Chapter 5: Daddy's Inspection
The steel plug was a cold, persistent truth inside him. It shaped every movement as Ethan walked across the quad, a hidden counterweight to the ordinary world. Students laughed on blankets, a frisbee arced against a lavender sky, and the scent of cut grass and early jasmine hung in the warm dusk air. He felt like a ghost, moving among them with a secret that felt as large as the buildings surrounding him. His body was a crime scene, and the evidence was sealed within.
He found an empty stone bench tucked behind a flowering magnolia, its branches offering a fragile sense of privacy. He just needed to sit, to breathe, to try and think. The solidity of the bench pressed against the plug, sending a jolt through him that was equal parts pain and electric memory. He closed his eyes, the fading sunlight red through his eyelids.
“There you are.”
The voice, smooth and familiar, came from directly behind the bench. Ethan’s eyes flew open. His heart seized. He hadn’t heard footsteps.
Julian Vance moved around the bench with a predator’s quiet grace. He was in a dark linen shirt, sleeves rolled, looking like any other faculty member enjoying the evening. But his eyes were anything but academic. They were fixed on Ethan with a hungry, knowing intensity.
“I’ve been looking for my princess,” Vance said, his voice a low murmur meant only for him. He didn’t sit. He stood over Ethan, blocking the light, casting him in shadow. “Wondering how you were feeling. If you were remembering.”
Before Ethan could form a word, Vance closed the distance. He braced a hand on the back of the bench, caging him in, and lowered his hips. The hard ridge of his erection pressed firmly against Ethan’s shoulder, then, as Vance adjusted his stance, ground against the side of his neck. It was a flagrant, dangerous claim here in the open.
“Daddy…” Ethan whispered, a plea that meant both ‘stop’ and ‘more’.
“Shhh.” Vance’s lips were at his ear. His breath was warm. “I can smell it on you. The scent of my cum. It’s seeping into your jeans, isn’t it? That little steel stopper can’t hold it all back. Your ruined hole is so loose and wet it’s just leaking, dripping like a good little used boy.”
He rocked his hips, the friction against Ethan’s neck deliberate. “You feel that? That’s what you did to me. Just thinking about the mess I left inside you got me hard again. Now stand up.”
The command was soft, absolute. Ethan stood on trembling legs, turning to face him. The courtyard was not empty; figures moved in the middle distance, but the magnolia tree offered a thin veil.
Vance’s hands went to Ethan’s belt. His fingers worked the buckle with practiced ease. “No,” Ethan breathed, his hands coming up to weakly grasp Vance’s wrists. “Someone… someone will see.”
Vance didn’t pause. He popped the button, dragged the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud. “Let them see. Let them see what you really are. Now, drop them. Show me.”
The choice was no choice at all. It was in the way his body already thrummed for this, in the way the plug seemed to pulse in agreement. Ethan hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pushed them down to his mid-thighs. The evening air kissed his exposed skin, raising goosebumps. He was naked from the waist down, his cock half-hard, the steel plug glinting dully between his cheeks.
Vance let out a soft, gratified sound. He didn’t touch him yet. He simply looked, his gaze a physical caress. “Look at that. Proud of you.” He reached out and traced a single finger from the base of Ethan’s spine down over the curve of his ass, stopping at the flared base of the plug. He tapped it. “My mark. But I want to see the rest. Bend over. Put your hands on the bench.”
Humiliation burned through Ethan like fever. He turned, his jeans binding at his knees, and bent, presenting himself to the dusk and to the man behind him. He rested his forehead on the cool stone of the bench back.
Vance knelt.
His hands spread Ethan’s cheeks wide. The cool air hit his stretched, sensitive hole directly, making him flinch. Vance whistled low. “Fuck, yes. Just like I said. Gaping for me. Look at this, princess.”
Ethan couldn’t see, but he could feel. He could feel the slow, wet leak of lube and semen. He could feel the utter exposure.
