Chapter 2: No Turning Back
The dry press of his lips against hot skin lingered like a brand. Sam pulled back, the taste of salt and clean sweat on his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to know what his face looked like in the glow of that red light.
He didn’t want to know what his face looked like in the glow of that red light.
“That’s not a kiss,” Damon said, his voice slicing through the hum of the fan. The hand in Sam’s hair tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to eliminate any thought of retreat. “That’s what your grandma gives you on Christmas. You kiss your girl like that? No wonder you’re here.”
Sam’s eyes flew open, a hot protest dying in his throat as Damon tapped his lips again with that blunt, insistent pressure.
“Do it like you mean it. Open your mouth.” The command was soft, almost a whisper. “Pretend it’s her. Show me how you French kiss.”
Sam flinched. The comparison to Sarah was a violation, a dirty trick that twisted something in his chest. He could feel the camera’s focus like a laser on his profile. Damon’s thumb brushed his lower lip, a mocking imitation of tenderness, and then pressed down.
His mouth opened on a sharp inhale.
“There you go,” Damon coaxed, his voice a low, theatrical purr for the microphones. He guided himself forward, not thrusting, just presenting the broad, flushed tip. “Now kiss it. Really kiss it. Like you missed it.”
The proximity was overwhelming. Sam’s brain short-circuited, all higher function drowning in the scent of him, the sheer visual dominance. He leaned in, closing his eyes again, and pressed his open mouth to the hot skin.
It was softer than he expected. He held the kiss, motionless, his lips just parted.
“Use your tongue, college boy. Or do I need to spell out every step?” Damon’s tone was impatient now, a teacher with a slow student. He shifted his hips, a tiny, insistent nudge. “Lick it. Taste it. Get familiar.”
A shudder ran through Sam’s shoulders. He darted his tongue out, a quick, shameful flick against the slit. The taste was more intense there, musky and purely male. It was alien. It was a line crossed.
“That’s a start. Now stop treating it like a fuckin’ ice cream cone you’re scared of.” Damon’s hand left his hair and grabbed his jaw, holding him steady. “Make out with it. You know how. Pretend it’s her tongue.”
The order was so absurd, so specifically degrading, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in Sam’s throat. It died. He obeyed. He pressed his lips more firmly around the crown, letting his tongue sweep over it in a slower, more deliberate pass. He swirled it, the way he would, the way he had a thousand times before in the dark of his car or her dorm room. The technique was there, muscle memory, but the context made him want to vomit.
“Mmm, see? You do know how.” Damon’s voice had gone thick with amused approval. He pushed forward another fraction, just enough to fill Sam’s mouth without triggering his gag reflex. It was a tease, a promise of more. “Get into it. Passionate. Like you mean it. The camera’s right there, Sam. Show everyone how good you are at this.”
Sam moaned. The sound was involuntary, a hum of pure humiliation that vibrated against Damon’s skin. He did it anyway. He kissed and licked with a fervent, closed-eyed focus, one hand still tightly wrapped around the base. His tongue probed the slit, dipped inside it, explored the smooth ridge. It was wet, messy, intensely intimate. Saliva gathered and dripped down his chin.
“Look at you,” Damon breathed, his own breath hitching slightly. He was watching, Sam could feel his gaze. “Kissing my dick like you love it. You’re a natural. Bet you’re getting hard, aren’t you? Bet that little thing between your legs is all confused.”
He sucked lightly on the tip, his lips forming a tight seal, flushing.
“Fuck,” Damon grunted, his composure slipping for a second into genuine pleasure. His fingers tightened on Sam’s jaw. “Yeah. Just like that. You’re a quick little study.”
He pulled back suddenly, popping free from Sam’s mouth with a wet sound that echoed. Sam blinked, lips swollen and slick, staring up at him, dazed. A string of saliva connected his mouth to Damon’s cock for a second before breaking.
Damon looked down at him, his expression one of pure, victorious malice.
Damon looked down at him, his expression one of pure, victorious malice.
“Not bad for a first kiss,” he said, his voice rough. He tapped Sam’s wet, parted lips with the head of his cock again. “Now let’s see if you can do more than make out with it. Open wider.”
Sam’s jaw ached from the pressure, from the lingering stretch. He complied, his mouth falling open in a helpless ‘O’. The cool studio air hit his tongue.
“Good boy. Now take it. Not just the tip this time. Try and get your pretty lips around it.”
Damon pushed forward, not with a violent thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that filled Sam’s mouth beyond what he’d prepared for. The width was shocking, a thick invasion that stretched his lips taut and pressed his tongue flat. He made a muffled sound, a grunt of surprise, and his hands came up instinctively to brace against Damon’s thighs.
“Uh-uh. Hands down.” Damon’s voice was a firm warning overhead. “You don’t get to push me away. You just take it.”
