Chapter 5: The Aftermath
The ten thousand dollars hit Sam’s account on a Tuesday. He stared at the notification on his phone in the middle of his Economics 101 lecture, the professor’s droning voice about market fluctuations suddenly drowned out by the pound of his own heart. It was real. The number was just there, a string of digits that erased his campus parking tickets, his overdue credit card, and half of next semester’s textbook bill.
Weeks passed.
Life went back to normal. Kind of.
He went to soccer tryouts, made the team, felt the familiar burn in his lungs during sprints. He ate in the cafeteria, shoved tasteless pasta into his mouth while his roommate, Kyle, talked about some girl in their chem lab. He went to parties, drank warm beer, and laughed too loud. Everything was exactly as it had been before.
But he felt weird. A low-grade static in his brain. In the shower, the water hitting his back felt different—his skin was just a layer of film over a new, unfamiliar machinery underneath. He’d catch himself staring at the cracked mirror above his sink, half-expecting to see a different reflection looking back, one with knowing eyes and a mouth that remembered the taste of leather and sweat. He stopped hooking up with Jessica from his sociology class, making vague excuses about midterms. The thought of her hands on him, her predictable, giggling energy, made his stomach tighten with a confusing kind of guilt. His body didn’t feel like his own to give anymore.
The money, though. The money was a concrete thing. It was freedom. He paid off his debts in a few swift, online transactions, a weight lifting from his chest that was almost physical. He bought new cleats. He ordered a pizza with extra everything and didn’t check his bank balance first. For a few days, he felt a clean, sharp pride. He’d solved a problem. He’d done what he had to do.
Then the email came.
It was late, the dorm quiet except for the hum of his mini-fridge. He was scrolling, mindlessly, when the preview popped up.
Sender: Ravage Productions
He was scrolling, mindlessly, when the preview popped up.
Sender: Ravage Productions.
His thumb hovered. The subject line was blank. A cold, slick feeling spread out from his sternum, the same sensation he’d gotten standing at the edge of the studio’s leather platform. He exhaled slowly, a thin stream of air through clenched teeth, and tapped the message.
It wasn’t an email. It was a link. Below it, a single line of text: See it here first!
His thumb moved again, almost without his consent, and the screen filled with a video player. It was pristine, high-definition, with a timecode stamp in the corner. The scene loaded, silent at first. He saw the bolted-down leather couch, its cracked seams unmistakable. He saw the heavy studio lights, the vague reflection of a camera lens in a dark mirror. Then he saw himself.
Then he saw himself.
It was a clean, edited sequence. First, an interview clip. There he was, perched on the edge of that awful leather couch, wearing his own stupid jeans and a t-shirt that said ‘STATE SOCCER’. He looked young. His knee bounced nonstop. A voice off-camera, smooth and professional, asked, “So, Sam, first time?” On screen, he gave a jerky nod, his eyes darting anywhere but the lens. “Yeah.” His voice was thin, reedy. “Just… need the money.” He attempted a laugh that died in his throat. It was pathetic. He wanted to reach into the screen and shake that past version of himself, tell him to run.
The video cut from his interview face to a wider shot. Damon was there now, a solid wall of tattooed muscle beside his own twitching frame. Sam watched, breath held, as his on-screen self was guided with rough hands to the couch. “Just touch it first,” Damon’s voice, off-camera then but crystal clear now, was a low command. Sam’s fingers, trembling and hesitant, reached out. They made contact, flinching back once before wrapping loosely around Damon’s cock. His own face on screen was a mask of pure, uncomfortable focus, like he was handling something volatile. “See? Not so scary.” That wasn’t true. It was terrifying.
Then came the kiss. Damon’s thumb pressed against Sam’s chin, forcing his head up. “Kiss it. Sweetly.” The Sam on the couch, eyes glazed with disbelief, leaned forward and pressed his closed lips to the head in a chaste, absurd peck. Damon laughed, a dark, warm sound. “Now make out with it. Look at me while you do.” The video Sam obeyed, his mouth opening, his tongue tentative, his eyes lifting as his lips slid down the shaft. The confusion in that upward glance was devastating. He looked lost. He looked owned.
