Chapter 9: Pretty Little Thing
The air in the small campus coffee shop felt thin, academic. Sam stirred his untouched latte, watching the foam disintegrate. Across from him, Mia’s brow was furrowed, her textbooks stacked like a defensive wall between them.
“So, you’re ‘too busy’,” she said, her voice careful, neutral. “With your extra shifts.”
“Yeah,” Sam nodded, too quickly. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He focused on a faded poster for a poetry slam on the wall behind her. “The… the library gig. They’ve got me on closing every night this month. And with midterms coming up…”
“You’ve been distant for weeks, Sam.” She wasn’t accusing. She was stating a fact, and that was worse. “You don’t text back. You flinch when I touch you. Are you sure it’s just busy?”
A phantom sensation, deep and intrusive, flickered in his gut. The memory of being filled, claimed, watched. He shoved it down. “I’m just stressed. About money. About everything.” This, at least, was true. “It’s not fair to you. You deserve someone who’s… present.”
Mia was quiet for a long moment. She closed her anthropology textbook with a soft, final sound. “Okay,” she said. Just that. She didn’t cry. She just looked tired, and a little sad, and like she saw right through him.
The relief that washed over him was instantly poisonous. He hated himself for feeling it.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, the words useless.
“Yeah,” she said, gathering her things. She stood up, shouldering her bag. “Me too.” She walked out, and he didn’t watch her go. He stared into his coffee, feeling the hollow victory expand in his chest. He’d done it. He’d freed himself. For what?
The studio smelled different this time. Not just sweat and leather. Damon had lit a few of those reed diffusers, something vanilla and cloying underneath the usual musk.
“You’re late,” Damon said from the couch. He wasn’t scowling. He was smiling, a small, closed-mouth thing. He wore just low-slung gray sweatpants, his tattoos a sprawling, dark tapestry across his chest and arms.
“Traffic,” Sam lied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Mmm.” Damon’s eyes scanned him, head to toe. “Come here.”
Sam approached, feeling like he was walking onto a stage for a play he hadn’t rehearsed. Damon reached out and took Sam’s chin in his hand, tilting his face toward the light. His thumb brushed over Sam’s lower lip. “Look at that mouth. All pouty. You been crying, sweetheart?”
Sam pulled his head back. “No.”
“Liar.” Damon’s smile widened. He stood up, his presence immediately crowding Sam’s space. “Got a present for you. Since you’ve been such a good returning customer.”
He walked over to a black garment bag hanging from a pipe. He unzipped it with a flourish. Inside wasn’t the usual jockstrap or boxer-briefs. It was a pair of briefs, but in a soft, baby-blue silk. Delicate. Feminine. Beside them was a matching lace-trimmed bralette.
Sam’s stomach dropped. “What is that?”
“Your wardrobe,” Damon said casually, lifting the bralette by a slender strap. “Go on. The bathroom’s through there. Get changed. Camera’s already warming up.”
“I’m not wearing that,” Sam said, his voice tight.
Damon dropped the silky fabric and closed the distance between them in two steps. He didn’t grab him. He just leaned in, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. “You owe me for three textbooks and next month’s rent, Sam. You’re wearing the pretty underwear. Go.”
The math was unforgiving. Sam took the bag, his fingers slick against the plastic, and retreated to the small, dingy bathroom.
The silk felt alien against his skin. Cool, slippery. The briefs hugged his hips, the lace waistband a ridiculous proclamation. The bralette was worse. The cups were flat, designed not to hold anything but to frame. The lace scratched against his nipples, a constant, irritating reminder. He avoided the mirror.
When he came out, Damon was leaning against the vanity, arms crossed. A slow whistle escaped him. “Wow. Look at you.” His gaze was appreciative, hungry, but in a new way. It wasn’t the predatory stare from before. It was softer, more possessive. “Turn around. Let me see.”
Feeling heat flood his face, Sam turned. He heard the click of the camera shutter.
“Perfect,” Damon breathed. He came up behind Sam, not touching him, just letting his warmth radiate against Sam’s back. He spoke directly into Sam’s ear, his voice for the microphone. “See? I knew he had a sweet little figure under all those baggy clothes. Such a pretty boy.”