Sam let his hands fall back to his own legs, his fingers digging into his flesh. He focused on breathing through his nose, the musky, intimate scent flooding his sinuses. He began to move, an awkward, shallow bob of his head. It was a clumsy simulation, all tight-lipped nervousness and minimal depth.
It was a clumsy simulation, all tight-lipped nervousness and minimal depth.
Damon let him struggle for a moment, watching the uneven bob of his head with a critical eye. “Relax your jaw,” he instructed, his voice curiously calm, almost coaching. He slid a thumb to the hinge of Sam’s mouth, pressing until the muscles unclenched slightly. “There. You’re thinking too much. Just suck. Like a straw.”
Sam tried, hollowing his cheeks, creating a weak pull. The action felt absurd, lewd in a way the kissing hadn’t. It was too functional.
“Yeah, just like that. Look at you,” Damon murmured, his fingers tracing the shell of Sam’s reddening ear. “First-time cocksucker. And you’re not even terrible at it.” He chuckled, the sound rich and warm above the hum of electronics. “It’s kinda cute, honestly. The concentration on your face. Like you’re trying to solve a math problem with your mouth.”
The word ‘cute’ landed wrong, a patronizing dagger that somehow cut deeper than an insult. Sam’s eyes flickered up, meeting Damon’s for a searing second before dropping again. He increased his rhythm, trying to master the mechanics, to find some groove that would make this less agonizing. His lips were slick, sliding more easily now, and he took a little more, the thick head nudging the back of his throat. He held it there, breathing harshly through his flared nostrils.
“Good boy. Taking it so pretty.” Damon’s praise was a drug, unpleasant and necessary. His hand settled on the back of Sam’s head, not forcing, just present. A promise. “Those lips were made for this, huh? Wrapped around a cock. Who knew?”
Sam whined, the sound vibrating straight into Damon’s flesh. He was hard himself now, a traitorous, aching weight between his own legs that he desperately ignored. The shame of that reaction was a heat deeper than any blush.
“Aw, you’re moaning,” Damon cooed, his tone dripping with false sympathy. He flexed his hips, a shallow push that made Sam’s eyes water. “Does it feel that good? Getting your mouth stuffed? Bet you never thought you’d like it.”
He didn’t. He didn’t like it. But his body was humming, thrumming with a strange, adrenalized static where disgust and a terrible, unwelcome thrill sparked against each other.
That was when Damon took over.
The hand on Sam’s head stopped suggesting and started guiding. It was firm, implacable. He pulled Sam off almost entirely, leaving him gasping, lips wet and parted.
“Enough practice,” Damon said, and his voice had shed its playful edge. It was pure, focused command. “Time you learned who’s really in charge here.”
He didn’t shove. He pushed forward with a slow, relentless pressure that Sam had no hope of resisting. He filled his mouth, then kept going, the impressive length sliding deeper until Sam’s nose was buried in coarse hair. The stretch was immense, overwhelming, a full, silencing occupancy. Sam’s hands flew back to Damon’s thighs, fingers clutching at the denim.
“Eyes up here, slutty boy.”
Sam’s watering eyes rolled up, obeying. Damon looked down at him, his expression a mask of cool dominance. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting Sam feel every inch, letting the panic and submission settle in his gaze for the camera.
“Look what you’d do for money,” Damon said, each word crisp and clear. He drew back slowly, then pushed in again with the same controlled pace. “Wrap those pretty lips around my cock and take it. That’s all you are right now. A warm, pretty hole.”
The rhythm began, steady and deep. Damon fucked his face with a devastating, metronomic precision. It was not frantic; it was authoritative. Each thrust pushed the boundary of Sam’s control, a deep, sliding invasion that stole his breath and coiled tension low in his own gut. Gagging was a tight, controlled reflex at the very edge, a slight convulse of his throat that Damon skillfully avoided by mastering the depth and pace.
The sounds were obscene—wet, rhythmic, punctuated by Sam’s choked, nasal breaths and helpless, muffled whines. He was drowning in the sensation, in the smell, in the sheer violation of it. His whines pitched higher, overwhelmed -- he needed a break, needed air, needed something.
“Listen to you,” Damon grunted, his own composure fraying into a sharp, pleasured grit. His hips snapped forward a little harder, and Sam’s muffled cry was pure surrender. “Moaning around my dick. You love this. Your body loves it. Bet you’re leaking all over the floor, aren’t you?”
Sam was. He could feel it, a hot, shameful pulse against his own stomach with every deep, claiming thrust. Tears cut clean tracks through the sweat on his temples. He was dissolving, piece by piece, into the motion and the sound and the searing eye of the camera.
Damon leaned over him, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, and hammered home his point with short, precise strokes that finally, brutally, hit the limit.
Sam’s body jerked, a full-bodied flinch, but Damon held him fast, buried deep, and Sam’s throat convulsed violently around him.
