of concern. He pulled back until only the tip remained, a cruel parody of their first time. The sudden emptiness was a shock. “It’s too big. I don’t want to hurt you.” He pushed in again, another few inches, a deeper, fuller stretch that punched a ragged groan from Sam’s chest. Then he stopped dead. Sam’s knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the sheets, every tendon in his arms cording with the effort to stay still.
“Please,” Sam gasped, the plea slipping out before he could cage it.
“Please what?” Damon’s voice was all false innocence. He pulled out slightly, just to watch Sam tremble. The camera caught the glistening trail left on his cock, the violent blush spreading down Sam’s neck. Sam tried again to ride back, to take control of the maddening increment, but Damon yanked him backward by the hips, denying him. “Look at you, white-knuckling the sheets like you’re hanging off a cliff. You are. You’re hanging off my cock.” He sheathed himself another inch, a slow, punishing reward. “And you love the drop.”
The chat scrolled, a frenzied echo.
RavagesBitch: he’s gonna break the bed frame if he pulls those sheets any tighter
JustTheTipLiar: from ‘just the tip’ to ‘just a little more’ REAL FAST
HungObserver: feed it to him rav. he’s starving.
“They see it,” Damon whispered, leaning over Sam’s back, his breath hot in Sam’s ear. His next thrust was deeper, a solid, claiming drive that finally, finally brushed against that spot inside that unspooled Sam’s sanity. Sam’s cry was loud, uncensored, his back arching like a drawn bow. Damon stilled, buried to the hilt. “There. All of it. You took it all.” He didn’t move. He let Sam feel it, every millimeter, the unbearable fullness, the heat, the weight. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?”
Sam’s response was a fractured, “Uh-huh,” his voice smothered by the leather. His body vibrated with a tension that was part resistance, part total surrender.
His body vibrated with a tension that was part resistance, part total surrender. Then Damon moved.
It wasn’t a gentle rhythm. It was a claiming. He pulled back and drove in with a hard, efficient snap of his hips that punched the air from Sam’s lungs. The pace was brutal and established without fanfare, a deep, piston-like fucking that made the leather bedframe creak in protest. Each thrust ground into that devastating spot, a relentless, unwelcome pleasure that short-circuited Sam’s ability to think.
“Oh, he likes that,” Damon announced, his voice a steady, controlled counterpoint to the wet slap of skin. He read the chat scrolling on the monitor just beyond Sam’s blurred vision. “StraightLOL says hello. CockSlut42 wants to know if it feels better than your girlfriend.” He punctuated the question with a particularly sharp angle, and Sam’s whine broke into a sob. “Guess that’s a yes.”
The chat flew by, a cascade of color and movement.
BitchInHeat: sounds like it. listen to him.
Owned: taking it so good. look at that back arch.
RavagesBitch: trained up so nice. just needed a proper dick in him.
Damon’s hands tightened on Sam’s hips, his fingers sure to leave bruises. “You hear that?” he grunted, his own breath starting to come harder. “They see how good you are at this. How perfectly you take it.” His pace didn’t waver, a punishing, perfect metronome that was unraveling Sam thread by thread. Sam’s own cock, trapped between his belly and the cold leather, leaked steadily with each jarring impact. The pressure was a live wire in his gut, coiling far too fast, tightening beyond bearing.
Sam’s whines turned into a continuous, high-pitched stream of sound, each driven breath a plea for mercy or for more, he couldn’t tell. He was babbling, fragments of “please” and “wait” and “oh god” dissolving into helpless moans. His hands slipped on the sweaty leather, his body no longer his to control, moving in a broken, rocking rhythm dictated entirely by Damon’s thrusts.
“You’re so close,” Damon stated, a clinical observation. He leaned over, putting his mouth close to the microphone near the camera. “Look at him. You can see it, right? His whole body is begging for it.” He didn’t touch Sam’s cock. He didn’t need to. “Are you gonna come for me, Sam? Just from this? Just from getting your ass fucked?”