It shifted from intimate to brutal without a transition. The kiss turned into Sam taking him in his mouth, his movements clumsy and slow. Then Damon’s hands were in his hair, gripping tight, and he began to move his hips. The face-fucking was methodical, deep, relentless. Sam on the video went limp, his body a puppet strung up by his hair, his throat working. He wasn’t gagging much; he’d just… surrendered. A wet, rhythmic sound filled Sam’s dorm room. His own present-day hand was clenched so hard his knuckles were white.
The angle changed. He was face down, ass in the air, Damon’s fingers working into him. “You want more of that?” Damon’s voice was casual. Sam’s muffled whine came from the leather. “Say it.” “…More.” “More what?” A shudder. “More… fingering.” “Good. Not ready for my cock yet, are you? Just these first.” Sam on screen shook his head, his back arching. It was a request. He had asked for it.
Then he was on his back, his legs pushed up toward his shoulders, his body bent in half. Damon loomed over him, the head of his cock pressing at that stretched, pink hole. “It’s too big,” past-Sam whispered, panic sharp in his voice. “I know,” Damon said, not stopping. The pressure, the overwhelming stretch, was visible in every tendon of Sam’s neck, in the white-knuckle grip he had on his own calves. He was being opened up, inexorably, and the camera caught every flinch, every swallowed cry. He looked so small underneath him.
The fucking started in earnest. Each thrust jolted Sam’s whole body. He was whining, a continuous, airy sound punctuated by sharp pants. “Uh—uh—uh—” His own cock, hard and leaking, bounced against his stomach with every drive. He thrashed his head side to side, but his hips seemed to push back, a tiny, betraying movement. “Look at you,” Damon grunted, the sound rough with effort. Sam watched, hypnotized, as his past self was consumed by the brutal rhythm.
Sam watched, hypnotized, as his past self was consumed by the brutal rhythm. On screen, Damon’s hand fisted in his hair, wrenching his head back to stare into the camera. “Look at you,” Damon grunted, his voice rough with effort. “Fighting it so pretty.” Past-Sam’s mouth was open, his breaths short, wet gasps. “I can feel your hole squeezing around me, sucking me in.” The Sam in the dorm room felt a phantom clench deep in his own guts, a memory in muscle.
The video cut to a new angle. He was on his back again, legs hooked over Damon’s shoulders, his body bent obscenely open. Damon was pressing into him, a slow, inexorable invasion. “It’s too big,” Sam’s recorded voice whimpered, thin and broken. “I know it is,” Damon murmured, not stopping. The stretch was visible, a straining tension that made present-Sam’s own body ache in sympathy. He watched his past self’s face contort, his eyes squeezed shut. “It’s so big, ah—ah—” Each abbreviated thrust punched the air from his lungs. “Ah, oh—” His eyes flew open, big and glassy, as Damon cupped his jaw, holding his face still. “Look at me, baby. Look at me taking you.”
Then Damon rolled them. Suddenly, Sam was on top, straddling him, impaled. He looked clumsy, unbalanced, his hands braced on Damon’s chest. “You ride it,” Damon commanded, smacking his thigh. “Show me you want it.” Sam on screen tried, his hips moving in a shaky, tentative circle. A wave of something—pressure, pleasure, a deep internal lightning strike—crossed his features. His eyes went wide with shocked recognition. He remembered that feeling, the prostate pressure that short-circuited all thought.
He collapsed forward, his forehead hitting Damon’s shoulder, a low moan torn from him. “See?” Damon said, his own hips beginning to piston upward into the slack weight on top of him. “You need your man to do it for you.” He wrapped an arm around Sam’s back, holding him close while he fucked up into him, the force driving Sam’s little cock against the hard plane of Damon’s abdomen. “You just need to be fucked.”
