Chapter 6: The Relapse
The email was three lines long. Sam typed it, deleted it, then retyped it six times over two days. The final version was sterile, like a business inquiry.
Hi. It’s Sam, from a few weeks ago. I was wondering if you were scheduling any more work. Let me know.
He hit send at 3 a.m., a time that felt appropriate for the kind of secret he was admitting. The reply came not twenty minutes later, a timestamp that suggested Damon was either nocturnal or perpetually waiting. It was even shorter.
Tomorrow. 8 PM. Same place. Don’t eat.
That was all. No questions, no surprise. Just an assumption. The confidence of it made Sam’s face burn, standing in the dark of his dorm. He didn’t reply. He just set an alarm.
The following evening, the city blurred past the taxi window in streaks of neon and shadow. He’d worn the same jeans, a different shirt. He told himself it was because they were his only good jeans, not because some part of him thought it would be recognized. The elevator ride up to the loft was a silent, stomach-dropping ascent. When the doors slid open, the scent hit him first—the same cocktail of leather, industrial cleaner, and Damon’s sandalwood cologne. It was familiar now. His body recognized it, a low hum of anticipation starting in his blood.
Damon was lounging against the kitchenette counter, sipping from a glass of amber liquid. He wore low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, his torso a mural of ink and defined muscle. He looked Sam up and down, a slow, appraising sweep that felt more intimate than a touch. A slow smile spread across his face.
“Sam Doe,” he said, his voice a warm rumble that filled the quiet space. “Back for more. And so soon. I’m flattered.”
“Need the money,” Sam said, the rehearsed line falling flat. He couldn’t meet Damon’s eyes, focusing instead on a rivet in the steel floor.
“Right, right. The money.” Damon pushed off the counter and walked over, the casual swagger of a predator in its own den. He stopped close enough for Sam to feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Funny. Most of the broke college kids I see, ten grand lasts them a semester. You blew through it in, what, a month? You got a gambling problem, Sam? Coke habit?” He reached out and tucked a stray piece of Sam’s hair behind his ear, the gesture shockingly gentle. “Or did you just buy a really nice bike?”
Sam flinched at the touch. “It’s just… expenses.”
“Uh-huh.” Damon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned and gestured to the leather couch, already positioned under the key light. “Have a seat. We’ll do a little catch-up first. For the fans.”
The interview setup was the same. Sam perched on the edge of the couch, the cold leather sticking to the backs of his thighs. A camera on a tripower whirred to life, its red eye glowing. Damon dragged a stool over and sat opposite him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He was all focused attention.
“So, Sam,” Damon began, his tone shifting into a professional, podcast-host smoothness. “Welcome back. Surprise return. Tell the viewers… what brings you back to the studio?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Like I said. Financial… difficulties.”
"Financial difficulties," Damon repeated, nodding slowly as if considering a complex theorem. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, his eyes never leaving Sam’s face. "Right. Because the first ten grand just vanished. Poof." He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You know, most guys who do a one-and-done, they actually are done. The ones who come back so fast?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "They usually have a different kind of itch to scratch. The money's just a handy excuse."
Sam's blush was immediate, a hot wave that prickled across his neck and ears. He studied the oily sheen on the floor. "It's just money."
"Sure it is." Damon leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. He gestured to the camera. "So, for the folks at home, tell us about the first time. The experience. Was it what you expected?"
Sam shifted on the couch, the leather squeaking under him. "I don't know. It was... a job."
"Aw, come on. You can give me more than that." Damon's tone was light, teasing, but it felt like a probe. "You remember it, don't you? All of it." The way he said 'all of it' felt heavy, implying the parts Sam rewatched in the dark of his dorm. "The, uh, the physical part. Was it rough?"
"It was fine," Sam muttered, the words tight.
"Just fine? I’m a little offended." Damon laughed, a genuine, warm sound that was somehow worse than cruelty. "You made some pretty interesting noises for something that was just fine. You looked... overwhelmed. In a good way, maybe."
Sam couldn’t form words. He just gave a stiff, minimal shrug, wishing the spotlight would swallow him.
"Alright, alright. I’ll stop torturing you." Damon’s expression softened, but his eyes remained clever and watchful. He stood up abruptly, the stool scraping. "I wanna try something different for this one. Before we get into the main event. A little pre-game."
Sam looked up, wary. "What?"
"This time," Damon said, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register as he settled onto the couch beside him, not touching, but close enough that Sam could feel his body heat. "I think I want a kiss."