Sam’s body jerked, a full-bodied flinch, but Damon held him fast, buried deep, and Sam’s throat convulsed violently around him.
He couldn’t breathe. His eyes, wide and streaming, pleaded upwards. Damon’s gaze was unwavering, a dark pool of pure control. He didn’t pull back. He held Sam there, impaled, letting him feel the full, suffocating depth until black spots danced at the edges of his vision. Only then did he withdraw, a slow, slick drag that grated against Sam’s raw palate.
Air, sharp and blessed, ripped into Sam’s lungs as he gasped, a ragged, wet sound. He sagged forward, coughing, spittle dripping from his chin onto the cold concrete between his knees. His shoulders shook.
“Aw, needed a break?” Damon’s voice was mock-sympathetic. He dragged the head of his cock across Sam’s cheek, smearing the mess. “We’re just getting started. You think I’m done with this mouth?”
Damon’s hand fisted in his hair again, not pulling him forward, but yanking him upright. Sam stumbled to his feet, knees popping, his body a shaky column of overstimulated nerves. Before he could find his balance, Damon shoved him backwards.
He landed on the cold, slick leather of the couch with a jarring thud. The air left his lungs in a whoosh. Damon was on him before he could even think to rise, a solid, tattooed weight bracketing his hips, knees pinning his thighs to the cushions.
Damon was on him before he could even think to rise, a solid, tattooed weight bracketing his hips, knees pinning his thighs to the cushions. Sam’s head swam, the world tilting as he was pressed deep into the leather’s cold embrace. Before he could muster the strength to push back, a thick forearm pressed across his chest, holding him down with effortless strength.
“Comfy?” Damon breathed the word into the space between them, his face a mask of casual cruelty illuminated by the overhead lights.
Sam’s response was a weak shove against Damon’s shoulder, a protest that died as Damon simply grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the couch beside his head. The leverage was absolute. Sam was trapped, staring up at the shadowed ceiling and the man who filled his entire field of view.
“We’re changing angles,” Damon said, his voice practical, as if discussing a camera tripod. With his free hand, he reached behind himself, fumbled for a moment, and produced a smartphone. He tapped the screen, and a soft blue glow joined the room’s clinical light. “The fans love a POV shot. Makes ‘em feel like they’re right here.”
He shifted his weight, one knee moving to either side of Sam’s head, and lowered himself. The new perspective was horrifically intimate. Sam was looking straight up the length of Damon’s torso, past the defined abs and the dark trail of hair, to where his cock stood thick and demanding against his stomach.
“Now,” Damon murmured, holding the phone out with an outstretched arm, angling it down. The screen showed a live, close-up image: Sam’s flushed, tear-streaked face, his glistening lips parted in shock, and the heavy tip of Damon’s cock just inches above them. “Give the people what they paid for. Just lay there and take it.”
He didn’t wait for compliance. He guided himself down, the blunt pressure meeting Sam’s mouth once more. Sam turned his head to the side, a final, feeble denial. The sound that came out was a strained, “Nn-no—“
The protest was cut off as Damon shoved forward, filling his mouth in one smooth, brutal motion. The invasion was complete, overwhelming. Sam’s body went rigid, then limp, all fight extinguished under the sheer physical dominion. He lay there, acquiescent, his throat working instinctively around the intrusion.
“There it is,” Damon sighed, his voice a low rumble Sam could feel through his body. He began to move, a slow, deep, piston-like rhythm that had nothing to do with Sam’s participation. He watched the phone’s screen, a connoisseur of his own performance. “Look at that. Perfect.”
Each thrust was a measured, cruel claim. Sam could only stare up, eyes wide and unfocused, as Damon moved above him. The phone’s light cast harsh shadows across Damon’s concentrated face. He was watching himself, watching the captured image of his cock disappearing into Sam’s mouth over and over.
“See how easy you take it?” Damon said, his breath catching slightly on a deeper push. He adjusted the phone for a closer shot, zooming in on where they were connected. “I’m opening this throat up for you, kid. Doing you a favor.”
He pulled back almost all the way, letting Sam gasp a wet breath, then sank back in to the hilt, holding himself there. Sam’s eyes watered furiously.
“You’re gonna suck so much dick after this,” Damon continued conversationally, as if remarking on the weather. He dragged the head of his cock along Sam’s tongue, filming the glossy trail it left. “This tight little college-boy throat is gonna be a pro. You won’t even gag.”
Sam made a frantic, guttural sound in the back of his throat, a attempt to form words around the fullness. It came out as a strained, “Mmmph-hhhnn!”
“Oh, listen to that,” Damon cooed, mockingly. He increased his pace, his hips driving forward with more force, making Sam’s head press deeper into the couch. “You’re moaning again. You love it. You love how deep I’m getting.”
