Chapter 8: Good Boy
The words weren’t a question. They were a directive, flat and unsurprised. Sam’s body moved before his mind could muster a protest, a puppet with strings pulled taut by shame and a degrading, gnawing need.
He turned over onto his hands and knees on the slick vinyl. The leather was cool against his sweaty stomach. He felt exposed, absurd, his ass in the air, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. He could hear Damon moving behind him, the soft sound of a bottle being opened, the squelch of lube.
“Good,” Damon said, his voice devoid of its earlier teasing. It was all business now. A rough, calloused thumb traced the cleft of Sam’s ass, not to arouse, but to assess. To claim. Sam flinched, a full-body shudder.
A finger, slick and cold, pressed against him. Sam tensed, every muscle locking.
“Relax.” Damon’s other hand came down on the small of Sam’s back, heavy and immovable. The pressure was insistent. “You’re already open for me, remember? My mouth did all the work.” The finger pushed in, to the knuckle, a blunt, stretching reminder. It was easier than before. His body yielded, a humiliating betrayal. Damon crooked the finger, a clinical search, and Sam jolted as it brushed a spot that sent a white-hot wire of sensation straight to his groin. A choked sound escaped him.
Damon chuckled, low and dark. “Still sensitive there, I see. Good.” He added a second finger, the stretch a sharp, burning bloom. “You gonna be a good boy and take what you need, or am I gonna have to hold you down and make you take it?”
“I…” Sam’s voice cracked, the word dissolving into a sharp gasp as Damon’s fingers twisted inside him. “I’ll be good.”
“Didn’t catch that, sport.” Damon’s voice was all false concern, his fingers going still. The city’s distant sirens faded beneath the sound of Sam’s own ragged breathing.
“I said I’ll be good.” The admission tasted like ash, like another loan taken out against his soul. He pushed his face deeper into the vinyl, inhaling the stale scent of leather cleaner and his own fear.
“That’s what I thought.” The fingers withdrew, leaving him achingly empty. Then a new, more profound pressure replaced them, blunt and unyielding. "Of course you'll be good, baby. You came here to get dicked down, after all.
The head of Damon’s cock pressed against him, a vast, impossible heat. It didn’t push. It simply existed, a threat made physical, and Sam’s body shuddered in a frantic, involuntary rejection that had nowhere to go.
“Uh-uh,” Damon murmured, his hands gripping Sam’s hips, fingers digging into the bone. “None of that now.” He applied the slightest increase in pressure, a relentless, incremental claim.
Sam’s world narrowed to that single point of contact, a ring of fire slowly being stretched beyond its limits. He couldn’t breathe. The air in the room felt thin, used up. A whine crawled up his throat, strangled and pathetic, as the thick crown began to breach him. It was too much. It was a splitting, a re-making. He tried to crawl forward, a feeble escape attempt, but Damon held him fast, an anchor in a storm of sensation.
“There you go,” Damon said, his voice a low, conversational rumble against Sam’s spine. He didn’t shove. He fed himself in by millimeters. “Just like that. Taking it so good for me. Feels like you’re trying to suck me right in, baby.” Sam’s head dropped, a sob hiccupping in his chest. His knuckles were white where they gripped the couch, every tendon in his arms standing in sharp relief.
His knuckles were white where they gripped the couch, every tendon in his arms standing in sharp relief. Damon didn’t stop. He pushed in with an infinitesimal, grinding patience that felt more violent than any thrust. An unending, slow-motion invasion. Sam could feel every ridge, every vein, a searing geography of flesh mapping his insides.
It was too big. The thought was a dull, screaming mantra in his skull. It was everywhere, a solid, burning presence displacing everything, and a broken whine, thin and reedy, leaked from his lips without his permission.
He pressed in another impossible fraction, and Sam’s body shook, a frantic tremor skittering up his spine. He tried to twist away, a pathetic, instinctive thrash, but Damon’s weight was an immovable anchor. “Uh-uh. Stay put. You’re taking all of it.”