The statement hung in the air, simple and devastating. They hadn’t kissed last time until Sam was wrecked, pliant, barely conscious. This was something else. A demand for participation while he was still aware.
"Come here," Damon said, patting his own thigh.
Sam's mind blanked. The instruction was clear, absurd. He didn't move.
"Sam." It wasn't a request. It was a reminder of where he was, and why.
Swallowing hard, Sam stood on unsteady legs and took the two steps to stand in front of Damon. He hesitated, then awkwardly lowered himself, perching on the solid muscle of Damon’s thigh. The position was profoundly childish and intimate all at once. Damon’s arm curled around his lower back, a firm bracket holding him in place.
Damon’s arm curled around his lower back, a firm bracket holding him in place. “Look at me,” Damon said, his voice a low vibration against Sam’s cheek. Sam turned his head, their faces inches apart, and the proximity was a different kind of violation. This wasn’t being shoved down; he had to lean in.
He had to be the one to close the gap.
His movement was stiff, a hesitant tilt forward until their lips brushed. It was a dry, closed-mouth touch, unbearably chaste. Damon didn’t move. He let Sam do it, let him feel every excruciating second of initiating a kiss with another man. Sam’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. It felt real. It felt so much more gay than anything that had happened on that leather couch, because this time he was choosing it.
“Cute,” Damon whispered against his mouth, the word a taunt. Then he took over.
His hand came up to cup the back of Sam’s head, fingers tangling in his hair, and he pulled him into a proper kiss. It was deep and wet and claiming. Damon’s tongue swept into his mouth, and Sam made a small, shocked sound. He was being kissed thoroughly, passionately, like Damon meant it. The heat of it, the slick intimacy, short-circuited his brain. He was frozen for a second, then his body betrayed him with a shallow, answering push of his own tongue.
Damon hummed, pleased. He kissed him like they were lovers, one hand roaming down to grip Sam’s hip, holding him steady on his lap. It was filthy and sweet at the same time, a devastating combination. Sam felt exposed, vulnerable, and so small wrapped up in him. He was actively participating in this, and the shame burned white-hot behind his closed eyelids.
They broke apart, both breathing harder. A string of saliva connected their lips for a second before snapping. Damon’s eyes were dark, amused. “There you go,” he murmured, his thumb stroking Sam’s flaming cheek. “See? You can do it. You can be a good boy without me having to wreck you first.” He leaned in again, nibbling at Sam’s lower lip. “But I’m still gonna wreck you.”
He kissed him again, slower now, more deliberate. Sam felt himself getting hard, the traitorous response pressing against his zipper, trapped against Damon’s stomach. Damon’s hand slid from his hip to his ass, giving it a rough, possessive squeeze through the denim. He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Sam’s with each word.
“You know what I thought about after last time?” Damon whispered. “That little kiss you gave me. Before you sucked my dick.” He smiled, a flash of teeth. “You looked so fucking cute. Leaning in all nervous and giving the head a little peck.” He mimicked the motion, planting a soft, mocking kiss on Sam’s lips. “Like it was your boyfriend. Sweet and adorable.”
Sam’s stomach dropped. He remembered. The instruction had been to humiliate him, and he’d done it, but Damon was rewriting the memory into something tender and perverse.
“It was so sexy,” Damon continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. “Seeing my big cock right there on your face, and you’re treating it so gentle. Like you loved it.” He kissed Sam again, deeper, swallowing his shudder. “You gonna kiss it like that again today?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He sealed their mouths together, his tongue delving deep, his hand tightening in Sam’s hair. Sam’s mind frayed at the edges, dissolving into the sensation of the kiss and the crushing weight of what was to come. The preview video was nothing compared to this live, warm, embarrassing reality. Damon owned the memory, and now he was owning the moment, and Sam was just sitting in his lap, letting him.
The kiss broke, leaving Sam's lips wet and his mind blank. Damon patted his ass, a dismissive thump that echoed in the quiet studio. "Up. Clothes off for the camera. You know the drill."
Sam stood, his legs unsteady. He fumbled with his belt, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy. The silence was worse than any command, punctuated only by the soft whir of the camera lens focusing.
"Faster," Damon said, not looking at him, pouring more whiskey. "We're not shooting an art film."
Jeans and shirt pooled on the oil-stained floor. Sam stood there, naked under the unforgiving light, trying to cover himself with his hands. The chill of the air raised goosebumps on his skin. He felt a hundred eyes on him, though it was just the one glass lens and Damon’s bored, appraising stare.
