Chapter 4: Going deeper
The heavy oak door clicked shut behind Daveed. The sound echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence of the hallway, loud as a gunshot. Dominic stood frozen, rooted to the polished floorboards. Air refused to enter his lungs. The lingering sensation – the deliberate, feather-light scrape of Daveed’s rough knuckles over the thin fabric of his t-shirt, grazing the hypersensitive nubs beneath – burned like live wires.
Connection. The word Daveed had used echoed, warped and twisted in Dominic’s skull. Not mentor and protégé. Something else. Friendly? Or… something deeper? Darker? The professional detachment he’d fought so hard to rebuild during their talk, the relief at Daveed’s vulnerability, it shattered. Vanished. Replaced by the raw, humiliating tidal wave he thought he’d locked away.
Heat exploded in his groin, fierce and instantaneous. A sharp, involuntary gasp tore from his throat. His small, stubborn cock, the source of such rage that morning, swelled with shocking speed, pressing rigid against his tight khakis. Not anger this time. A blinding, unstoppable surge of pure, physical need. He felt the familiar, mortifying dampness bloom instantly – precum, soaking through the thin cotton of his boxers, darkening the khaki fabric in a rapidly spreading patch.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wrestle it back, but his body was a traitorous engine running on its own. The image of Daveed’s smirk, the memory of those hard hands drifting down, the impossible strength in that brief embrace, it all fused into a white-hot catalyst. His hands yanked down the zip and pulled his cock head free, just in time as his hips jerked forward once, twice, towards the unyielding wood of the door. A low, choked groan escaped him. Then it happened. Helpless. Unstoppable. A series of sharp pulses deep inside, followed by the wet warmth spurting through his little nub, soaking the khakis and leaving a distinct, dripping mess on the varnished oak. He slumped forward, forehead pressed against the cool wood, panting, trembling violently. Spent. Humiliated. Utterly undone.
Minutes passed. Or hours. The world outside continued – a distant car, birdsong, the persistent pulsing of a power drill. Inside, only Dominic’s ragged breathing and the deafening thud of his own heart. Slowly, the initial shock receded, leaving a numb, buzzing emptiness. And beneath it, a low, persistent hum. A pull. Not from his groin, which felt drained, small again. But from his chest.
He pushed himself away from the door, the puddle on the mat a glaring accusation. He couldn’t look at it. He stumbled, legs weak, back down the hallway, past the cheerful family photos that now seemed like cruel mockeries. He almost bypassed the kitchen but his thirst had returned with a vengeance. He downed one glass of water and filled another. His feet carried him, almost of their own accord, back into the study. The lingering scent of lemon polish felt cloying. Bach was long silenced.
His gaze fixed on the other armchair. Daveed’s chair. Still slightly askew from where the young man had sat, leaning forward, pouring out his fears. Dominic moved towards it like a sleepwalker. He stopped before it. The humming in his chest intensified. A deep, almost painful ache, centered on the soft mounds beneath his t-shirt. The nipples, already stiffened by Daveed’s touch, felt raw, sensitive, demanding.
He needed… something. Release? Understanding? Punishment? He didn’t know. He only knew the ache demanded attention. With trembling fingers, he pulled the damp, stained khakis and soaked boxers down his legs, letting them pool around his ankles. He kicked off his house shoes and his tangled pants and underwear followed. The cool air of the study hit his bare skin. He didn’t care. He yanked the thin blue V-neck t-shirt over his head, dropping it heedlessly to the floor. Standing naked before Daveed’s chair, he felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely detached. An observer in his own body.
He lowered himself towards the chair, thrusting his hips out, sucking his belly in, arching his lower back. His little, slimy cocklet touched where Daveed had been sitting. He moaned, the pulsing heat washing through his groin and up towards his chest, despite his limpness. He thrust his hips at the ghost of Daveed, the sensations thrilling his entire body. Leaving a trail of cock juice on the seat, he turned and sat in the chair. The leather felt cool against his bare skin, the familiar contours now alien territory. He leaned back, his gaze falling to his own chest. The smooth, pale skin, the dark grey swirls of hair, the prominent, pink, vibrantly flushed nipples standing rigid amid the large puffy areolas. The ache pulsed, deep and insistent. The humming intensified to a physical vibration.
Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted his right hand. He watched his own fingers approach his left nipple. The touch, when it came, was electric. He moaned like a bitch in heat as a jolt shot through him, straight down to his spent groin, sparking a weak, answering throb. He gasped. Not in pain, but an overwhelming, almost unbearable sensation. He circled the stiff peak with a fingertip, applying gentle pressure. The moaning deepened, becoming a low hum, almost a growl. A bead of moisture appeared, glistening on the tip of his erect nipples. Saliva? He then noticed the stream of drool running from his mouth. He hadn’t even realized it was open.
He brought the finger to his lips, coating it fully. Then, driven by a compulsion he couldn’t name, he lowered the same wet finger back to his chest. This time, he smeared the dampness across the swell of his left breast, over the sensitive skin, towards the nipple. The slickness heightened the sensation. He moaned softly, arching his back slightly into the touch. His other hand joined, mirroring the motion on the right side. Circling, smearing, the pads of his fingers exploring the soft, yielding flesh, focusing on the stiff peaks that seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat.
He tilted his head back against the chair, eyes half-closed. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying. This is Daveed’s chair. I’m naked. Playing with my tits. The words formed, clinical and absurd. But the sensations obliterated thought. It felt necessary. Primal. A pressure valve releasing. He dipped his fingers lower, gathering more of the sticky moisture that continued to well from between his lips, dripping freely now onto his collarbone. He used it. Smearing it across his chest, over the hair, circling his nipples again and again with slick fingertips. The slickness felt cool, then hot as friction built. Precum still glistened on his limp cock, mingling with the saliva on his skin. He gathered some on his fingers, rubbing it into the damp skin of his chest, adding to the slick sheen. He became absorbed in the rhythm, the building intensity of the sensation focused entirely on those two points. He pinched gently. A sharp gasp. A harder pull. A low groan escaped, echoing in the empty house. His hips shifted unconsciously against the cool leather. The humming in his chest peaked, vibrating through him, a physical wave that crested and then slowly, slowly began to ebb, leaving him trembling, covered in a cooling sheen of spit and precum, utterly spent for the second time, naked in the chair so recently vacated by Daveed.
He slumped, boneless, breathing heavily. The ache was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion and a thick, creeping shame that tightened its grip with every passing second. He stared blankly at the ceiling, the familiar wood-paneling a blur. What had he done? What was he doing? The frantic energy of the morning, the confusing arousal, the professional interlude, and now… this animalistic surrender. He felt fractured. Unrecognizable to himself.
The silence roared. Dominic slumped in Daveed’s chair, naked, trembling, the cooling stickiness coating his chest and belly a grotesque map of his collapse. Shame, thick and oily, rose in his throat, choking him. He was a stranger inhabiting his own ruined skin. He needed to move. To erase this.
He forced himself upright, wincing as the leather unstuck from his back with a soft, obscene sound. His gaze fell on the chair seat. Gleaming pools of his own spit and spent seed, mixed with precum, shimmered under the study light, stark against the dark leather where Daveed had sat. Revulsion warred with a terrifying pull. The hollow, spent feeling craved… something. Wholeness? Oblivion?
He snatched his discarded t-shirt, damp with his own fluids, intending to wipe the mess away. He pressed the fabric to the largest pool. But as he lifted it, a stray droplet clung, trembling, near his thumb. Without conscious thought, driven by the same deep, alien impulse that had guided his hands earlier, he brought his thumb to his mouth. The taste was complex - salty, musky, vaguely sweet. Not unpleasant. Deeply intimate.
He stared at the chair. The compulsion solidified, obliterating thought. He dropped to his knees before it, ignoring the cool floorboards. Leaning forward, he pressed his tongue flat against the slick leather, right where the spill was thickest. He lapped. Slow, deliberate strokes, gathering the mingled fluids. Swallowing. It was base. Primal. Repulsive. The taste intensified – freshness, bitterness, desire, comfort. And, with each swallow, a profound calm seeped into his core, quieting the frantic buzz of shame. The jagged edges of his panic smoothed. Emptiness filled with a quiet, centred stillness. He licked the chair clean, meticulously, until only damp patches remained. Then he sat back on his heels, breathing evenly. Calm. Centred. The turmoil temporarily banked. He reached for, and drained, the glass of water he'd brought in with him. Sated.