Sam’s forehead slicked the vinyl. Oh god. It was pushing in, a relentless, profound pressure that blurred the line between pain and a terrifying fullness. He was writhing on it from the inside, his body straining to accommodate what felt anatomically wrong.
He was writhing on it from the inside, his body straining to accommodate what felt anatomically wrong. A high, thin whine escaped his clenched teeth, unbidden and pathetic. It was so big, a crushing presence that filled him utterly, pushing in until he swore he could feel it in his throat.
"Oh God," he slurred into the vinyl, the words mangled by pressure and shame. It was everywhere, a burning, stretching totality that dissolved any last pretense of control. His hips jerked in a weak spasm, an attempt to adjust that only drove Damon deeper.
Damon chuckled, a dark sound of pure satisfaction. "There it is," he murmured, his breath hot against Sam's ear. He paused, buried to the hilt, letting Sam feel every impossible inch.
Then he shifted, leaning his weight down. His rough cheek brushed against Sam's. Damon placed a dry, deliberate kiss on Sam's sweat-slicked cheekbone, a parody of affection.
"Look at that face," he cooed, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper for the camera he knew was rolling. With a firm grip under Sam's chin, Damon pulled his head up and back, forcing his profile toward the lens.
With a firm grip under Sam's chin, Damon pulled his head up and back, forcing his profile toward the lens. Sam’s face was flushed a deep, feverish red, his eyes glazed and distant, mouth open and panting ragged, wet breaths against Damon’s forearm. He was a raw nerve, completely on display.
“Look at that,” Damon said, his voice a rough, fond whisper directly into Sam’s ear, still angled for the camera. “Look at this fucking face. Like you’re dreaming.” He gave a slow, grinding roll of his hips that made Sam’s breath hitch, a sharp intake that sounded almost like a sob. “You gonna come just from this, baby? Just from getting reamed?”
Sam tried to shake his head, but Damon’s grip was iron. A line of spit trailed from his lower lip. “N-no,” he managed, the word thick and unconvincing.
“Sure .” Damon’s chuckle was warm and proprietary. He kept moving, a slow, devastating rhythm that was less about friction and more about a deep, full-bodied possession. “But hey, speaking of faces. You wanna know what people thought of your last performance? ”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh wave of humiliation warming his skin. He didn’t want to know. He needed to know.
“They didn’t buy it,” Damon continued, casually, as if discussing the weather. He punctuated the sentence with a sharper thrust that drew a genuine gasp. “Seriously. The comments were fucking priceless.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing Sam’s ear. “They all said there’s no way a straight guy, first timer, could take a dick like that. They said you were too good.”
Sam’s eyes flew open, confusion cutting through the haze. “W-what?”
“They said you were a pro.” Damon’s voice was full of mock-admiration. “That the whole ‘reluctant college boy’ thing was an act. A character. That you were such a little slut for it, it had to be rehearsed.” He smoothed Sam’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, a grotesquely tender gesture. “My inbox blew up. Everyone kept asking for your OnlyFans link.”
A strange, hysterical sound bubbled in Sam’s chest. It wasn’t a laugh. It was the sound of his last shred of context crumbling.
The sound died in his throat, becoming just another ragged breath against the damp leather. Damon’s hips began to move again, not with the slow, careful penetration, but with a deliberate, rocking cadence that filled the room with a wet, rhythmic sound.
“They said you loved it,” Damon breathed, each word timed with a thrust. “That you moaned like a fucking porn star. That you came too fast.” He reached around and wrapped his fingers around Sam’s cock, which was still obscenely hard, and gave it a few rough, efficient tugs.
Sam moaned, a broken, wet sound. The dual sensation was a confusing hell—the deep, full ache behind him and the frantic friction in front. His hips stuttered, trying to push into Damon’s fist and away from his cock at the same time, accomplishing neither.