Sam closed his eyes.
“Come sit,” Damon said, guiding him to the couch not with a shove, but with a hand on the small of his back. He sat first and pulled Sam down to straddle his lap, facing him. The position was intimate, close. Damon’s hands settled on Sam’s silk-covered hips. “Hi,” he said, smiling up at him.
“Hi,” Sam muttered, utterly disoriented.
Damon’s hands slid up from Sam’s hips, tracing the lines of the bralette’s lace over his ribs. His touch was strangely gentle. He combed his fingers through the hair at Sam’s temple, pushing it back. “So pretty today,” he murmured, his voice a warm, low hum. “All dressed up for me. You even smell different.”
Sam flushed, the heat a painful bloom across his chest and neck. He glanced toward the camera’s red light, a tiny beacon in the dim room. “We should, uh… get started. Right?” He needed the script. He needed the rough, familiar sequence of hands and pressure and impersonal release.
“So eager,” Damon chuckled, his fingers still tangled in Sam’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. “Such a hard worker. My dedicated little performer.” His other hand palmed Sam’s ass over the slick silk, a casual, claiming squeeze. “But we’re doing something different today. We’re setting a mood.”
Sam’s stomach knotted. “Damon, come on.”
“Come give me a kiss, sweetheart,” Damon said, his tone light, conversational, as if asking for a passed saltshaker.
The request hung in the vanilla-scented air. This wasn’t in the contract. The other kisses had been violent punctuations, forced demonstrations. This was a quiet, awful ask. Sam hesitated, his body rigid on Damon’s lap.
Damon’s smile didn’t fade. His hand in Sam’s hair went still, waiting. The camera’s silent gaze felt heavier than any touch.
Sam leaned in, closing the scant distance. He pressed his lips to Damon’s, a dry, closed-mouth touch meant to be perfunctory. Damon’s lips were soft. He didn’t move. Sam pulled back an inch, humiliation scalding him.
“That’s not a kiss,” Damon whispered. His free hand came up to cradle Sam’s jaw, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Try again. Like you mean it.”
Sam’s next attempt was a fraction softer, lasting a second longer. Damon hummed approvingly and kissed him back, just a slow, yielding press. Then another. And another. Each one was a soft, lingering brand. Damon’s tongue traced the seam of Sam’s lips, and Sam, dizzy with the wrongness of it, let him in.
The kiss deepened, turning slow and wet. Damon’s hands were everywhere now, mapping the silk on his back, his thighs, his ass, with a proprietary tenderness that felt more invasive than any grip. He broke for air, nuzzling Sam’s cheek. “See?” he breathed, for Sam alone. “You can be sweet.”
He stood up suddenly, lifting Sam with him, and laid him back on the couch. He followed him down, bracketing him with his arms, and resumed kissing him. It was endless. Damon would pull back to murmur something.
Damon would pull back to murmur something, his lips brushing Sam’s with each word. “You missed me, sweetheart?” His hands slid under the absurd lace bralette, his rough thumbs circling Sam’s nipples with a knowing, casual pressure.
Sam gasped, a sharp intake of the vanilla-thick air. His back arched off the couch, a purely physical betrayal. Damon just smiled down at him, all fond appraisal. He stroked Sam’s waist where the silk met skin, his touch almost admiring.
“I did not,” Sam managed, trying to sound defiant, but his voice was thin, breathy.
“Liar,” Damon sang softly. He dipped his head and began kissing Sam’s neck, open-mouthed and slow, each press a brand. He lingered over Sam’s pounding pulse. “Your body misses me. It gets all confused between shoots, doesn’t it? Doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be hungry for anymore.”
Sam squirmed, the sensation wiring directly into his groin. This was worse than the pain. This was a syrup-slow dismantling. “Can we just… do it?” he blurted, hating the desperate edge in his voice. “I’ve got a midterm to study for.”
