Chapter 4: Live Feedback
The adjusted angle wasn't a gentle discovery. It was a targeted strike.
A sound ripped from Sam’s throat, a raw, punched-out “UH!” that held no pain, only pure, shocking sensation. It was like a live wire had been touched to the base of his spine, shooting fireworks through his veins. His back arched off the couch, his hands scrambling against Damon’s chest.
“There it is,” Damon growled, a note of triumph cutting through his own ragged breathing. He held the angle, grinding deep into that newfound spot with a slow, torturous rotation of his hips. “Found the fucking button.”
Sam was whimpering, a continuous, high-pitched stream of sound. The searing stretch was still there, a burning halo around the core of what was happening, but it was background noise now. The foreground was this brutal, electric pleasure, being drilled into him with every thrust.
“Look at you,” Damon breathed, his pace still controlled, deep and punishing. He pushed Sam’s legs back further, folding him almost in half, exposing him utterly. The strain in Sam’s thighs was a new, bright pain, but he didn’t fight it. He was past fighting. “Fucking look at you. You’re fighting it so hard. It’s adorable.”
Sam’s eyes were screwed shut, tears leaking from the corners. He was shaking, every muscle taut as a bowstring.
“I can feel it,” Damon continued, his voice dropping to a vicious, intimate whisper. Each word was punctuated by a driving thrust that stole Sam’s breath. “Your hole. It’s not pushing me out anymore. It’s squeezing. Clenching. Trying to suck me in deeper. Isn’t it?”
“N-no,” Sam sobbed, but his body betrayed the denial. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk upwards, meeting Damon’s next stroke.
Damon laughed, a short, breathless huff. “Liar.” He snapped his hips forward, harder, faster. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin filled the room, underscored by Sam’s broken gasps. “What would they think, huh? The people watching this? Your soccer buddies. Your professors.”
Sam shook his head wildly, a fresh wave of humiliation burning his face. “Don’t—”
“They’d see a straight-A student,” Damon hissed, leaning over him, his shadow engulfing Sam. “A college athlete. Flat on his back, getting his ass wrecked. Moaning like a little bitch for it.” He reached down, his hand closing not around Sam’s shaft, but around his balls, giving a rough, possessive squeeze. “They’d see this.”
His other hand trailed down Sam’s stomach, through the sheen of sweat, and wrapped around his cock.
Sam cried out, a full-throated, shattered sound.
It was fully hard. Throbbing. Leaking a clear, slick string of precum that Damon smeared with his thumb over the head. It felt obscene, a separate entity from the rest of him, betraying every protest his mind was screaming.
“Look at this thing,” Damon said, his tone a mockery of wonder. He stroked it once, a rough, fast pull that made Sam’s toes curl. “It’s so fucking hard. And so little. Isn’t it? Just a cute little cock, all wet and desperate.” He leaned close again, his lips brushing Sam’s ear. “What would they call you, Sam? On those forums. In the comments.”
He thrust in brutally deep and held there. “They’d call you a natural-born faggot. They’d say you were made for this.”
The words echoed in the humid air, merging with the slap of skin. Sam’s mind was a white blur of sensation, shame, and that relentless, shocking pleasure. He couldn’t form a thought, couldn’t catch his breath.
Damon pulled out of him suddenly, the loss of fullness a shocking vacuum. Sam’s hips jerked up off the leather, seeking it back instinctively, a movement that made Damon’s grin widen. “Up,” he commanded, his voice rough. He slapped Sam’s thigh, the sound sharp. “We’re moving. Get on the bed.”
Sam stumbled off the couch, his legs trembling so badly he almost fell. The studio’s main light was a clinical glare now, highlighting the sheen on his skin, the blush across his chest. Damon was already on the large, low platform bed, propped against the headboard, watching him with dark, expectant eyes. He looked immense, his own arousal prominent and intimidating.
“Come on, boy,” Damon said, patting his own thighs. “Show me you can earn it. Show the camera you want it.”
Swallowing hard, Sam climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the black duvet. He hovered over Damon, his body screaming at the unnaturalness of the position. He reached down, trying to guide him, his fingers clumsy.
