Chapter 3: Conversion Therapy
The following days were a blur of normalcy that felt like a poorly fitting costume. Ethan attended classes, took notes, laughed with acquaintances in the dining hall, all while carrying the secret of what had happened in the book-lined office like a live wire tucked beneath his skin. The memory of Vance’s taste on his own tongue was a brand. When the email arrived—"Ethan, my office. 8 PM. We have a seminar to continue."—his hands trembled so violently he nearly dropped his phone.
He arrived precisely on time, the click of the closing door sounding like a verdict. Vance was at his desk, but he wasn't working. He was waiting. The air still carried the faint, sophisticated scent of his cologne, but beneath it, Ethan could now detect something else, something metallic and cold.
"Take off your clothes," Vance said, his tone conversational, as if asking for the time. "Everything. Fold them and place them on the chair."
Ethan obeyed, his movements clumsy. The cool office air raised goosebumps on his bare skin. He stood there, exposed, his cock already half-hard with a treacherous mix of fear and anticipation.
Vance stood and walked to a large, high-backed leather armchair that Ethan had always assumed was just for reading. He produced four thick leather straps with buckles from a drawer, letting them dangle from his fingers. "Sit."
Hesitation was a flicker, quickly extinguished by the sharp raise of Vance's eyebrow. Ethan sat. The leather was cold and unforgiving against his naked flesh. Vance moved with practiced efficiency, buckling Ethan's wrists to the broad armrests, then his ankles to the chair's stout legs. The restraints were firm, not cruel, but utterly unyielding. He was trapped.
Vance wheeled a large monitor on a stand to face the chair, its screen a black void. "An essential part of any education is expanding one's frame of reference," he said, powering it on. "You have a concept of what you want. I'm going to show you what you are."
The screen lit up. The video was high-definition, clinically clear. It showed a young man, not much older than Ethan, on his knees between two older, heavily tattooed men. The audio was a symphony of grunts, slaps, and choked, eager pleas. The boy’s eyes were glazed, his mouth stretched wide.
Ethan flinched, turning his head away. A firm hand gripped his chin, forcing his gaze back to the screen. "Watch," Vance commanded, his voice low. "This is your curriculum now."
As the scene on screen escalated, the young man taking one cock after another with a desperate hunger, Vance produced a small, black plastic device. It hummed to life with a quiet, sinister buzz. He pressed it against the inside of Ethan's thigh, the vibration a sharp, electric tease. Ethan jumped in his restraints, a strangled sound escaping his lips.
"You see how eager he is?" Vance murmured, his mouth close to Ethan's ear, his eyes on the screen. "That willingness to be used? That's what I see in you when you walk through my door." He moved the vibrator, tracing the length of Ethan's shaft without quite touching the most sensitive parts. The sensation was maddening.
On screen, one of the men grunted, "Take that load, you hungry little faggot," and finished across the boy's face. The boy opened his mouth, panting, lapping at what he could reach.
"Look at that," Vance whispered, finally pressing the buzzing head directly against the tip of Ethan's cock. Pleasure, sharp and immediate, ripped through Ethan's nervous system. His back arched against the leather, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. "See how he thanks them? That's gratitude. That's understanding your purpose."
He moved the vibrator away, leaving Ethan throbbing and desperate. The denial was a physical ache. The video played on, a loop of graphic, degrading acts that should have repulsed him. But his body, sensitized and strung out, reacted differently. His cock was rigid, leaking precum onto his stomach, betraying him completely.
"You're getting harder than you've ever been in your life, aren't you?" Vance’s voice was a dark caress. He ran a single, possessive finger through the wetness on Ethan's belly. "Your body knows the truth your mind is still fighting. It knows it wants to be that boy. It wants to be filled. It wants to be painted. It wants to be claimed."
He applied the vibrator again, this time with more pressure, holding it firmly at the frenulum. White-hot sparks of sensation shot through Ethan. He cried out, his hips straining against the straps, trying to fuck the air, to fuck the relentless vibration.
"Imagine it," Vance growled, his own breath starting to come faster as he watched Ethan unravel. "That's going to be you. Soon. Not just rubbing like a desperate teenager against my pants. I'm going to bend you over this very desk and fuck that tight, curious little asshole until you scream. You're going to beg for it. You're going to take my cock the way that boy is taking theirs, and you're going to love it."
The profanity, the vivid, degrading imagery, combined with the relentless buzz on his cock and the graphic scene on the monitor, shattered Ethan's last defenses. His orgasm built not as a wave of pleasure, but as a tidal wave of brutal, undeniable submission.
"Come on, Ethan," Vance urged, his voice dropping to a possessive, guttural rasp. "Come for me. Show daddy how much you want it."
It was the command that broke him. With a shattered cry that was part sob, part surrender, Ethan came. His release erupted violently, streaking across his chest and stomach in hot, helpless pulses, his body seizing against the leather restraints as the video on the screen reached its own cacophonous climax.
He slumped in the chair, spent, trembling, utterly hollowed out. The vibrator fell silent. The video ended, returning the screen to black.