Damon laughed, a rich, unconcerned sound that vibrated against Sam’s chest. He didn’t stop kissing the hollow of Sam’s throat. “A midterm? That’s adorable.” He captured Sam’s mouth again, his kiss slower now, deliberately syrupy. “You think about poli-sci while I’m kissing you, sweetheart? Really?”
He pulled back just enough to speak, their lips still brushing. His fingers traced the lace edge of the bralette. “Your brain’s gone all quiet and fuzzy, I can tell.” Another soft, lingering kiss. “You’re not in charge of the schedule here, Jamie-boy.” He said the name like a private endearment, something stolen and repurposed.
Sam blinked, trying to muster a protest that wouldn’t form. Jamie? Damon just smiled, indulgent.
“You need to listen to your man,” Damon murmured, the words slipping into Sam’s mouth like a secret. The term hung in the air, ridiculous and terrifying. A thumb brushed Sam’s swollen lower lip. “So be a good listener now.”
In one smooth motion, Damon swung his legs off the couch and stood. He looked down at Sam, who lay sprawled and flushed on the black vinyl, a confused stain of blue silk and bare skin. Damon hooked a finger in the front of his own sweatpants, giving a slight tug. “Come here. Kneel. Right here on the floor.”
The command was quiet, absolute. Sam’s limbs felt heavy, disconnected. He pushed himself up, the cool air hitting his sweat-damp skin as he slid off the couch and onto the hard concrete floor. It was coarse against his knees. He stared at the worn leather of Damon’s boots.
“Eyes up, baby.” Damon’s voice was gentle, almost instructional. He pushed his sweatpants and briefs down in a single, practiced motion. His cock sprang free, already half-hard. It looked obscenely familiar. “Right here. You just watch.”
Sam’s gaze locked onto it. He couldn’t help it. A hungry, shameful part of his brain cataloged the shape, the vein, the remembered weight of it inside him. His own breath shallowed in his chest.
Damon wrapped his hand around himself, giving a slow, languid pull. He wasn’t looking at his own hand. He was watching Sam’s face. He stroked himself to full hardness with a series of deliberate, maddening tugs, his grip loose and easy. “See something you like?”
Sam shook his head, a weak, automatic denial, but his eyes stayed fixed. A traitorous thread of spit gathered under his tongue, and he swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. The concrete was grinding into his kneecaps.
Damon’s hand moved with a lazy, infuriating rhythm. “Yeah, you do.” He gave a low chuckle. “Look how big it is, Jamie. Remember how it felt sliding between those pretty lips?” He tilted his hips forward slightly, the heavy shape of him hanging there, a taunt. “You sucked it so sweetly for the camera. Like you’d been dreaming about it.”
Heat crawled up Sam’s neck, a blistering flush. “Can I just…” he started, his voice thick, and he leaned forward involuntarily.
“Ah-ah,” Damon chided, tightening his grip just slightly, his thumb smearing a bead of moisture across the head. He didn’t push Sam away. He just held him there with the weight of his gaze.
Sam froze, his mouth still stupidly parted, inches away.
“No, no, sweet boy,” Damon said, his voice a honeyed mockery of comfort. He resumed stroking himself, his eyes locked on Sam’s. “Not tonight. Tonight you’re just gonna look. You’re just gonna watch your favorite cock. Right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Watch your man take care of himself. Since you like watching so much.”
The words ‘your man’ landed like stones in Sam’s gut. He couldn’t move. The need was a physical ache, a hollow pull behind his teeth and deeper, in his core. He watched, transfixed, as Damon’s fist moved with a slow, self-indulgent rhythm. The room faded—the hum of the lights, the scent of vanilla now cloying and sickly. There was only the visual, the hypnotic slide of skin, the faint, wet sound.
“You’re blushing all the way down your chest,” Damon observed casually, like a botanist noting a peculiar flower. He sped his hand up a fraction. “That cute silk is looking a little tight in the front, Jamie. You getting hard from just this? From just watching?”
Sam was. The betraying pressure against the delicate blue fabric was undeniable, a brutal fact. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Open them.” The command was soft but left no room. “Or we stop. The money stops.”