Damon finally turned, leaning back against the counter. He took a slow sip, his eyes traveling from Sam’s face down to his feet and back up. He lingered on Sam's half-hard cock. A slow smile spread.
"Look at that. Already saying hello for me." Damon's voice was a lazy drawl. "Nervous? Or just happy to be back?"
"Cold," Sam muttered, which was true, but it was a weak excuse and they both knew it.
"Sure." Damon pushed off the counter and walked over, stopping just outside of arm's reach. "Turn around. Let's see the merchandise."
Sam hesitated, a flush creeping down his chest. He made a stiff quarter-turn.
"All the way. Ass to the camera. C'mon, you're a pro now." The taunt was casual, devastating.
Sam completed the turn, staring at the blacked-out window, his back to the light and the man. He felt exposed in a whole new way. The camera was seeing everything, capturing the tense line of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, the defenseless pale skin of his ass.
"Remember this part?" Damon asked. His voice was closer now. A calloused thumb ran down the cleft of Sam's ass, not pressing in, just tracing the seam. Sam jolted. "You clenched up so tight last time. Like a little fist." The thumb circled. "You relaxed, though. You remember that? When you finally let go?"
Sam remembered. The painful, burning stretch dissolving into a deep, full ache that rewired his nervous system. He gave a single, tight nod.
"Good." Damon’s hand left him. "On the bed. On your back. Legs up and open. I want to see your pretty face this time."
The leather was cold and stuck to his skin. Sam lay back, the ceiling pipes a blur above the blinding spotlight. He hooked his hands behind his knees, pulling his legs up and apart, presenting himself. The position was brutally vulnerable. He focused on his own breathing, in and out, trying to detach.
He focused on his own breathing, in and out, trying to detach. Damon moved around the studio, a shadow cutting through the light, the clink of the whiskey bottle against glass the only sound. Sam watched him, this man who owned a piece of his history now, who had a video file of his most unraveled moments.
“Comfortable?” Damon asked, his tone conversational, as if asking about the weather.
Sam couldn’t answer. He just stared at the pipes, his grip tightening on his own legs. The leather squeaked under his shifting weight. Damon finished his whiskey and set the glass down with a definitive click.
He didn’t approach the bed. Instead, he walked to the camera, peering into the viewfinder. “Good composition,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. He adjusted the focus with a gentle twist. The red light seemed to grow brighter, a cyclops eye boring into Sam’s splayed form.
“You look good like that,” Damon said, turning back. He wasn’t smiling now. His expression was one of pure, clinical appraisal. “Open. Waiting. It’s an honest look on you.” He finally moved toward the bed, his steps silent on the concrete. He stood at the foot, looking down at where Sam was spread open for him. “You can relax your hands. Put them by your head.”
Sam obeyed, letting his knees fall wider apart, his arms stretching up past his ears. The cold air touched everywhere. Damon nodded, a faint approval. He put one knee on the mattress, then the other, crouching between Sam’s legs. He wasn’t touching him yet. He just looked.
Sam held his breath. He expected the burn of lube, the blunt pressure of fingers. He was braced for that familiar, painful stretch.
Damon surprised him.
He leaned down, his hands sliding under Sam’s thighs, and pushed his knees firmly up toward his chest, folding him almost in half. Sam gasped at the sudden exposure, the vulnerable tilt of his hips. Before he could process it, Damon lowered his head.
The first touch wasn’t pressure. It was wet, shocking heat.
Sam jerked as if electrocuted. Damon’s tongue, broad and flat, licked a slow, firm stripe right over his hole.
“Oh—fuck—” The words burst out of Sam, high and strangled. He’d never felt anything like it. It was obscene. It was so fucking good. His whole nervous system lit up, a direct line of pure sensation that bypassed his brain entirely. He wasn’t ready.
Damon didn’t stop. He pressed in, his tongue circling, then stiffening to probe. Sam’s back arched off the leather, a silent scream catching in his throat. He was trying not to whine, trying not to push back against that incredible, maddening wetness. He was too present, too alert for this. This wasn’t the disconnected haze of being fucked; this was acute, horrifying intimacy.
“Is that good, baby?” Damon murmured, his breath hot against Sam’s skin. He didn’t wait for an answer. He licked into him again, deeper this time, a filthy, sucking kiss that made Sam’s toes curl. “Yeah. You like that.” It wasn’t a question.
Sam’s hands fisted in his own hair. A choked sound, half-protest, half-pleasure, leaked from his lips. He was trembling. Damon pulled back just an inch, enough for Sam to feel the cool air on his wet skin.
