Chapter 4: Claiming the Witness
The antiseptic sting of the shower spray couldn’t wash away the memory. It was etched into Jason’s muscles, a deep, pleasant ache in his core that flared with every twist of his torso. He let the hot water pound his shoulders, steam billowing around him, fogging the frosted glass of his stall. Through the haze, he watched the blurry shapes of his teammates moving under their own jets—laughter echoing off the tiles, the slap of wet skin, the mundane ritual of washing away last night’s game.
And last night’s other activities.
His eyes tracked one shape in particular: Mick. The rookie was scrubbing himself with a frantic, nervous energy, his head down, water sluicing over the tight muscle of his back. He hadn’t made eye contact with Jason or Conor all morning. The memory of his shocked face in the bus’s dim light was a live wire in Jason’s gut. It wasn’t fear of exposure that coiled there; it was a darker, hungrier pull. The kid had seen them. He’d seen everything. And he hadn’t said a word.
Conor’s bulk materialized beside him, a mountainous shadow through the fog. He didn’t speak. Just leaned close, the hair on his thick forearm brushing Jason’s bicep. His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the water. “He’s jumpy.”
“Yeah,” Jason said, the word a short, hard exhale. He watched Mick rinse off and shut his water, fumbling with his towel. The kid moved like he wanted to evaporate.
“Gonna let him walk out with that image in his head?” Conor asked, a dark amusement threading his tone. “Let him think about what he saw? What we did to Davy?”
Jason’s cock, soft under the spray, began to thicken. The thought was a trigger. Mick’s wide eyes. The silent, shocked intake of breath. The potential in that silence. “No,” Jason said. “I’m not.”
He shut off his own water with a decisive click. He didn’t grab a towel. Water dripped from his body as he pushed the stall door open, steam rolling out with him. He walked, naked and purposeful, across the slick linoleum floor. The casual chatter died in patches as he passed, eyes dropping, then flicking away. No one questioned the captain.
Mick had his back turned, wrestling his shirt over his head. Jason closed the distance silently. He could see the fine tremble in the rookie’s shoulders. Just as the fabric cleared Mick’s face, Jason’s hand shot out, clamping onto the back of Mick’s neck. It wasn’t a gentle grip. His fingers dug into the tense muscle.
Mick froze. A sharp inhale. “Cap’n?”
“Shut up,” Jason murmured, his lips close to Mick’s ear. He spun the younger man around and drove him backwards two stumbling steps until his bare back slammed against the cold, tiled wall. The impact knocked a gasp from Mick’s lungs. Jason leaned in, his forearm pressing across Mick’s collarbone, pinning him. Water from Jason’s hair dripped onto Mick’s face. “You saw.”
It wasn’t a question. Mick’s eyes, a pale, terrified blue, darted wildly. He licked his lips. “I… I didn’t see nothing, Jase. I swear.”
“Bullshit.” Jason’s voice dropped, a dangerous, intimate growl. “You saw Davy on his knees. You saw me fucking his face. You saw Conor’s dick buried in my ass.” He leaned closer, the heat of his body contrasting with the cold tiles. “Did it get you hard, rookie? Watching your captain get railed?”
Mick’s breath hitched. His gaze flicked down Jason’s torso for a split second, then away, a flush spreading across his chest. That was all the confirmation Jason needed.
A massive shape blocked the light. Conor stood beside them, a tower of muscle and damp chest hair, a wicked grin splitting his beard. He held a small, almost empty bottle of K-Y Jelly they’d stashed in a locker. “Think he needs a closer look, Jase.”
Jason shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to cup Mick’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. A threat. A promise. “You wanna join the party, Mick? Or you wanna walk out of here and always wonder what it felt like?”
Mick’s defiance crumbled. It was a subtle collapse—a softening of his taut stomach, a slow, shaky exhale. He gave one almost imperceptible nod, his eyes squeezing shut.
“Open your eyes,” Jason commanded. “You watch.” He released Mick’s throat and turned, presenting his back to Conor. He braced his hands flat against the tiles on either side of Mick’s head, caging him in. He looked over his shoulder, meeting Conor’s gaze. “Do it.”
Conor squirted the last of the cool lube onto his fingers. He didn’t bother warming it. He reached around Jason, his big hand roughly spreading Jason’s ass cheeks, and smeared the slick gel over Jason’s hole, then pushed two thick fingers inside without preamble.