Sam’s eyes flew open. Damon smiled, a lazy, victorious curl of his lips. “Good. Look at how much I’m thinking about you.” He was fully hard now, his length jutting angrily from his fist. He used his other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently, presenting himself. “All this, just because you’re here kneeling in your pretty little outfit. You did this.”
He let go of himself entirely for a moment, letting his cock stand thick and swaying before Sam’s glassy eyes. “Stay.”
He stepped back, walking over to the vanity. He picked up a small, black remote and pointed it at the camera. A soft, audible click echoed. He set it down. “Just for us now,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming more intimate, more real. He came back and stood before Sam again, his shadow falling over him.
“You want it, don’t you?” This wasn’t for the mic. His voice was low, conversational.
Sam nodded, a tiny, wretched jerk of his chin.
“I know you do,” Damon murmured. His gaze dropped to Sam’s lips. “That mouth. Such a good fucking mouth. You were born for this.” He gave himself a few slow, loose strokes, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You think about it, don’t you? When you’re alone. You think about how full it feels.”
Sam’s breath hitched. He did. He’d caught himself staring blankly at his textbook, his jaw going slack with the memory of being forced open. He gave another tiny, shame-filled nod.
“But you don’t get it tonight.” Damon’s hand sped up, his breathing starting to coarsen. The smooth rhythm turned urgent, possessive. “Tonight, you just get to see what you’re missing. You just get to take what I give you.” A flush crept up his neck. “Stick your tongue out, Jamie. Right now. Show me.”
The command was so absurd, so specifically degrading, that Sam froze for a full three seconds. Damon’s stare was immovable. A low, warning noise vibrated in his throat.
Slowly, Sam parted his lips. He extended his tongue, just a little, the tip of it trembling in the cool air. He felt like an idiot. A dog.
“More,” Damon gritted out, his fist pumping faster. “All of it.”
Sam closed his eyes and pushed his tongue out fully, a wet, vulnerable slice of pink against his own blush. Humiliation burned through him, sharp and clean.
“Good boy.” The words were a rough gasp. Damon stepped closer, the heat of him radiating against Sam’s face. “My good boy. Look at you. Take it.”
Sam opened his eyes just as Damon’s body tensed. The first hot stripe landed across his cheekbone, thick and sudden. The second splashed over his parted tongue and lower lip, a bitter, shocking salt. Sam flinched but held his position, his tongue still out, as Damon emptied himself over his face with a low, grunting curse.
It hit his forehead, his eyelids. Sam gagged, swallowing involuntably, the taste flooding his senses. He was painted with it.
Damon sighed, a contented, spent sound. He gently tapped his softening cock against Sam’s sullied chin, smearing it further. “Mine,” he stated quietly, looking down at his work. “All mine.” He used his clean hand to grip Sam’s jaw. “Now kiss me. Taste us.”
Sam hesitated, his face sticky and warm. Damon’s thumb pressed a warning into the hinge of his jaw. Sam leaned in, meeting Damon’s mouth. The kiss was messy, ruinous, a shared ruin. Damon licked into his mouth, cleaning his own taste from Sam’s skin with a low hum of pleasure.
“Perfect,” Damon breathed against his lips. Then he moved, his body all efficient motion. He sat on the edge of the couch and pulled Sam up, turning him, guiding him face-down across his leather-clad thighs. Sam’s world tilted, his cheek pressed to the cool vinyl, his silk-covered ass in the air.
Damon’s hand smoothed over the curve of one cheek, then hooked his fingers in the blue silk. He peeled the delicate briefs down to Sam’s knees in one slow, revealing pull. The air was cold on his exposed skin.
“Let’s give them a show, sweetheart,” Damon said, his voice conversational. He spread Sam open with his thumbs, exposing him utterly to the camera’s silent, staring eye. Sam buried a strangled sound into the couch cushion.
“Look at that,” Damon mused, a thumb tracing the furl of muscle. He spoke to the lens, a director offering commentary. “All pink and used. Still loose from last time. He remembers.” He pressed the pad of his thumb against Sam’s entrance, not entering, just applying a teasing, circular pressure. “You remember, don’t you?”
Sam clenched, a futile reflex. “Yes,” he whispered into the leather.