Damon pulled back just an inch, enough for Sam to feel the cool air on his wet skin. “Look at that,” Damon said, his voice thick. He used his thumbs to spread Sam open further, exposing him completely to the camera’s unblinking eye. “My pretty little hole. All pink and hungry for me.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, a shudder wracking his folded body. He felt the wet, trailing path of Damon’s tongue, the obscene openness. “See how it’s clenching?” Damon said, conversational, as if noting the weather. “Just kissing nothing. Trying so hard to find something to hold onto.”
Then Damon’s mouth was on him again, no teasing this time, just a deep, licking focus that sent a jolt straight to Sam’s cock. A sharp, wounded sound escaped Sam’s throat. He clenched his fists in the sheets, the coarse fabric digging into his palms, anchoring him against the urge to push back into that wet heat. Every muscle in his thighs trembled with the effort of staying still.
“There we go,” Damon murmured against his skin, the vibration a new kind of torture. He lapped at him slowly, thoroughly, like he was savoring something. “We woke this up last time, didn’t we?” He pulled back again, just to speak. His breath was hot. “Has it been lonely without me?”
Sam couldn’t answer. His head thrashed side to side on the leather, a silent no.
"Poor pussy." Damon cooed, lathing his tongue over Sam's hole.
"It's not -!" Sam choked out.
Damon lifted his head, a smirk playing on his wet lips. "It's not what? Not a pussy?" He gave another slow, deliberate lick that made Sam's hips jerk. "Feels like one. Tastes like one. Getting all wet and open for me. Seems pretty fucking useless for anything else now, doesn't it?"
He didn’t wait for an answer. He dove back in, his mouth hot and relentless. Sam cried out, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. His cock, which had softened slightly from the overwhelming shock, began to fill again, thickening against his own stomach. It felt like a separate entity, a traitorous flag signaling a surrender his mind was still racing to deny.
"Look at this thing," Damon said, pulling away just long enough to flick a dismissive glance at Sam’s erection. He wrapped a hand around it, not stroking, just holding it in a loose, condescending grip. "What's it even for? Huh?" He gave it a little shake, like examining a defective tool. "Can't fuck anything with it. Not after what I'm doing to you. Just sits there, leaking. Cute."
Cute." Damon released him with a contemptuous little pat. "All that fuss for nothing." He shifted his weight back, his hands returning to Sam's thighs to hold him open. "What you need is right here, isn't it?"
"What you need is right here, isn't it?"
Damon didn’t wait for an answer. He lowered his head again, his tongue spearing deep. Sam bucked, a full-body convulsion that was pure reflex. A high-pitched whine ripped from his throat, unbidden. “Ah! God—”
Damon worked him over with a ruthless precision, his mouth wet and voracious. It wasn’t gentle or exploratory anymore; it was a targeted assault on a specific, wired nerve ending Sam hadn’t fully acknowledged. Pleasure, sharp and electric, lanced up his spine, coalescing into a tight, urgent coil low in his gut. His cock twitched, leaking a transparent smear onto his stomach.
“No, no, no,” Sam gasped, his head thrashing side to side. His hips stuttered, trying to push into the sensation and escape it at the same time. The coil wound tighter, a spring about to snap. He was right there, teetering on a precipice he’d never approached from this angle before. “Damon, I’m—”
Damon laughed, a wet, dark sound against his skin, and pulled his mouth away. “You’re gonna what? Cum?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glittering with wicked amusement. “You’re such a slut. Gonna cum so soon? Just from your pussy being eaten?”
The word ‘pussy’ hung in the air, vulgar and devastating. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation burning hotter than the pleasure. “It’s not—I’m not—”
“Shhh, it’s okay, baby.” Damon’s voice shifted to a mocking affection. He ran a rough hand over Sam’s trembling thigh. “It’s alright. My little bottom boy is just excited to see me.” He leaned in, his breath hot on Sam’s ear. “Is that it? You missed this? You got all worked up watching your little video and needed the real thing?”
“No,” Sam breathed, the denial sounding pathetic even to him.
“Aw, sure.” Damon chuckled, low and knowing. He pressed a single, spit-slicked finger against Sam’s hole, applying a gentle, insistent pressure. Sam’s hips jerked forward, seeking more. “See? Your body knows. It’s begging.” He pushed the tip of his finger in, just a knuckle’s worth, and Sam whined. “You want cock, don’t you? Not just my tongue.”
Sam shook his head, a frantic little motion against the leather.
Damon chuckled, pulling it out. "Come get it wet first."