His hips stuttered, trying to push into Damon’s fist and away from his cock at the same time, accomplishing neither. Damon held him perfectly still, a statue of conflicting desires, then released his grip and planted both hands squarely on Sam’s shoulders.
“Enough warm-up.” His voice lost its conversational tone, turning into a cold, clear command.
He pulled back until just the tip remained, a devastating threat of emptiness, then slammed forward in one brutal, seamless stroke. The air punched out of Sam’s lungs in a shocked, voiceless cry. The slow, stretching agony was gone, replaced by a sharp, profound fullness that sparked directly into his nervous system.
Damon set a ruthless, rolling pace, each thrust a deep, punishing punctuation mark. The wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the vinyl couch, Sam’s own choked gasps—they filled the dim room, a symphony he was forced to conduct. “There it is,” Damon grunted, his rhythm relentless and practiced. “That’s the proper fuck you needed, isn’t it?”
Sam could only writhe, his forehead dragging against the leather, each drive forward scrambling his thoughts into static. A coil of heat, shameful and urgent, was tightening low in his belly, fusing with the ache.
The coil snapped, fraying his resistance into thin, bright wires of pure sensation. Damon’s thrusts were a metronome, each one striking that same electrified spot until Sam’s whines blurred into a continuous, pleading noise. “Oh fuck, it’s so— oh my god, please—”
“Please what?” Damon’s voice was gravelly but clear, cutting through the haze. He didn’t slow. He emphasized each word with a deep, perfect roll of his hips. “Use your words, scholarship boy. You begging me to stop, or to keep ruining you?”
Sam’s mind blanked. His answer was a full-body shudder, his own cock dripping onto the leather below. The pleasure was a riptide, pulling him under from the inside out. “I don’t know,” he gasped, the admission torn from him.
“You don’t know?” Damon laughed, a sound of genuine delight. He shifted his angle minutely, and Sam saw stars, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. “Feels like you know. Your body knows. It’s fucking singing for me.” He leaned his weight down, his chest a hot, damp press against Sam’s back. “You gonna be thinking about this in class? Sitting in some lecture hall, remembering how full you are right now?”
“No,” Sam moaned, but it was weak, automatic. His hips pushed back, a tiny, betraying arc.
“Liar.” Damon punctuated the accusation with three sharp, shallow thrusts that made Sam’s toes curl. “You’ll be chasing this.” He smoothed a hand over Sam’s flank, a mock-soothing gesture. “You’ll be texting me within a week. You’ll need it.”
“I won’t,” Sam panted, but the words were just noise, a script he was forgetting. The building pressure in his groin was a ticking clock. He was so close, and the horror of that fact made him dizzy.
“You do,” Damon whispered, the words a hot, sure thing against the shell of his ear. His rhythm changed, became less punishing, more deliberate. Each stroke was a deep, rolling glide that brushed relentlessly against that spot until Sam’s vision pulsed with the beat of his own heart. It wasn't just fucking now. It was a demonstration.
Sam's fingers scrambled against the vinyl, finding no purchase. A broken litany fell from his lips, each thrust punching out a syllable. "Oh—fuck—it's so—" The sentence died, replaced by a guttural groan as Damon sunk particularly deep and held there, a claiming stillness.
"Big?" Damon finished for him, sounding amused. He pulled back slowly, an exquisite torture, and Sam's hips instinctively tried to follow the retreat. "Yeah, it is. And you're taking all of it. Every last inch." He began moving again, a steady, perfect piston. "Gonna need it all the time now, sweetheart. Gonna be lying in your dorm bed at night, staring at the ceiling, aching for it."
The truth of it, the hideous, secret truth, was a live wire in Sam’s chest. He had lain there. For three nights after the first time, he’d stared at the plaster swirls above his bunk, the phantom feeling of being stretched and filled playing on a loop behind his eyes. He’d showered three times a day and still swore he could smell Damon’s cologne. The memory was now a physical ache, twinned with the very real, devastating fullness currently splitting him open on the couch.