“It’s still dripping,” Vance murmured, his voice thick with lust. “A slow, creamy drip. Your straight boy ass is a cum-slicked little slit now. And it’s hungry again, isn’t it? It doesn’t want this cold piece of metal. It wants daddy’s cock back inside, filling up that empty space.”
A fingertip, calloused and demanding, circled the loosened rim. It didn’t penetrate; it just smeared the moisture, testing the give. Ethan pushed back against it involuntarily, a low groan torn from his throat.
“Greedy,” Vance chided, but he sounded pleased. He stood up, his own pants now open, his cock springing free. He rubbed the swollen head through the wetness, painting himself with the proof of his previous possession. “This is what you needed all along, Ethan. To be bent over in public, showing off your well-fucked hole. To be used as a convenience. A urinal for my cum.”
He positioned himself. The broad, slick head nudged against the plug. “Push it out.”
Tears of shame and raw need blurred Ethan’s vision. He bore down, his muscles clenching and then releasing. The steel plug slipped free with a soft, wet pop and fell onto the grass with a dull thud. The feeling of sudden, empty vulnerability was terrifying.
Vance didn’t give him a second to process it. He sheathed himself in one brutal, deep thrust.
The cry Ethan let out was muffled against his own arm. It was too soon, the sensitivity from before flaring into a bright, sharp pain. But Vance was merciless, setting a hard, driving pace immediately. Each slam of his hips rocked Ethan’s body against the stone bench, the rough texture scraping his forearms.
“This is your function,” Vance grunted, his hands like vices on Ethan’s hips, holding him open, forcing him to take it. “You’re a hole. A warm, wet, gaping hole for me to fuck whenever I want. In my lab, on a bench… doesn’t matter.” He leaned over, his chest pressing against Ethan’s back, his mouth at his ear. “The guys throwing that frisbee? They could walk right over here. They’d see your face, see you getting your faggot ass reamed. They’d know.”
The image, coupled with the relentless, deep pounding, ignited something desperate in Ethan. The pain blurred, sublimating into a degrading, white-hot pleasure. His own cock, trapped beneath him, was fully hard now, leaking onto the stone bench beneath him. “They’d know,” he panted, the words a broken echo. “They’d see… they’d see I’m a… a fuckhole.”
“Yes.” Vance’s rhythm was becoming frantic, erratic. “My fuckhole. Say it.”
“Yours!” The admission was a sob. “Daddy’s fuckhole!”
Vance’s control snapped. He fucked into him with a final, savage series of thrusts, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside with a guttural roar. The hot flood was even more intense than before, a second claim in the same raw channel. He collapsed over Ethan, spent, his weight a crushing, comforting anchor.
When he pulled out, the sensation was a river. Ethan stayed bent over, trembling, feeling the warm cum immediately begin to escape, dripping down his thighs.
Vance tucked himself away, fastening his pants with calm efficiency. He picked up the steel plug from the grass, wiped it clean with a handkerchief, and then, without ceremony, pressed it back into Ethan’s dripping entrance. It slid in with obscene ease now, sealing the new deposit inside.
“Up,” Vance said, his voice returning to its normal, cultured tone.
Ethan pulled his clothes up with numb hands. The denim was damp and sticky against his skin. He felt shattered, hollowed out and refilled, marked inside and out.
Vance straightened his shirt. He looked like a professor again. He reached out and brushed a tear from Ethan’s cheek with a surprising gentleness. “You did so well, princess. You showed me exactly what you are. Now, walk back to your dorm. Feel it. Remember. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing around the magnolia tree, leaving Ethan alone in the deepening twilight. The plug was a familiar, heavy truth. The dampness in his jeans was another. He could still smell Vance on his skin, in the air. He looked at the stone bench, at the faint, wet smear he’d left behind. Proof.