The immediate reflex was to quickly clean himself of any evidence. But, as he looked down at his chest, that had recently been so smeared and slicked with his juices, it was dry. A brief touch told him it was also clear. No residue, nothing sticky. If this new calm hadn't been encasing him so warmly, he would have worried.
He quietly and deliberately dealt with the messy chair and the pool by the front door. No temptation to taste or touch it. He was sated. He was content. He slowly padded up the stairs to the bedroom and dressed slowly in yesterday’s discarded clothes from the laundry basket – a loose, worn polo shirt and baggy chinos. The fabric brushed his chest, but the sensitivity felt muted now, a background hum rather than a scream. He padded downstairs. Normalcy. He needed normalcy. The garden beckoned.
Sunlight warmed his face as he deadheaded the geraniums lining the porch. Each snip was deliberate, focused. The scent of soil and cut stems was grounding. Yet, beneath the focus, awareness pulsed. The weight of his chest beneath the polo shirt. The slight sway as he bent. The way the fabric caught, just for a second, on a stiffened peak. Amazing tits, the unbidden thought surfaced, critical, detached. Not disgust. Observation. He straightened, feeling their soft fullness shift. A flush warmed his neck, but the shame didn’t flood back. It was just data. A fact of this new, strange body. He moved to the vegetable patch, weeding methodically, the physical labour further anchoring him.
Lunch was a simple tomato and cheese sandwich. He ate at the kitchen table, staring out at the manicured lawn. Each bite was slow, deliberate. He was hyper-aware of the movement of his jaw, the swallow, the subtle shift and press of his chest against the table edge as he leaned forward. The calm from the study ritual held, a fragile shell. The sensations were just there. Present. Noted. He washed the plate, the cool water running over his hands.
The garage needed tidying. Old paint tins, coiled hoses, garden tools piled haphazardly. He sorted, swept, organised. The physical exertion felt easy and fulfilling. Hilary's preferential order was somewhat restored. Sweat prickled his scalp, dampened the back of his polo. He felt the increased heaviness of his chest with each lift, each bend. The word surfaced again: Amazing. He paused, gripping the handle of a rusted shovel. Not pride. Not desire. Awe. At the sheer, bizarre reality of it. This was his body now. Changing. Demanding attention. He leaned the shovel against the wall.
He was wiping grease from his hands with an old rag when his phone, left on the workbench, buzzed. A text. Not Hilary. Her messages were always longer, full of emojis. This was stark.
Daveed: Hey Mr W. Thx again 4 today. Proper helped. Wanted you to see this. Get to know me a bit better outside the mess. Link: pixeldrop.cloud/daveed_private
Dominic stared at the screen. The fragile calm shuddered. Daveed. The unexpected hug. The deliberate graze. The connection. His pulse, steady since cleaning the chair, kicked hard against his ribs. Get to know me better. The innocuous phrase pulsed with dangerous implication. What waited behind that link? Snapshots of Daveed’s life? Or something else? Something meant for the eyes that had devoured the internet footage the night before? The eyes of the man who had just licked his own mess off a chair?
He stood frozen in the dim garage, the rag forgotten in his greasy hand, the scent of oil and dust suddenly cloying. The screen glowed up at him. A single tap. That’s all it would take. To know. To see. The calm was gone, replaced by a terrifying, electric pull. His thumb hovered over the link. Outside, the distant lawnmower droned on. He tapped.
Dominic’s finger jerked back from the phone screen as if shocked. The link opened instantly, loading a stark, minimalist interface titled `ssfarmdrop.cloud/daveed`. A grid of folders filled the screen, labeled with occasionally cryptic 4-6 character codes. `DA1`, `DA2`, `DA3`, `FRNDS`, `ADMIN', 'STPOT', 'SLPOT'. Many others were greyed out, inaccessible. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden silence of the garage, the lawnmower drone outside fading away. He could still smell engine oil and dust on his hands.