Jason gritted his teeth, a sharp hiss escaping him. It was still tender from last night, the stretch a bright, familiar burn. He kept his eyes locked on Mick’s horrified, fascinated face. “See that?” Jason grunted, as Conor’s fingers scissored him open. “That’s where your captain takes it. You get to watch where you’re gonna go next.”
Conor withdrew his fingers. Jason heard the wet, heavy sound of Conor stroking his own erection, slicking it up. The blunt, fat head of Conor’s cock pressed against him. Conor’s other hand landed on Jason’s hip, gripping hard enough to bruise.
“Remember the bus, Mick?” Conor growled. “This is what you heard.” He drove forward.
Jason’s shout was muffled against his own arm. The invasion was brutal, breathtaking. Conor sheathed himself in one relentless thrust, burying his entire monstrous length inside Jason’s clenching channel. The air left Jason’s lungs. The tiles felt impossibly cold against his forearms. Mick was staring, frozen, at the junction of their bodies, where Conor’s thick shaft disappeared into Jason.
“Fuck… Con…” Jason groaned, pushing back, taking him deeper. The ache was sublime. He was a vessel, split open, owned. He turned his head, his breathing ragged. “Your turn, rookie. You’re gonna suck my dick while he wrecks me. Now.”
He didn’t wait for compliance. With one hand, he fisted his own erection, which was iron-hard and dripping. He guided it to Mick’s mouth. Mick, trembling, opened his lips. Jason shoved his cock inside.
The heat was instantaneous. Mick’s mouth was tight, inexperienced, all tongue and teeth and panic. Jason didn’t care. He fucked into it, setting a rough, shallow rhythm that matched Conor’s deep, grinding thrusts from behind. Each time Conor hammered into him, Jason drove deeper into Mick’s throat.
The locker room was silent except for the drip of distant showers and their raw, animal sounds: Jason’s ragged groans, the wet slap of Conor’s balls against his ass, Mick’s choked gags as Jason’s cock hit the back of his throat. Steam curled around them, a shroud for their corruption.
“Yeah, take it,” Jason snarled down at Mick, whose eyes were streaming tears. “Swallow it. That’s your captain’s cum you’re tasting.” He pistoned his hips, lost in the dual sensation—the brutal fullness from Conor, the constricting, suckling heat from Mick. The embarrassment on Mick’s face, the total subjugation, was a drug.
Conor’s pace quickened, turning jackhammer-furious. His grip on Jason’s hips was vise-like. “Gonna fill you up, Cap,” he grunted, his voice strained. “Gonna pump you so full it leaks out all day. Let the rookie see what he’s got to clean up.”
The vulgar promise tipped Jason over the edge. With a broken cry, he buried his cock to the root in Mick’s mouth and came, violent pulses of hot cum firing down the rookie’s throat. Mick gagged, convulsing, but Jason held him firm, milking every last drop into him.
The clenching of Jason’s orgasm around his cock was all Conor needed. He roared, a raw, unchecked sound, and slammed home one final time, his huge body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside Jason in hot, relentless spurts.
For a long moment, the only sound was their heaving breaths. Conor slowly pulled out, his softening cock sliding free with a lewd, wet sound. A mixture of lube and his release dripped from Jason’s stretched hole onto the floor. Jason finally pulled his spent cock from Mick’s mouth, glistening with spit and cum. Mick slumped against the wall, coughing, his face a mess of tears and Jason’s semen.
Jason straightened up, the profound ache in his ass a brand. He looked down at Mick, then at Conor, whose face was a mask of satiated predator. He grabbed Mick’s jaw, forcing the rookie to look at him. “You’re one of us now,” Jason said, his voice quiet, final. “You don’t talk. You just take your turn when we say.”
He released Mick, who slid down the wall to sit on the wet floor, shell-shocked. Jason turned, found his towel, and began to dry off as if nothing had happened. Conor did the same, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. The other showers had been empty for minutes; they’d been alone the whole time.
As they dressed in silence, Mick still huddled on the floor, Jason caught Conor’s eye. No words were needed. The line was gone. The team wasn’t just a team anymore. It was a hungry, secret organism, and they were its heart. And Mick was the first proof that their appetite could grow.