“Kiss me.” Damon’s voice was a low rumble against Sam’s ear on the video. Sam hesitated, his head lifting slightly. He looked dazed, ruined. “C’mon.” Past-Sam leaned in, his kiss hesitant, closed-mouthed. Damon took over instantly, his hand tangling in Sam’s hair, his tongue pushing in deep. They kissed while Damon kept fucking him, a messy, wet conjunction of mouths and moving hips. Present-Sam’s own lips felt numb.
“You like this?” Damon breathed against his mouth. “You like my cock in your ass?” Sam shook his head, a frantic little motion. “N-no.” It was a weak whisper. Damon laughed, the sound warm and dark. Sam’s body betrayed him completely; his own cock, hard and wet and trapped between them, leaked a shiny streak onto Damon’s skin. He was whining, a continuous, desperate sound.
The pace became frantic, punishing. Damon’s breathing hitched. “Gonna fill you up,” he growled. Sam just shuddered, his whines pitching higher. Damon drove in deep and held there, his whole body tensing. A raw, grunting noise was punched out of him. On the couch, Sam’s back arched, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. Damon slumped over him, then rolled them, still inside him. He nuzzled Sam’s throat, kissing his jaw. “Shaking like a leaf,” he murmured, his voice gone soft, almost soothing. He thumbed at Sam’s hard, neglected cock. “Look at you. Still so hard. You love cock in you, don’t you?”
His hand slid down Sam’s stomach, pressing hard just above his pubic bone, massaging deeply. Sam jolted. “Does it still hurt?” Damon whispered. Sam nodded, a tiny, broken movement. “Yes.” Damon smiled, a flash of teeth in the studio lights. “Aw, good.” He kept that pressure, grinding his own softening length inside Sam’s spent body while his hand worked Sam’s cock with rough, efficient strokes. “You’re a faggot,” he said, almost kindly. “You’re such a good boy.” Sam came with a choked-off sob, stripes of white painting his own heaving stomach.
The final shots were quiet, lingering. Damon, still inside him, spooning his wrecked body. Kissing his shoulder, his neck, his temple. Feeding him sips of water from a bottle. Whispering things the microphone didn’t quite pick up. Sam, fucked-out and pliant, let him. His eyes were half-lidded, empty. He didn’t pull away when Damon kissed his lips, slow and deep. He just accepted it, his body loose, his mind gone.
The screen went black.
In the dorm room, the silence was absolute. The only light came from the phone, now dark, clenched in Sam’s trembling hand. He was painfully, shamefully hard, the denim of his jeans tight and uncomfortable. A wave of nausea rolled through him, hot and acidic, followed immediately by a deeper, more terrifying pull low in his abdomen. He could still feel the ghost of that grinding pressure, the exact point inside where Damon had pressed down.
He threw the phone onto the bed like it had burned him. It landed face-up, the black screen a mocking eye. The preview link was still there, waiting. Ten thousand dollars. He stared at the cracked ceiling, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls. His fist pounded once, weakly, against his own thigh. He didn’t get up. He didn’t move. He just lay there, listening to the hum of the fridge, feeling the frantic, trapped beat of his own heart, and the insistent, shameful ache between his legs that wouldn't fade.
He just lay there, listening to the hum of the fridge, feeling the frantic, trapped beat of his own heart, and the insistent, shameful ache between his legs that wouldn't fade. It was Jessica who texted, her message a bubble of normalcy puncturing the thick silence of his room. hey stranger, u alive? miss u… my room? 10?
He typed okay and sent it before he could think.
Two hours later, he was kissing her in the narrow confines of her dorm bed, the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume filling his nose. Her hands slid under his shirt, her touch light and eager. He tried to focus, to lose himself in the simple mechanics of it, but his skin felt like a dead layer. His mind kept rewinding to the clinical chill of the studio air, the scent of leather and sweat, the crushing weight of a different body.