“What do you think they’re saying right now?” Damon’s voice was a low, intimate purr. His thumb pressed inward, just the tip breaching. Sam whimpered. “The guys watching. They’re typing in the comments. What are they calling you?”
He pushed his thumb in to the first knuckle, a slow, twisting invasion. Sam’s hips jerked. He was already hard again, his cock trapped awkwardly against Damon’s leg.
“They’re saying you’re a natural-born bottom,” Damon supplied, adding a second slicked finger alongside the first. The stretch was familiar, easy, and that fact alone made Sam want to scream. “They’re saying you’ve found your calling. My pretty little cocksleeve.”
He curled his fingers, searching, and found the spot immediately. A jolt, white and electric, shot up Sam’s spine. He cried out, his body bowing.
“There it is,” Damon cooed, rubbing that bundle of nerves with a cruel, precise rhythm. His other hand anchored Sam’s hip, holding him in place for the camera. “You gonna come like this, Jamie? Just from my fingers? While thousands of strangers watch?”
“Stop,” Sam choked, but his body was pushing back onto the probing digits, fucking himself on them in shallow, desperate hitches. Pleasure coiled, molten and inevitable, in the base of his spine.
“They see you,” Damon whispered, relentless. “They see you squirming on my hand. They see what you really are.” He leaned down, his lips against Sam’s ear. “My little faggot.”
The words were a hot, foul whisper against his ear, and they coiled straight into Sam’s gut, twisting the pleasure into something shamefully bright. Damon’s fingers worked him with a ruthless, knowing precision, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room. “They’re scrolling right now,” Damon breathed, his voice vibrating through Sam’s spine. “Hitting pause. Zooming in on this.” He twisted his fingers, and Sam’s back arched, a broken gasp tearing from his throat. “Looking at how you open up for me. How you drip for it.”
A thin, helpless sound leaked from Sam’s lips. His hips were moving on their own, chasing the synthetic friction, every nerve screaming towards a finish line that Damon kept moving. “They know,” Damon continued, conversational, almost smiling. “They all know what you are now. My sweet, slutty boy. Isn’t that right?” He crooked his fingers hard, and Sam saw white, his muscles locking.
“Damon—” he pleaded, the name a ragged moan.
“Tell me,” Damon commanded, his voice dropping, the camera forgotten for this private brutality.
“Yes,” Sam sobbed, the admission torn from him. “Yes, I’m—”
Damon pulled his fingers out completely.
The sudden, hollow emptiness was a physical agony. Sam cried out, his body shuddering violently, his exposed hole clenching around nothing. He was right there, right on the edge, and the void where that pressure had been felt like a mortal wound. “No, please—”
“Shhh, look,” Damon soothed, but it was a mockery. He spread Sam open with his thumbs again, presenting the twitching, slickened mess to the lens. “Look at that. All empty. Poor thing.” He traced the rim, a feather-light touch that made Sam jerk. “You wish there was a big dick fucking you right now, don’t you? Filling up this greedy little hole.”
Tears of frustration and overwhelming need blurred Sam’s vision. He was shaking, painfully hard, utterly ruined. He couldn’t form words, just a series of desperate, hitching gasps. “Please. I can’t— I can’t—”
Damon’s fingers plunged back inside, three now, a sudden and brutal stretch. Sam screamed, a raw, unraveling sound.
“I know,” Damon murmured, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic croon. He fucked him with his hand, a steady, penetrating rhythm that was all deep, internal pressure. “I know, baby. Just let it go. Come on. Come for them. Show everyone how pretty you look falling apart on my fingers.”
The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, a seismic wave that ripped through him with no touch to his cock. His body seized, back bowing, a silent scream locked in his chest before it broke into watery, choked sobs. Release pulsed out of him in weak, helpless streaks onto the leather beneath, his insides clutching and fluttering around Damon’s invading hand.