“That’s it,” Damon murmured, but it wasn’t soothing. It was a challenge. He didn’t help, just watched Sam struggle. “Take it.”
Sam tried to lower himself, a shaky, controlled descent. The tip pressed against him, that familiar, impossible stretch waiting. He whined, a high, thin sound in his throat. “Ah—ah, fuck.”
“It feels bigger like this, doesn’t it?” Damon’s voice was low, almost conversational. “You’re in control. So take it.”
Sam pushed down, a fraction of an inch. The burn was immediate and profound, a tearing fullness that stole his vision. Tears welled instantly, making his eyes glassy. He gasped, his body rigid, frozen halfway. “I can’t—”
“You can.” Damon’s hands came to rest on his hips, not pushing, just holding. “Breathe out. Let it in.”
Sam let out a shattered sob and forced himself down another inch. The stretch was blinding, a consuming fire that centered his entire universe in that one searing point. He was panting, whining “ah, ah, ah” with each shallow, hitched breath as he worked himself down, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.
When he was finally fully seated, he couldn’t move. He was impaled, breathless, every nerve screaming. He just trembled, feeling Damon throbbing inside him, deeper than before. The angle was different, more direct, and it was already pressing relentlessly against that devastating spot from before.
“Okay,” Damon breathed, his own composure fraying at the edges. “Now ride it. Show me.”
Sam tried. He attempted to lift himself up, a weak, trembling motion. The drag was exquisite torture. He managed a few feeble, shaky bounces, each descent sending a jolt of that electric pleasure through his core, mixed with the raw ache of the stretch.
“Oh, fuck,” Sam gasped, his voice breaking. “It’s… it’s so big. Oh, god.” His movements became more frantic, less controlled. He was chasing that feeling now, the one that wiped his mind clean, but his muscles were giving out. The pleasure was too much, a crescendo that tightened everything in his body.
His arms gave out first, his elbows buckling. He collapsed forward, his sweaty chest hitting Damon’s, a low, overwhelmed moan crushed between them. He couldn’t do it. He was pinned by sensation, helpless.
Damon’s arms encircled him immediately, strong and imprisoning. “That’s all you got?” he whispered into Sam’s ear, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction. He began to move, thrusting up into Sam’s limp, yielding body. “Couldn’t even ride it yourself for a minute. Needed your man to fuck you, didn’t you? Needed me to do the work.”
He set a deep, rolling rhythm, holding Sam tight against him. Sam could only cling to his shoulders, face buried in Damon’s neck, whining with each driving impact. The world narrowed to the heat of Damon’s skin, the smell of sweat and sex, and the relentless, perfect friction inside him.
“Your hole is perfect,” Damon grunted, his breath hot against Sam’s temple. One hand stroked down Sam’s spine, a mockery of gentleness. “I’m opening it up so good. You’re gonna need this a lot now, huh? Gonna crave it.” He punctuated the question with a particularly sharp upward thrust. “Mhm?”
Sam tried to shake his head, a weak negation lost in Damon’s shoulder. The motion made Damon laugh, a low rumble Sam felt in his own chest.
“Look at you,” Damon cooed, his pace unwavering, powerful. He was speaking to the camera, to Sam, to himself. “So fucking cockdrunk. Stupid with it. Just a dumb little thing full of cock.” He nuzzled into Sam’s damp hair, his voice dropping to a venomous purr. “You love this. You know you do.”
After a while, Damon’s rhythm shifted. He slowed, but didn’t stop. His hand came up and gripped Sam’s hair, pulling his head back from its hiding place. Sam’s face was a mess of tears and flushed confusion.
“Come here, baby,” Damon said, his voice a dark command softened by a single, dangerous word. “Kiss me.”
Sam stared, blank and uncomprehending. This wasn’t in the script he’d vaguely imagined. This was something else.
“I said kiss me.” Damon tugged his hair, not painfully, but with absolute authority.
