Chapter 1: Kneeling Before the King
The floorboards were cold through the thin fabric of his pants. Lionel kept his eyes on the grain of the wood, a map of scars and years, because if he looked up he would see it. He could hear it. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, the shuddering gasp of the couch springs, Sasha’s moans—moans he’d never pulled from her, not like that, not so broken and grateful.
“Look at me, Leo.”
Damian’s voice was calm, conversational, as if he were asking for the remote. It was worse than a shout.
Lionel’s head lifted. The scene burned itself into his retina. Sasha, his Sasha, was straddling his younger brother on the stained leather couch. Her blonde hair stuck to her damp neck and shoulders. Her head was thrown back, her breasts bouncing with each of Damian’s upward thrusts. She was fucking him, riding him, her hands braced on Damian’s broad, bare chest. Damian wasn’t even breathing hard. He just leaned back, one arm draped along the couch back, the other hand gripping Sasha’s hip, guiding her pace. He looked bored. He looked right at Lionel.
“Closer,” Damian said, curling a finger.
Lionel’s knees creaked as he shuffled forward on the hardwood. The smell hit him now—sex, Sasha’s perfume, Damian’s cheap cologne, the stale beer from last night’s cans still on the coffee table. He was inches from Damian’s outstretched legs. From his bare feet.
“You see what she needs, Leo?” Damian asked, his hips pumping up once, making Sasha cry out. “You see what a real cock does to her? That hungry little cunt of hers is dripping. For me.”
Sasha’s eyes fluttered open. She looked down at Lionel, her gaze glassy and distant. A faint, embarrassed smile touched her lips, then melted into a grimace of pleasure as Damian slammed up into her again. “Fuck, Damian… yes…”
“Tell him,” Damian murmured, his hand moving from her hip to fist in her hair, pulling her head back. “Tell him what you told me.”
“I told him…” Sasha panted, her voice a husky ruin, “…yours is little. It’s soft. I have to fake it.” Her eyes found Lionel’s, and there was no apology in them, just a feverish truth. “This… this fills me up. I can feel him in my throat.”
Lionel felt something break inside his chest, a dry, silent snap.
“Kiss my foot,” Damian said.
The words hung in the foul air. Lionel didn’t move.
Damian’s thrusts became sharper, more punishing. Sasha’s moans pitched higher. “Do it, Lionel,” she whimpered, not to stop it, but to be part of it. “Just do what he says.”
A hot tear traced a path through the stubble on Lionel’s cheek. He bent forward. The arch of Damian’s foot was dirty from the floor. He pressed his lips to the cool, slightly gritty skin. The taste of salt and dust filled his mouth.
“The other one. And say it.”
He turned his head, kissed the other foot. His voice was a scrape of rust. “You’re the better man.”
“Louder. And look at her while you say it.”
Lionel raised his eyes. Damian had both hands on Sasha’s hips now, pounding into her from below, the couch hammering against the wall. Her tits swung wildly, her mouth was a wet, open hole gasping for air. She was coming apart on his brother’s dick.
“YOU’RE THE BETTER MAN!” Lionel screamed, the sound tearing his throat raw.
Damian grunted, a deep, animal sound. “Gonna cum. Where do you want it, slut?”
“Inside,” Sasha begged, “please, Damian, fill me up, I want it…”
With a final, brutal snap of his pelvis, Damian shoved her down onto him and held her there. His body went rigid. Lionel could see the tendons in his neck cord, the clench of his jaw. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him.
Sasha collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling. For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing.
Then Damian moved. He eased Sasha off him, a slick, wet sound echoing in the silent room. She crumpled onto the couch beside him, legs splayed, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile.
Damian stood. He was still hard, glistening with her. He took two steps and stood over Lionel. “Open your mouth.”
Lionel stared at the swollen, ruddy head of his brother’s cock, inches from his face. The smell of sex was overwhelming.
“No,” he whispered.
“Open your fucking mouth or I’ll knock your teeth out and pour my cum down your throat.” Damian’s voice was flat, final.
A sob hitched in Lionel’s chest. His jaw unclenched. He opened his mouth.
Damian gripped himself, gave two slow pumps, and a hot, thick jet hit Lionel’s tongue. It was bitter, viscous. Another spurt painted his cheek. Another landed on his eyelid. He gagged, but kept his mouth open, swallowing convulsively as his brother emptied himself onto his face.
When it was done, Damian gave a contented sigh and tucked himself back into his jeans. He looked down at Lionel, a masterpiece of degradation—kneeling, tear-streaked, face spattered with cum.
“Clean her up,” Damian said, nodding toward Sasha. “Use your tongue. Then maybe you can lick my boots after. Show a little gratitude.”
He walked to the door, pulled it open, and left without a backward glance. The door clicked shut.
The silence was absolute. Then Sasha stirred, sitting up. She looked at Lionel, at the mess on his face. She didn’t reach for a towel. She just laid back down, curling into the dent in the couch where Damian had been, and closed her eyes.
Lionel stayed on his knees. The taste of his brother was in his mouth, in his nose, seeping into the cracks of his soul. The cold from the floor had climbed into his bones. He heard the old house settling, a groan that sounded like laughter. He didn’t move. He just knelt in the ruins of himself, wondering if a man could simply forget how to stand.