He trembled, a continuous, violent shudder, his face wet with tears and sweat. Damon slowly, carefully, withdrew his fingers. The sensation was overwhelming, and Sam whimpered, oversensitive and raw.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Damon said, his tone shifting. He gently turned Sam over, ignoring the mess, and gathered him up, pulling his limp, twitching body onto his lap. Sam collapsed against Damon’s chest, his face burying automatically into the sweat-damp skin, his breaths hitching in little gasps. Damon wrapped his arms around him, a solid, warm cage.
Damon’s fingers slid out of him, a slow, wet withdrawal. Then strong hands were gripping his waist, hauling him up off his awkward perch. Sam’s limbs were useless, noodles of spent nerve and muscle. He was maneuvered, rearranged, pulled back until he was settled sideways in Damon’s lap on the couch, his cheek coming to rest against the damp, tattooed expanse of Damon’s chest.
“Oh, was I mean to my baby today?” Damon asked softly, his lips brushing Sam’s temple. He kissed the salt-damp skin there, then his cheek, his gestures strangely gentle. The camera’s red light glowed steadily over his shoulder. “Hmm? Didn’t give my boy any cock at all. Just my hand. Was that too cruel?”
Sam couldn’t answer. A weak, shuddering breath hitched in his chest. He just curled in tighter, his body still vibrating with tiny aftershocks, his fingers clutching weakly at Damon’s sides. The silk bralette was a ruined, twisted thing between them, soaked with sweat and sticky in places.
Damon held him, one broad hand smoothing up and down the silk still tangled on Sam’s back. He kept kissing him, soft presses to his hairline, his wet eyelids, the corner of his mouth. Sam found himself chasing the contact when Damon pulled back minutely, a faint, pathetic seeking motion he couldn’t stop. “You were so good for me,” Damon murmured, the words vibrating through his chest into Sam’s. “So cute. So hungry for it. Just falling apart so beautifully.”
He rocked them slightly, a slow, calming rhythm on the creaking vinyl. He nuzzled into Sam’s hair, inhaling deeply. “I’m here. It’s okay. Good boy. Your man’s got you.” He let the title hang, undeniable in the quiet room. “Your man is gonna take care of you. Just like you need.”
Despite himself, a raw, shameful need for this exact comfort scorched through Sam’s hollowed-out center. He turned into Damon like a plant towards a unforgiving sun, wanting the kisses, wanting to be held tighter, so overwhelmed and outside of himself that this felt like the only anchor.
Damon obliged happily, his mouth finding Sam’s again in a languid, deeply possessive kiss. Then he glanced over Sam’s shoulder at the lens, his expression shifting to one of performative concern. “Okay, I need to tend to my boy,” he said to the camera, his voice a low, intimate rumble. He winked, a slow, conspiratorial flicker. The red light died.
The silence that followed was different. It wasn’t empty; it was thick with the aftermath.
In one fluid motion, Damon stood, Sam cradled against him. He carried him past the set, through a door Sam had never noticed, into a small, Spartan bedroom. It smelled like Damon—cologne, sweat, laundry detergent. He laid Sam down on the messy sheets and then climbed in beside him, pulling Sam on top so Sam’s head was curled into the hollow of his neck, their legs tangled.
Damon’s hand began to move in long, slow strokes over Sam’s back, tracing the ridges of his spine through the damp silk. His other hand came up to card through Sam’s hair, his fingertips brushing his scalp with a hypnotic rhythm. Sam felt boneless, his mind a static hum. He nuzzled closer, inhaling the sharp, familiar scent of Damon’s skin.
“Shhh,” Damon whispered, though Sam hadn’t made a sound. He brought his fingers to Sam’s lips, pressing gently. Almost absently, Sam opened his mouth, taking the tips of Damon’s fingers in, sucking lightly. It was a mindless, soothing action. Damon watched, a quiet satisfaction in his eyes, his thumb stroking Sam’s cheekbone.
The exhaustion was a tidal wave, pulling him under. The last thing Sam felt was the steady rise and fall of Damon’s chest beneath him, and the heavy, claiming weight of the hand in his hair. He didn’t dream. He just sank, and somewhere in the dark, warm fathoms, he didn’t have to think about textbooks, or rent, or the bewildered hurt in Mia’s eyes. There was only this: the anchor of a man who owned him, and the brutal peace of surrender.