The question was a detonation. Sam’s world narrowed to the exquisite, brutal friction inside him, the coil snapping with a violence that whited out his senses. He came with a shattered cry, his body seizing, back bowing violently as stripes of hot release spattered against the leather beneath him. It was a helpless, full-body convulsion that left him shuddering and gasping.
The chat exploded.
SirCumsAlot: YES! GOOD BOY!
AnalArchivist: what a little slut hahaha
PowerBottomPride: you turned him out fast Rav!
VoyeurVM: barely touched his dick. just a hole now.
JustTheTipLiar: remember when this guy was straight LOL? he loves it!
HungObserver: keep fucking the cum out of him Rav. don’t stop.
Damon didn’t stop. His rhythm faltered for only a second, a slight hitch as Sam’s internal muscles clenched and fluttered around him in the throes of orgasm. Then he anchored Sam’s hips harder and kept going, his thrusts becoming perhaps deeper, more deliberate, as if he was truly fucking the last drops of spend from Sam’s trembling body. Sam’s cried-out whimpers turned shrill, a raw, overstimulated sound of protest. The pleasure was gone, scorched away, leaving only a devastating, electric sensitivity that bordered on pain.
“Look at his face,” Damon coaxed the audience, his voice thick with his own unfazed control. He reached one hand up and fisted it in Sam’s hair, pulling his head up so the camera could catch his glazed, tear-streaked expression, his parted lips, his completely blank eyes. “So cute. All fucked out. Little punched-out whines. Is Daddy fucking you good, baby?”
“Don’t run from it,” Damon growled, the faux-sweetness evaporating into pure command. He slammed home, grinding deep, making Sam choke on a gasp. “Just take it. You know good boys can come more than once.” He loosened his grip in Sam’s hair, his hand smoothing down the sweat-slicked spine in a parody of comfort. “Just breathe. You’re gonna take it until I’m done.”
Sam’s whines were a thin, constant sound, like air leaking from a punctured tire. The overstimulation was a fire in his nerves, relentless and clarifying. Then, gradually, the burn mutated.
The sharp edge of pain softened, blurred by the persistent, rhythmic pressure inside him. A different heat began to uncoil, low and deceptive, spreading through his hips. His panting hitched, confusion layering onto the exhaustion. A fresh, traitorous stiffness began to ache between his own legs, brushing against the soaked leather with each of Damon’s thrusts.
NoBacksies: lol look at his dick twitch again. is he?
RavFan99: getting hard while getting railed. definition of cockdrunk.
Poundtown: that’s the good shit. brain empty, just a hole.
“You feel that, don’t you?” Damon’s voice was a low vibration against his sweat-slicked spine. His pace shifted, became deeper, more rolling, each stroke deliberately dragging against that swollen, sensitive place. “Your body knows what it needs. Doesn’t care what you think.” He smoothed a hand over the small of Sam’s back, a gesture almost paternal.
Sam nodded, his forehead grinding against the bed. A thick, shuddering moan tore loose. It felt good. It felt obscene. The pleasure was a riptide, pulling him under just as he’d found desperate air.
“Uh-huh,” he slurred, the word mangled by the leather.
“He’s gone,” Damon announced, a smile in his voice. He read the chat aloud, his own breathing growing heavier, his control a thin veneer over rising need. “Cockdrunk. Adorable. They want to know if you’re gonna come again.” He punctuated the question with a series of short, sharp bucks that made Sam’s vision spark. “What do you think, baby? You got another one in you?” He leaned down, his chest pressing against Sam’s tortured back. “Or are you just a pretty, used-up mess?”
The proximity was a shock. Damon’s heat, the smell of his skin and cheap cologne, the faint sound of his heartbeat thudding through muscle. A different want, sudden and disorienting, sliced through the haze of lust. Sam turned his head, his cheek smearing against the wet leather, a choked sound escaping him.