He wasn’t. He was trying to say "No, I'm not like that - I'm not.". The meaning dissolved into a wet, choked gag as Damon deliberately breached a fraction deeper, celebrating the resulting convulsion. “Yes. Right there. See? Your body knows what it wants.”
Sam’s vision swam at the edges. A detached part of his mind registered the obscene audio: the slick, rhythmic noise, his own ragged breathing through his nose, Damon’s soft grunts of effort and pleasure. He was an object, a thing being used, and the phone was capturing every degrading second of his transformation.
He was an object, a thing being used, and the phone was capturing every degrading second of his transformation. Damon’s rhythm hit a steady, punishing pace, each thrust a blunt reminder of the transaction. Sam’s jaw ached with a deep, throbbing pain that was starting to feel normal.
Then Damon stopped. He pulled out with a slick, final sound and shifted his weight off Sam’s chest.
Sam turned his head, coughing, dragging in gulps of metallic-tasting air. His lips felt bruised and numb.
“Sit up,” Damon ordered, his voice rough but controlled. He was still holding the phone. “Come on. Up.”
Sam pushed himself up on trembling arms, his body curling defensively on the cold leather. Damon moved to sit beside him, close, their thighs touching. He lifted the phone again, but this time he rotated it. The screen now faced Sam.
“Take a look,” Damon said, his arm around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him in tight like they were friends sharing a secret. “See what you look like.”
Sam’s own face, huge and pixel-perfect, filled the screen. He was a mess. His hair was matted with sweat, his cheeks blotchy and tear-stained. His lips were swollen, shining with spit, parted as he panted. He looked wrecked. Used.
He tried to look away. Damon’s hand on his chin forced him back.
“Watch,” Damon commanded softly. He lowered the phone, angling it down. The screen now showed a dizzying, close-up view: Damon’s hand, wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding the slick, purple head toward Sam’s mouth from his perspective. Sam watched, hypnotized and horrified, as his own lips came into frame.
“Open up, college boy,” Damon murmured, and on screen, the blunt tip pressed against his mouth.
In real time, Sam felt the pressure. On the screen, he saw his lips part obediently. The dual sensation—the physical touch and the high-definition view of himself accepting it—unmade him. A broken sound escaped his throat.
“There you go,” Damon cooed, feeding himself into Sam’s mouth slowly, making sure the camera caught every millimeter of entry. The screen showed the thick shaft disappearing between his lips. Damon held it there, buried halfway. “Look at that. You’re a natural.”
Sam’s eyes were glued to the phone. He saw his own wide, glassy eyes staring back from the video, saw the flush of humiliation coloring his neck. He saw the reality he’d been trying to compartmentalize.
Damon pulled back, just an inch, letting the wet crown glisten in the frame. “Stick your tongue out for me.”
Sam’s tongue, pink and already slick, slid past his lips in a slow, defeated gesture. It was a pathetic offering, trembling slightly in the cool studio air. Damon angled the phone lower, capturing the wet muscle as he slowly, deliberately, dragged the head of his cock across it from base to tip, smearing a fresh sheen of spit and precum.
“Perfect,” Damon breathed, his own focus narrowing to the small screen. “Look at that dedication. Taste good, college boy?”
Sam couldn’t answer. He could only watch the screen, watch himself, as Damon repeated the motion, a slow, obscene paintbrush stroke. The image was hyper-real, every pore, every glistening strand of saliva, magnified into a monument of his degradation. A soft, helpless whimper escaped him, vibrating against the sensitive skin.
Damon withdrew completely then, the phone following the retreating path of his cock until it framed both of them again: his erection, slick and proud, and Sam’s wrecked, obedient face. He shifted, turning the phone to film from the side, a cinematic two-shot of predator and prey. “Alright, kid. That’s a wrap on the first reel. You did good. Real good.”
He reached out with his free hand and tapped Sam’s lower lip. “Say goodbye to it. One last kiss for the fans. Make it sweet.”
Sam stared at the cock hovering inches from his face. The reprieve was a trick, he knew it, but the command was clear. He leaned forward, his movements sluggish with shame, and pressed his lips to the side in a closed-mouthed, fleeting kiss. It was shy, almost reverent, a kiss goodnight. His eyes, when they flickered up to meet Damon’s, were glassy with unshed tears, the flush on his cheeks a burning brand.
Damon smirked, a quick, savage twist of his lips captured perfectly by the phone’s front-facing camera. He gave his cock a slow, lazy stroke, his gaze locked on Sam’s defeated expression. “Aww, what’s the matter?” he crooned, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You look so disappointed.” He leaned in, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper the microphone would still pick up. “Oh, baby… did you want my cum? Is that it?”
Sam blushed furiously, "No, oh my god, fuck off." Though, it would have been nice if Damon had finished, then this whole thing could be over with.