“Mmm, I missed this,” she murmured against his neck, guiding his hand to the clasp of her bra.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. He fumbled with the hook.
It was all routine. They shed their clothes between kisses, the same hurried, familiar dance. She reached for him, her fingers curling around him, and her touch felt… foreign. A frown ghosted across her face. He was soft. Completely, utterly soft. A cold dread washed through him, sharp and acidic.
“You okay?” she whispered, her hand stilling. “Too much pressure from tryouts?”
“Yeah,” he lied, the word brittle. “Just tired. Long day.”
He kissed her again, trying to manufacture a spark, but his body was a unresponsive engine. He could feel her confusion, her slight withdrawal. His thoughts churned, a panicked static. Ten thousand dollars. The preview link. The way his own voice had sounded saying ‘more.’ He saw Damon’s thumb pressing into the soft spot above his pubic bone, the deep, internal massage that had torn the orgasm from him.
“Here, let me…” Jessica whispered, shifting to take him in her mouth.
Her warmth enveloped him, her technique practiced and sweet. It did nothing. He stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling, a tight ball of humiliation growing in his throat. He felt nothing but a distant, clinical appreciation.
He felt nothing but a distant, clinical appreciation. Her head bobbed, a rhythm meant to stir him from nothingness. He placed a hand on her hair, the gesture hollow. His mind replayed the video on a loop—the wet sound, the commanding voice, the way his own body had yielded completely. Jessica’s gentle suction was a whisper against that memory’s roar.
“Sam?” She pulled away, her lips glistening. Confusion and a flicker of hurt tightened her features. “Seriously, what’s up? You’re not even… present.”
“I’m here,” he insisted, voice gravelly. He leaned in to kiss her, trying to anchor himself in the familiar taste of her lip gloss. His hand drifted to her breast, but his touch felt mechanical, like he was following a script he’d forgotten the feeling for. Panic began a low simmer in his gut. He couldn’t get hard. This had never happened, not with her.
He saw himself in Jessica’s mirror, his expression strained. The reflection seemed like a stranger, a boy pretending. He thought of how different Damon was from him—how absolutely sure. Damon didn’t ask. He directed. He took. Sam had never fucked Jessica’s face like that, hadn’t even thought to; the idea seemed strangely violent, and yet the memory of being used that way sent a shocking jolt through his nervous system. He wasn’t as big as Damon, either. The comparison was absurd, humiliating, and utterly involuntary. Damon’s cock had been huge, a punishing stretch that had rewritten his internal geography.
“Just… relax,” Jessica whispered, guiding him onto his back. She straddled his hips, her warmth a stark contrast to the cool leather of his memory. She reached between them to guide him inside. He was soft. His face flushed with hot shame. “It’s okay,” she said, but it wasn’t. He shut his eyes tight.
Behind his eyelids, the studio lights flared. He heard the creak of the bolted couch. Damon’s voice, a low tease in his ear. You just need to be fucked. The phantom sensation of that deep, grinding fullness coiled in his core. A spark travelled up his spine. His body responded, stiffening abruptly under Jessica’s hand.
“There we go,” she sighed, a smile in her voice, and she sank down onto him.
The relief was momentary. The warm, familiar clutch of her felt wrong. It was too soft, too welcoming. It lacked the devastating pressure, the burn, the conquering force that his traitorous body now craved. He moved his hips, a feeble imitation of rhythm. To stay hard, his mind lurched back to the studio. He pictured Damon over him, that smirk, the way he’d manhandled his legs. You like this? You like my cock in your ass? Sam’s breath hitched. He drove up into Jessica, the motion sharper.
“Yeah, like that,” she moaned, bracing her hands on his chest.