He tapped `DA1`. Photos loaded: Daveed, younger, maybe mid teens, grinning awkwardly beside a frail-looking woman with kind eyes in a hospital bed – Mum. Another showed him laughing with an older man, arms slung over each other’s shoulders outside a pub – `UNCLE J`. Dominic scrolled, the mundane intimacy unsettling. Daveed on a beach, squinting in the sun. Daveed holding a trophy after what looked like a youth football match. Proof of a life beyond the angry probationer, the scared kid facing prison. He tapped `FRNDS`. Blurry pub shots, lads making faces at the camera, Daveed usually at the centre, radiating that easy confidence Dominic both feared and… something else. He quickly exited, the ordinariness amplifying his own sense of violation.
A new text notification dropped down from the top of the screen. From Daveed. "Oh and don't worry, anything you shouldn't be looking at is protected, by password. Some things might be too slutty for you". Followed by a myriad of what seemed to Dominic to be laughing and embarrassment faces. Emojis. He'd never understood the point, but he was starting to.
"Good to know. Haha". Dominic sent back. Haha? He'd never used that before. Dammit, he should have used an emoji. He felt childish. Coquettish almost. He thought it was a strange follow up, but maybe Daveed thought it would help Dominic to understand there wasn't anything untoward there. Dominic's excitement ebbed.
His thumb hovered, not sure if he should keep going now he knew for certain. The last folder on the list was 'TM`. Grey text. Locked. A small padlock icon. Password required. TM? What did that mean? His mouth felt dry, chalky. Suddenly a craving for understanding hit him. Why send all of this for most of it to be locked out? What should I know about? What is he hiding? The calm from licking the chair clean was a distant memory, shattered by the electric thrum of trespassing. He typed, fingers clumsy: `password`.
The lock icon vanished. The folder opened. Dominic sucked in a sharp breath. Pixelated thumbnails filled the screen. Blurred, but unmistakable. Skin. Movement. Intensity. He tapped the first image. It loaded, slightly larger but still deliberately degraded, obscured.
A young man, dark-skinned, the definition of manly - thickly muscled, hairy in the right places, confident in his posture - knelt between someone’s splayed legs. No face, just a torso. His body was bent over the chest, face doing something to the person's torso. The next image: the same man, turned slightly, his mouth, clearly shown, now fastened possessively on a large, heavy breast. Although still heavily blurred, Dominic could make out the areola, dark and pebbled, under the man's lips. He was nursing, suckling. Hard. Dominic’s own chest tightened, a sympathetic throb deep within the soft tissue beneath his polo shirt.
He swiped. Another image. The dark-skinned man now kneeling over the person, his erection – thick, and long, at least 8 inches, fully engorged, but infuriatingly pixelated – seemed to be pressed firmly between the swell of the breasts, held together by his hands. Fucking them. The angle emphasized the sheer size and softness of the breasts, the pressure of the cock parting the flesh. Dominic’s breath hitched. He was desperate to see the full, clear image. Heat flooded his groin, a weak echo of the morning’s pleasure, and deeper, a distinct, answering pulse flared hot and insistent behind his own nipples. They stiffened instantly, pressing against the worn cotton of his polo.
He swiped again. A closer shot. And much clearer. Just the breast, glistening with saliva, the nipple deep red, swollen, and utterly erect. The tip looked almost raw. But it was crystal clear, everything around the fleshy mound still blurred. Dominic stared, transfixed. His free hand drifted up, not to his phone, but to his own chest. His thumb found the stiff peak of his left nipple through the fabric and pressed. A shudder, immediate and exhilarating, shot straight down his back to his pelvis. A soft, involuntary groan escaped him in the dusty garage air. He stared at the glistening, abused nipple on the screen, then down at where his own thumb pressed, feeling the identical, demanding hardness beneath. The connection wasn't imagined. It was visceral. Chemical. His body recognized the language in those pixels.
"Christ," he whispered, the word thick, barely audible. He zoomed in clumsily on the screen, the pixelation worsening, but the image’s focus clear: the utter, complete attention on that swollen, wet nipple. Just like his own felt now. Just like Daveed’s knuckles had grazed. The garage walls seemed to press in, the air cloying with oil, dust, and the intense intimacy glowing on the small, treacherous screen in his greasy hand. The lawnmower droned on, a world away. Dominic Wheatley stood frozen, the secret laid bare, his own traitorous body a mirror to the depravity on display.