It wasn't a word. It was a plea, raw and directionless.
Damon pulled back slightly, just enough to see Sam’s face. His gaze was calculating, curious. “What? Use your words.”
Sam’s eyes were glassy, his lips parted. He pushed his head back, a futile movement against the firm hand still tangled in his hair. A childish, needy sound bubbled up from his throat.
“What do you want, baby?” Damon repeated, slowing his hips to a torturous, circling grind.
Sam swallowed. His throat clicked. The silence from the studio, the imagined eyes of the chat, pressed in. He felt exposed in a new dimension.
He felt exposed in a new dimension. The raw, grinding pleasure was still there, a constant undercurrent, but something else pierced through the fog. It was a hollow ache behind his sternum, a sudden, terrifying loneliness that felt sharper than any physical sensation. The position isolated him, his face pressed into the leather, his body just a receptacle. He missed the weight of someone on him, the crush of a chest against his back, a mouth somewhere other than whispering taunts to an audience.
A pathetic noise escaped him, more mournful than desirous. He reached a trembling hand back, fingers clumsily searching for Damon’s thigh, his hip, any point of anchor.
Damon caught his wrist effortlessly, pinning it to the small of Sam’s back. The thrusts continued, unrelenting. “What’s this?” Damon’s voice was close, a mix of genuine curiosity and cool amusement. “You tapping out? We’re not done.”
Sam shook his head, the motion frantic against the bed. His other hand scrabbled weakly at the leather. It wasn’t about stopping. The whine came again, thinner, more fractured.
The chat saw it first.
Awwwwwwww: look at his little hand reach back.
HeartsForRav: omg is he crying? fuck that’s kinda.
Dickmatized72: bro is lonesome for his daddy mid-stroke. new level.
JustTheTipLiar: MY HEART GREW 3 SIZES AND MY COCK. FOR REAL.
IfUDontKissHim: @Ravage if you don’t give that boy his kisses i am unsubscribing.
Damon’s rhythm slowed. He read the scrolling pleas, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest and into Sam’s spine. He released Sam’s wrist and leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Sam’s ear. The intimacy of the gesture was a shock. “Aw, baby,” he murmured, the word a parody of tenderness that somehow felt real in the quiet. “You miss me?” He gave a shallow, gentle roll of his hips, still buried deep. “You want something?”
Sam couldn’t speak. He nodded, a desperate, jerking motion.
“Gotta ask,” Damon said, his voice dropping to a private register the microphone could barely pick up. He was offering a different kind of control. “Use your pretty words. What do you want?”
Sam’s breath hitched. The words were a desert in his mouth. “Please.”
“Please what?” Damon prompted, impossibly patient.
The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of electronics and Sam’s ragged breathing. He swallowed, tasting salt and shame. “Kiss me,” he whispered, the confession torn from some silent, aching place.
The chat exploded in a symphony of ‘AWWWW’ and ‘HOLY SHIT.’
Damon went very still inside him. He withdrew slowly, the slide a prolonged, sensual torture, and guided Sam to roll over onto his back. The studio lights were a blinding assault. Sam blinked up at him, vulnerable, his chest heaving, his body gleaming and utterly ruined. Damon loomed over him, caging him with arms, his expression unreadable.
Damon loomed over him, caging him with arms, his expression unreadable. Sam’s face was a wreck of tear-tracks and flushed skin, his eyes glazed and wide, reflecting the cold ring lights. He looked utterly spent, and yet his body still trembled with a shallow, insistent need.
A slow smile broke across Damon’s face, transforming his sharp features into something surprisingly warm. “Hi, baby,” he said, his voice a rough scrape.
He dipped his head, his lips a breath from Sam’s. Sam instinctively tilted his chin up, a desperate little motion. Damon paused. “Ah-ah. Ask nicely.”