But he was already fading. The image fractured. He was in a pink-bedroom, not a studio. The person above him was Jessica, sweet and expecting, not Damon. The shame was a cold wash. He felt himself softening again. What the fuck. He gritted his teeth, desperate. He conjured the feeling of Damon’s hand pressing hard above his pubic bone, the ruthless, internal massage that had forced the orgasm from him. He thought of the degrading praise. You’re such a good boy.
His body reacted with a violent, betraying urgency. He rolled them over suddenly, pinning Jessica to the mattress. The movement was too rough. She gasped. “Sam—“
“Sorry,” he mumbled, but he didn’t stop. He drove into her, his eyes wide and unseeing. He wasn’t with her. He was back on the leather, being split open, the air punched from his lungs with every thrust. He was chasing that feeling, that brutal, transcendent wrongness. He fucked her with a frantic, focused intensity, his mind a chant of memories: the smell of sweat and leather, the sound of his own whining, the searing stretch. He held himself rigid, a stranger in his own skin, using the ghost of one encounter to fuel another.
He came with a choked, stifled sound, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. Silence followed, thick and heavy. His heart hammered against his ribs. Jessica’s hand came up, tentatively stroking his damp back. “Wow,” she breathed, a nervous laugh in her voice. “Where did that come from?”
He couldn’t answer. He rolled off, staring at the glowing stars. The emptiness that followed was vast, a yawning chasm where his own identity had been. The shame was no longer cold; it was a living thing, curling hot in his stomach. He had just used her body to fantasize about being fucked by a man. The money in his bank account felt like a curse. The preview link sat in his email, a door he’d opened that now refused to close.
“You okay?” Jessica asked, propping herself up on an elbow.
“Yeah,” he said, the word ash in his mouth. “Just tired. Long day.”
Long day.” The words hung in the dark, a lie so thin it dissolved on contact with the air. Jessica fell asleep quickly, her breathing evening out into a soft rhythm beside him. Sam lay rigid, staring at the fluorescent glow of her alarm clock. 4:17 AM. The numbers burned green holes in his vision. His body felt like borrowed equipment, a rental returned in worse condition. He slipped out from under her comforter, the polyester cool against his skin, and dressed in the dark with silent, furtive movements.
The walk back to his own dorm was a blur of frozen pavement and orange streetlight pools. The cold did nothing to numb the buzzing in his skull. He let himself into the stale, silent room and stood there for a full minute, just breathing in the familiar scent of dust and old takeout. Normalcy. It felt like a museum exhibit of a life he’d left behind.
He didn’t sleep. He showered, scrubbing at his skin until it was pink and raw, as if he could scour the memory of both Jessica’s concerned touch and Damon’s possessive grip from his pores. The water turned cold. He got out, shivering. He tried to study, opening an economics textbook to a chapter on liquidity. The words swam, meaningless. All his brain offered was a single, relentless image: his own mouth, stretched and glistening, working clumsily down a thick shaft. His stomach clenched.
Later, after a pointless lecture where he heard nothing, he found himself back in his room with the door locked. The buzzing had settled into a persistent, physical ache. He lay on his bed, the sheets crisp from laundry. He told himself it was just tension. He needed release, a reset. A normal, solitary release to clear his head. He reached into his boxers.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes, trying to summon the usual generic images. Girls from parties, scenes from movies. It was like trying to light a fire with wet wood. His hand moved with a weary, mechanical rhythm. His body remained inert, uninterested. A flatline. Frustration curdled into something sharper, a panicky humiliation. He opened his eyes, glaring at the ceiling. What was wrong with him?
His phone was on the nightstand. A dark, reflective rectangle. He knew what was on it. The knowledge was a magnet. His breath came shorter. No. Absolutely not. That was the problem. He wasn’t going to feed it. He squeezed his eyes shut again, his hand moving faster, a grim and determined piston. Think of Jessica. Think of her mouth, her warmth. The memory was gauzy, distant, like a story someone had told him. It provided less than nothing.