Vance unbuckled the straps with methodical calm. He didn't look at Ethan's face. He looked at the mess he had made of his body. He leaned close, his lips nearly brushing Ethan's ear.
"Next time," he said quietly, "you won't be watching. You'll be performing."
Vance’s words hung in the air, a promise that felt less like a threat and more like a terrifying destiny. Ethan’s body, still slick with his own release, gave a feeble shudder. His mind was a scrambled echo of the video’s relentless imagery—the stretched mouths, the grasping hands, the sheer volume of flesh. A phantom ache, deep and unfamiliar, pulsed low in his gut.
Unbuckled and trembling, he stood on weak legs. His own cum was cooling on his skin, a shameful glaze. He instinctively reached for his clothes piled on the chair, a feeble gesture toward reclaiming himself.
“Leave them,” Vance said, his voice casual. He was already seated behind his grand desk, watching Ethan with the focused interest of a biologist observing a specimen. “Come here.”
Ethan moved, the cold hardwood floor against his bare feet a sharp contrast to the feverish heat of his own body. He stopped before the desk, utterly exposed. Vance’s gaze was a physical weight, traveling from his flushed face down his torso to his limp, spent cock. The silence was worse than the filthy commentary.
“You reacted very strongly to that particular film,” Vance mused, leaning back. “The specific mechanics of it. The taking. It got you off harder than anything before, didn’t it?”
Ethan couldn’t lie. His explosive orgasm, wrung from him while strapped down, was evidence enough. He nodded, staring at the intricate grain of the mahogany desk.
“It’s one thing to rub off like teenagers,” Vance continued, his tone conversational, almost academic. “It’s another to understand the architecture of real pleasure. The body has passages designed for it.” He paused, letting the implication settle. “You thought about it. While you were watching. You didn’t just think about your cock. You thought about that other place.”
A jolt of panic, hot and sharp, lanced through Ethan’s humiliation. He hadn’t allowed the thought to form, not consciously, but his body had clenched instinctively during the most graphic moments on screen. As if it knew. As if it was preparing.
His hand, moving entirely without his permission, drifted behind him. The tips of his fingers just barely brushed against the tight, forbidden pucker of his asshole. It was a fleeting, nervous touch, a silent question his body was asking into the void.
Vance’s eyes, hawk-like, missed nothing. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. “There it is,” he breathed, a note of triumph in his voice. He stood and circled the desk with a liquid grace.
Ethan flinched, his hand snapping away from his body as if burned. Vance merely captured his wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “Don’t be ashamed of curiosity,” he chided softly, guiding Ethan’s own hand back. “Show me. Show me what you were thinking about.”
He forced Ethan’s fingers back until the pad of his middle finger pressed firmly against his own clenched entrance. The intimacy of it, the self-violation under Vance’s commanding gaze, was dizzying. Ethan whimpered, his face burning.
“That’s it,” Vance murmured. He then replaced Ethan’s hand with his own. His fingers were cool, his touch appraising. He traced the tight ring of muscle, a dry, teasing circle that made Ethan jump. “This tight little knot. This is where you’re truly empty. This is where you need to be filled.”
Ethan shook his head, a weak denial, but his body betrayed him again. The muscle fluttered under Vance’s persistent, circling finger. A shocking bolt of sensation, not pain, but a deep, internal spark of nerve-endings he never knew existed, shot up his spine.
“Feel that?” Vance whispered, his other hand coming to rest on Ethan’s hip, holding him still. “That’s your body telling the truth. It’s saying please.” He increased the pressure, just a steady, insistent push against the impossible tension. “It’s going to feel so good, Ethan. When daddy finally plays with this hole. When I work you open. When I get my fingers deep inside you and find that sweet spot that makes your legs give out.”
He spat onto his finger, a crude, wet sound, and reapplied it, the slickness allowing a more intimate pressure. The breach was minimal, just the very tip of his finger, but the sensation of invasion was absolute. Ethan gasped, his knees buckling. Vance held him up, his body a cage of support and domination.
“You’ll beg for my cock,” Vance promised, his voice gritty with his own arousal. He worked the wet fingertip in a tiny, penetrating rhythm, just past the resistant rim. “You’ll scream for it. Because you’ll finally understand. This is what you came back for. This is what that hungry look in your eyes has been asking for since you first walked in here.”
He withdrew his finger suddenly. The empty, aching feeling it left behind was more profound than the intrusion itself. Ethan swayed, feeling raw and opened in a way that had nothing to do with physical stretch.
Vance turned him around to face the desk, bending him forward so his palms flattened on the cool wood. He leaned over him, his clothed erection pressing into Ethan’s bare ass. His mouth was at Ethan’s ear.
“Next time you’re in this position, it won’t be my finger. It’ll be my tongue. Then my cock.” He ground against him, a slow, deliberate promise. “You’ll perform. And you’ll love it, you curious little faggot. Now get out. I can smell your need, and it’s distracting.”
The dismissal was as brutal as the seduction. Ethan stumbled into his clothes, his body humming with a new and terrifying awareness. The ghost of Vance’s finger remained, a brand and a blueprint for what was to come. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him in the silent hall, more owned now than when he had entered.