He started walking, each step a squelching, shameful reminder. The courtyard was emptier now, the lights starting to wink on in the surrounding buildings. He didn’t see the other students anymore. He just felt the path under his feet, and the devastating, irreversible truth settling into his bones. He wasn’t just walking to a dorm. He was walking into the person he had become.
He was walking into the person he had become. Each step squelched, a soft, mortifying sound he was sure the entire campus could hear. The dried streaks on his inner thighs pulled at his skin with every movement, a crusted testament. The plug, that polished steel anchor, felt different now—not just a reminder, but a necessary part of him, keeping the professor’s latest deposit sealed deep inside his guts where it belonged.
The scent of jasmine was gone, replaced in his nostrils by the musk of his own sweat and the lingering, unmistakable odor of sex and semen. He passed under a security light, its buzzing halo feeling like an interrogation. His mind, stripped raw, didn’t replay the shame or the fear. It latched onto the crushing weight of Julian’s body, the brutal fullness, the guttural sound of ownership in his ear. He replayed the words. My fuckhole.
A warmth that was not from the evening air spread through his lower belly. It was a dark, pooling want. He thought of the massive screen in the multimedia suite, those gaping, dripping holes presented as ideals. He hadn’t just watched them; he had become one. The realization should have horrified him. Instead, it lit a fuse.
How could he make it better for Daddy? The question formed not as a duty, but as a desperate, singular need. He remembered his own untouched, frustrated orgasm on the stone bench, a pathetic dribble compared to the flood he’d received. That was wrong. Inadequate. A true surrender, a complete offering, would require more. He wanted to be so thoroughly used, so perfectly broken in, that his own body would convulse in acceptance of its function.
He imagined it, the fantasy unfolding with vicious clarity as he climbed the stairs to his deserted dorm hall. Daddy would bend him over the leather sling again, but this time, Ethan would be begging from the start. “Please, Daddy, make me come on your cock,” he’d whimper, his voice already ruined. Vance would smile that knowing smile, his hands cruel and possessive on Ethan’s hips. He’d push in, that familiar, breathtaking stretch, and set a rhythm that was less about pleasure and more about branding.
“You want to cream your little faggot dick while I wreck this hole?” Vance would growl, each word a hot puff of air against Ethan’s neck. His thrusts would be deep, measured, punishing. “You want to spurt all over yourself like a bitch in heat while I breed you?”
“Yes, Daddy, yes, please,” the fantasy-Ethan would chant, his own cock swinging, aching, leaking pre-cum onto the leather below. He wouldn’t touch himself. That would be cheating. The orgasm would have to be torn from him purely by the violent friction inside, by the overwhelming psychology of his own degradation.
In his mind, Vance’s pace became brutal, piston-like, slamming into his prostate with unerring accuracy. “This is your purpose,” the professor would snarl. “To get fucked stupid and used as a cumdump. Now come for me, princess. Come all over yourself and show me what a good, filthy boy you are.”
And he would. The fantasy crested in a silent scream against the dorm room door as he fumbled with his key. His body shuddered against the wood. In the vision, his orgasm was a violent, unstoppable eruption, ropes of cum painting the leather beneath him as Vance’s cock continued to pound, milking him dry. It would be a “true faggot orgasm,” as the crude, internal voice named it—an orgasm that came not from his own hand, but from the sheer, shameful ecstasy of being nothing but a vessel.
The key turned. The door swung open into darkness. He stepped inside, the fantasy dissolving but the desperate need crystallizing into a hard, sharp resolve. He wouldn’t just take it anymore. He would earn it. He would become so adept, so open, so willingly filthy that Julian Vance would have no choice but to be proud. He would learn to come from the fucking alone. He would learn to offer every part of himself.
He locked the door behind him, leaning against it. In the quiet dark, he finally understood the assignment. His hand didn’t move to his zipper. He simply stood, feeling the slow seepage around the plug, and smiled a small, broken smile. He knew what he had to do next.