Damon saw the confession flash across his face—the widening of the eyes, the guilty clench of the jaw. A slow, knowing smirk spread over his features. "Yeah," he breathed, his rhythm never faltering. "You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you? Comparing. Remembering how you jacked off to it after I dropped you off." He leaned down, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Bet you came so fast."
"Shut up," Sam gasped, but it was a plea, not a command. His hands, which had been gripping the couch, fluttered uselessly toward his own throbbing cock, seeking any anchor in the sensory storm.
Damon’s hand shot out and caught both of Sam’s wrists in one easy motion, pinning them to the small of his back. "Ah-ah. No touching. That’s the whole point, kid." He punctuated this with a sharper, deeper thrust that made Sam see a burst of white behind his eyelids. "You’re gonna learn to come just from this. Just from getting properly fucked."
"I can’t," Sam whined, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. The stimulation was immense, overwhelming, but it was diffuse, a wildfire in his pelvis that refused to coalesce into the sharp focus he needed. "It doesn’t— I need—"
"You don’t need anything but this," Damon said, his tone shifting from teasing to instructive. In one fluid, brutal motion, he hauled Sam up by the hips and flipped him onto his back. The world lurched, the ceiling lights streaking past his vision. Before he could orient himself, Damon had his knees hooked over his shoulders, folding him in half, exposing him utterly.
The new angle was a revelation. Damon slid back into him, and he felt bigger, somehow, more present, a relentless pressure that crowded Sam’s senses. Every nerve ending lit up.
"Oh, fuck," Sam blurted, his head thrashing back against the vinyl. The direct, unyielding contact was everywhere, a constant, perfect bruise against that deep, secret place inside him. Damon’s eyes locked onto his, a dark, unblinking anchor in the spinning room.
Damon’s eyes locked onto his, a dark, unblinking anchor in the spinning room. He didn’t blink. He just watched, his gaze stripping away every last pretense as his hips drove forward again, and again, a relentless, perfect rhythm that brooked no argument. “There you are,” Damon said, his voice low and intimate, like they were sharing a secret. “Right there. Look at you.”
Sam couldn’t look away. His own breath hitched in time with the thrusts, a broken syncopation. He was pinned, physically and visually, and something in that fixed stare short-circuited his last defenses.
“My little slut,” Damon whispered, the words barely audible over the wet sound of their bodies. He didn’t speed up. He went deeper, grinding with deliberate, circular rotations that made Sam’s toes curl against Damon’s shoulders. “My pretty little faggot, letting me wreck your pussy all over again. You just keep coming back for it.”
“I’m not—” Sam choked out, but the protest was a feeble ghost of the one he’d managed last time. His hips arched, seeking more of that devastating friction completely on their own.
“You are.” Damon’s voice was absolute. He slowed, drawing the thrust out into an agonizing, full-bodied drag before sinking back in with a soft, grunted exhalation. “You’re gonna learn to cum on cock alone. No hands. Just this.” He emphasized this with a sharp, upward tilt of his hips that drew a ragged cry from Sam’s throat. “I’m training you up.”
The promise, or threat, coiled in Sam’s gut. His cock, untouched and painfully hard, leaked a steady stream onto his own stomach. The sensation was a maddening paradox—an overwhelming fullness that somehow wasn’t enough, a direct line to every nerve that refused to culminate. “I can’t,” he whined, his head thrashing side to side on the vinyl. “It’s not— I need—”
Damon’s hand flew from Sam’s hip to his throat, not squeezing, just holding, a warm, firm cradle that stilled his frantic movements. “Look at me.” The command was quiet. Sam’s eyes, wide and wet, snapped back to his. Damon held the gaze, his own predatory and focused, as he began to move again. This wasn’t the punishing pace from before. This was something worse. It was meticulous. Each stroke was a calculated, deep roll, a sustained pressure against that one spot, over and over, a drummer finding the exact, perfect beat.