Hesitantly, Sam leaned in. Their lips met—chapped, salty, an unfamiliar pressure. Damon took over immediately, his mouth demanding and skilled, swallowing Sam’s hitched breath. He flipped them over without breaking the kiss, pressing Sam back into the duvet and surging into him again, deeper.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Sam’s. “Why’re you so hard, huh? Still?” His hips snapped forward.
“I don’t know,” Sam panted, the confession ripped from him.
“Yeah you do,” Damon murmured, kissing him again, slow and deep. “It’s ‘cause your hole loves it. You love getting fucked, baby. You love my cock in this sweet little ass.” He punctuated each phrase with a thrust, making Sam’s back arch, a moan vibrating into Damon’s mouth.
Sam was crying in earnest now, silent tears tracking into his hairline. The pleasure was a solid, terrifying wave, and his own rigid arousal was a damning proof he couldn’t hide.
“Slutty boy,” Damon breathed against his cheek. “You’re not straight anymore, are you?”
“Yes I am,” Sam gasped, the reflex answer, clinging to the shattered pieces of his own identity.
Damon laughed, the sound warm and cruel right in his ear. He reached between them, not to touch Sam’s cock, but to press his thumb roughly against the stretched, leaking rim where they were joined. Sam jolted violently.
“Feel that?” Damon hissed. “This isn’t a boy’s asshole anymore.” He thrust in hard, grinding. “This is a pussy now. My pussy. And it’s taking me so good.”
He stilled for a moment, buried to the hilt, and looked down at Sam’s wrecked face. “Does it still hurt?”
Sam, overwhelmed, nodded, a tiny, pathetic motion.
Damon’s smile was beatific. “Aw.” He kissed Sam’s cheek, a startlingly sweet gesture. “Good.”
Then he began to move again, a steady, deep, consuming pace. Sam’s mind finally quieted. The shame, the fear, the calculations about tuition and debt—it all faded into a distant hum. There was only the physical reality: the weight on him, the stretch within him, the rough cadence of Damon’s breathing, and his own broken, rhythmic moans.
The change in Damon’s rhythm was subtle at first, a deepening intensity, a tighter coil in his movements. He pressed his forehead to Sam’s, their noses brushing. His thrusts became shorter, sharper, more possessive.
“You ready for me to cum in you?” Damon’s voice was gravel, strained at the edges.
Sam whimpered, turning his face away. Damon caught his chin, forcing his gaze back.
“Say it.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. The words were ash in his mouth. “Cum in me.”
“Where?”
A fresh tear escaped. “In my… in my hole.”
“Good boy.” The praise was a dark whisper.
The praise was a dark whisper. It vanished into the air just before Damon’s control did.
He fucked into Sam with a final, brutal urgency. His rhythm shattered into hard, unthinking pistons of his hips, driving the breath from Sam’s lungs with every impact. The leather headboard slapped the wall in a frantic, staccato beat.
Sam could only take it, his body a pliant, sweating receptacle. A raw, guttural groan tore from Damon’s throat, a sound of pure animal release.
He buried himself to the root and held there, shuddering. Sam felt the hot, sudden pulse deep inside, a violation that was somehow anchoring. Damon kept still, his full weight pinning Sam down, as he emptied himself.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Damon stayed lodged within him, as if claiming the territory. Sam felt impossibly full, stuffed and marked in a way that went beyond physical.
“Look at that,” Damon finally murmured, his voice hoarse. He pulled out slowly.
The sensation was bizarre, a sudden, cool emptiness followed by a warm trickle. Damon positioned himself, a director framing his shot. He spread Sam’s cheeks wide for the camera’s unblinking eye.
Sam knew what was happening without seeing. Heat flooded his face. He could feel it, a slow, shameful seep onto his skin and the duvet beneath him.
“Beautiful,” Damon said, almost to himself. He watched for a beat, then pressed two fingers against Sam’s used hole, smearing. He pushed back inside with them, shallow and possessive. Sam flinched, a fresh, oversensitive shock zinging through him.
He was gasping, blush burning from his chest to his hairline. His cock, that traitor, was still painfully hard against his stomach, bobbing with his shaky breaths. His mind was blank, cored out. The world had narrowed to the throbbing ache between his legs and the fluorescent light on the ceiling.