Sam’s brain, fuzzy and overloaded, scrambled. Nicely? What did that even mean here? His hips gave a minute, helpless twitch upwards, seeking the friction that had vanished. “Please,” he whispered again, the word all he had.
“Please…?” Damon prompted, his thumb stroking Sam’s jawline. His other hand guided his cock back to Sam’s entrance, resting the heavy head there, a promise. The contact made Sam gasp.
The right term felt foreign, too big, too real. It clogged his throat. But the emptiness was worse. He swallowed. “Please,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “Daddy.”
The word hung in the air, shocking him. A soft, collective sound from the monitor’s speakers—the chat exhaling.
“Good boy,” Damon murmured, and then he was kissing him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was deep and claiming, a conquering of Sam’s mouth that mirrored everything else. At the same time, he pushed forward, sinking back into that heat with one smooth, practiced roll of his hips. Sam moaned into the kiss, his hands flying up to clutch at Damon’s shoulders, his blunt nails digging into tattooed skin. The dual invasion—mouth and body—shattered any last pretense of separation.
They collapsed into each other, Damon’s weight a solid, welcome press. He cradled the back of Sam’s head, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair, holding him steady for the kiss as his hips established a new, slower rhythm. He broke from Sam’s lips to kiss over his damp cheeks, his eyelids, the salt at his temples, each press of his mouth a brand of ownership.
The chat scrolled, a frantic sidebar to their collapse.
useyourwords11: FUCK THAT’S HOT
justheretolurk: that’s your daddy isn’t it baby
peepshowpete: lol i feel like we’re intruding
ravagesactualwife: turning a straight bro into not only your bottom bitch but also your husband haha
The rhythm was everything now—deep, purposeful, connected. Each thrust pushed a choked sound from Sam’s throat, each withdrawal a loss instantly remedied. Damon kissed him again, swallowing the noises, his tongue mapping the interior of Sam’s mouth with a lazy possessiveness. The overstimulation had faded, replaced by a building, inevitable tide. Sam could feel it coiling again, low and tight and shocking in its return.
“You’re there again, aren’t you?” Damon whispered against his lips, his own breath starting to fray. He kept his pace relentless, each stroke perfectly angled. “I can feel you tightening up. Getting all hot and desperate for it.” He kissed Sam’s jaw, his voice dropping to a private rumble meant for both of them and the thousands listening. “Let it go. Come on. Do it. Come for Daddy.”
The command was the final trigger. Sam’s body seized, a silent, arching convulsion that locked every muscle. His release was a dry, wrenching shudder, less fluid than a violent pulse of pure sensation that left him blind and gasping. A broken, wordless cry was smothered against Damon’s shoulder.
The monitor flashed into a solid stream of emoticons and capital letters.
Damon didn’t stop. His own control shattered watching it. With a ragged groan that was all raw need, he drove in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and Sam felt the hot, sudden flood inside him. Damon held there for a long moment, his body trembling with the aftershocks, his face buried in Sam’s neck.
He pulled out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity. He didn’t go far. With a few rough strokes of his own hand, he spilled again, this time across Sam’s stomach and spent cock, marking the territory in a different way. Then, almost immediately, he pushed back into the wet, messy heat, a shallow re-claiming that made them both groan. He leaned down and kissed Sam, deep and slow and filthy, sharing the taste of sweat and completion.
“Perfect,” Damon breathed, the word full of genuine awe. He pulled out again, more gently this time. “Look at you.” He maneuvered Sam onto his side, facing the camera, and hooked a hand under his knee, lifting it. The view was explicit, glistening, used. “See that? Perfect. Took every drop.” He let the position hold for a beat, letting the chat absorb it, before lowering Sam’s leg.
Sam was pliant, boneless, his mind a quiet hum. He felt Damon’s arms slide under his knees and shoulders. The world tilted as he was lifted clean off the bed, cradled against Damon’s chest. He instinctively looped his arms around Damon’s neck, hiding his face.