A groan of pure frustration escaped him. He kicked at the tangled sheets. His cock lay soft against his thigh, a useless thing. The shame was a hot, full-body flush. He grabbed the phone. His thumbprint unlocked it. The email app icon seemed to pulse. He didn’t open the message. He went straight to his private browser, his fingers trembling as he typed in the video site’s URL. The preview link was right there in his history. One tap.
The screen lit up with that same pristine, high-definition clarity. He skipped forward, the timeline dragging under his thumb. He didn’t want the interview. He didn’t want the ending. He found the moment. The camera was close, intimate. There he was, on his knees between Damon’s spread legs. The look on his own face was one of profound, overwhelmed concentration. Damon’s hand was buried in his hair, not yanking yet, just guiding. “Kiss it,” the voice commanded, a low rumble from the phone’s speaker.
Sam watched, transfixed, as his past self obeyed. The hesitant press of lips. The slow, uncertain parting of his mouth. The first tentative slide of his tongue along the underside. He remembered the alien weight of it, the smooth skin, the musky, clean scent. On screen, Damon’s other hand came up to cradle his jaw, the thumb stroking his cheek almost tenderly. “There you go. Just like that.”
Then the guidance became insistence. The hand in his hair tightened, applying steady pressure. Sam’s mouth opened wider, accepting the push past his lips. His eyes, wide and glassy, looked up at Damon. That upward glance—full of confusion, submission, a plea for direction—sent a jolt like live wire straight to Sam’s core. In his dorm bed, his body stirred, a thick, undeniable awakening. He let out a shaky breath.
On screen, the pace deepened. Damon’s hips began a slow, deliberate roll. Sam’s head moved in time, pushed and pulled. A wet, rhythmic sound filled the silent room. Sam’s free hand slipped back into his boxers. This time, he was already half-hard. He wrapped his fingers around himself, his grip tight. He kept his eyes locked on the video.
He watched his own throat work, saw the tears welling in the corners of his eyes from the strain. He heard the choked, guttural sounds he’d made. Damon’s voice, a dark praise. “Good. Take it. Just a little more.” The Sam on screen whined, a high, broken noise, but his mouth stayed open, his tongue lolling. Present-Sam’s own hips bucked into his fist. The sensation was immediate, electric. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was about recognition. This was what worked. This broken, degrading image was the key.
He pumped his hand, a harsh, frantic rhythm synced to the pistoning on the screen. It wasn't enough. The friction was shallow. He needed the pressure, the deep, impossible fullness. A desperate, snarling sound ripped from his throat. He pulled his hand from his boxers, spit into his palm, and shoved it back in. He brought his other hand to his mouth.
He sucked two of his own fingers deep, mimicking the motion on screen, his tongue swirling around the digits. The taste of skin and salt. He imagined the taste was different, heavier. He ground the heel of his spit-slicked hand hard against the base of his cock, a crude approximation of that internal massage Damon had given him. He drove his hips up, fucking into the tight tunnel of his own fingers and the press of his palm, his other fingers still fucking his mouth. He was a closed circuit of shame and need, his eyes glued to the sight of his own degradation.
The Sam on the video was gagging now, drool stringing from his chin. Damon was praising him for it. “Yeah, mess yourself up. Look at you.” Present-Sam’s body coiled, a spring wound past its limit. A wave of heat crashed from his balls up his spine, blinding and absolute. He came with a silent, shuddering convulsion, his back arching off the bed, his eyes rolling back before snapping to the screen once more.
Stripes of white painted his stomach and t-shirt. The phone clattered from his slack hand onto the mattress, the video still playing, Damon’s gruff coos now tinny and distant. Sam lay panting, utterly spent, the chemical haze of orgasm doing nothing to dilute the acid truth now pooling in his gut.
He looked at the mess on his stomach. He looked at the phone, still showing his own used face. The afterglow wasn't warmth. It was a cold, clear realization, settling over him with the weight of a lead blanket.
He's going to go back, isn't he.