Then Damon shifted. The weight lifted. A large, warm hand smoothed over Sam’s sweat-damp hair.
“You did so good.” Damon’s voice had changed. It was low, almost gentle, but the camera’s red light still glowed from the corner. “So fucking good for me, Sam.”
He kissed Sam’s temple. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it made Sam’s throat tighten. Damon’s thumb stroked his cheek, wiping at a tear track.
“Your first cock,” Damon whispered, lips moving against his skin. “And you took it all. Such a beautiful hole. Perfect.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. The words were a balm and a brand. He was fracturing, and the kindness was worse than the roughness.
“Let me finish you off, baby.” Damon’s hand trailed down Sam’s side, a soothing stroke that made him shiver. “Can’t leave you hanging.”
Sam felt the blunt pressure again as Damon, still slick from his own release, pushed back into him. The stretch was different now, a deep, sore fullness. Then Damon’s other hand wrapped around Sam’s erection.
Sam jolted. “Ah—I can’t, I don’t think…”
“Sure you can,” Damon murmured, grinding into him with a slow, circular roll of his hips. His grip on Sam’s cock was firm, a steady up-and-down rhythm. “Shouldn’t have to cum empty, right? Feels better with something filling up that sweet hole.”
It was a tease, a logical trap. Sam whined, his hips stuttering. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the sore, profound stretch inside and the urgent friction outside. They shouldn’t work together, but they were merging into a single, coiled tension in his gut.
Damon kissed the line of his jaw, his neck. “That’s it. Feel me in there? Still so deep.” His dirty talk was a soft chant now. “Gonna make you cum on my cock. Gonna milk that cute little dick dry.”
He moved his hand from Sam’s stomach, pressing down firmly just below his navel. The pressure was internal, insistent.
Sam cried out. Damon’s thrusts shifted, angling up, directly into that devastating spot once more, aided by the external pressure. The pleasure was immediate and blinding, a white-hot wire pulled taut.
“Oh god,” Sam sobbed. “Oh, fuck.”
Damon stopped jerking him off. He removed his hand completely, leaving Sam’s cock untouched and weeping. He just held Sam’s hips, fucking up into that spot with precise, grinding rolls.
“Come on, baby. Just from this. Just from getting fucked.” He sealed his mouth over the pulse point on Sam’s neck, sucking a mark there.
It was too much. The coil snapped. Sam’s body arched off the bed, seizing. A broken, silent scream ripped through him as he came, stripes of white painting his own stomach and chest, his hole clenching rhythmically around the invasion inside him. He thrashed, mindless, as Damon kept moving, gentler now, milking the sensation out of him until he was a shuddering, oversensitive wreck.
Sam went boneless, gasping like a fish on the shore. Damon slowly, carefully, pulled out. He scooped two fingers through the mess on Sam’s stomach, gathering it.
He brought them to Sam’s lips. “Taste it,” he whispered. “You earned it.”
Dazed, obedient in his exhaustion, Sam opened his mouth. The taste was salt and bitterness and something uniquely, intimately his own. He swallowed, grimacing.
Damon smiled, a real one that almost reached his eyes. He kissed Sam’s forehead again, stroking his hair back. “So good. Your hole was incredible. Honestly.” He settled beside him, an arm draped over Sam’s waist, still facing the camera. “That right there? That’s rent. That’s a semester’s books. All sorted.”
Sam just stared at the ceiling, spent and hollow. The number in his bank app, the one that haunted him, seemed to flicker in the air.
“And you know,” Damon said, his voice light, conversational, as if discussing the weather, “when that runs out… for new books, or a emergency flat tire…” He squeezed Sam’s hip. “You just come back. This sweet hole earned its keep. It can always get more cock.”
Sam flushed a deep, mortified crimson. He made a small, pained noise and turned his face, hiding it against the solid warmth of Damon’s neck. He smelled like sex and skin.
Above him, Damon’s chest vibrated with a soft chuckle. He looked past Sam, directly into the camera lens, and grinned.