Sam’s whines dissolved into a continuous, airy moan. He was floating and anchored, wrecked and seen. Damon’s eyes were a tunnel, and at the end of it was nothing but this feeling, expanding, inevitable.
“That’s it,” Damon murmured, his own breath starting to shorten. He didn’t look away. He watched Sam’s pupils dilate, watched the desperate fight in his face melt into a dazed, open-mouthed surrender. “Come on. Just let it go. Come on my cock, you pretty cockslut. Show me.”
The coil, wound so tight for so long, didn’t snap. It melted. It was a slow, devastating unraveling that started deep in his guts and flooded outward in a warm, shocking wave. A punched-out, silent gasp left him first, his body bowing up off the couch. Then the feeling crashed over him, wringing a raw, shuddering cry from his chest as his cock jerked, spilling thick stripes across his stomach and chest untouched.
Damon never stopped. He didn’t even flinch. He kept moving, driving into the clenching, over sensitive rhythm of Sam’s orgasm, his eyes still locked on Sam’s shattered expression. “Yeah,” he breathed, a smirk touching his lips. “There it is. Knew you had it in you.”
Sam sobbed, oversensitive and fucked out, his body a live wire of too-much. Every nerve was raw, screaming, the pleasure curdling into a sharp, grating ache that was somehow still pleasure. He tried to push at Damon’s chest, a weak, twitching push with no strength behind it. “please, it’s too—“
“Shhh,” Damon soothed, but he didn’t stop. He fucked him through it, his pace now lazy, almost indulgent, prolonging the wracking shudders until Sam’s protests died into exhausted whimpers. “Gonna cum inside you again. Since you liked it so much last time.”
Sam just nodded, blankly, fucked stupid and past caring. He felt Damon’s rhythm finally fracture, lose its precision. A low, rough groan vibrated through Damon’s chest as he pushed in deep, buried himself to the root, and went still. Sam felt the hot, intimate pulse deep inside him, a claiming he was too spent to even shudder at.
Damon stayed there. He let his weight settle fully on Sam, still buried inside him, and nuzzled into the sweat-damp hollow of Sam’s neck. “Mmm. You love that, don’t you? Being full.” He shifted slightly, a tiny, reminding movement, and Sam whimpered. “You’re hugging me so tight in there. Like you don’t want me to leave.”
After a long minute, Damon leaned up on his elbows. He looked down at Sam’s wrecked face, his cum-streaked stomach. He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “C’mere.”
He dipped his head and caught Sam’s mouth with his own. Sam froze for a second, then let his lips part. The kiss was deep, possessive, a tang of salt and skin. Damon pulled back, licked his own thumb, and collected a streak of Sam’s release from his sternum.
He held his glistening thumb to Sam’s lips. “Clean it up.”
Sam hesitated, his brain fuzzy and slow. Damon’s other hand, still on his hip, pressed down meaningfully, a reminder of their connection. Sam’s tongue darted out, tentatively, and took the taste of himself from Damon’s skin.
“Good boy.” Damon reached out a long arm, snagged the small camera from its tripod, and brought it close, pointing it at their faces. He kissed Sam again, messy and open-mouthed, for the lens. He broke the kiss, grinning at the camera. “Look at that. A straight boy, eating his own load, my cock still in his ass.” He turned the camera slightly to focus on Sam’s dazed, embarrassed face. “How you feeling, champ?”
Sam blinked, trying to form a sentence. “Fucked out,” he mumbled, the honesty torn from him.
Damon laughed, a rich, satisfied sound. He shifted again, still inside Sam, and Sam’s breath hitched. “We’ll book you in to come back. Got a way better rate for returning talent.” He kissed Sam’s jaw, a parody of affection. “Right, sweetheart?”
Sam looked at the camera lens, a dark eye reflecting his own ruined image. He thought of the debt, the number in his bank account that would soon change. He thought of the phantom feeling that would haunt his dorm room for weeks.
“Maybe,” he whispered.
Damon’s smile was all teeth. “I’m sure you’ll need more money soon.”