Chapter 8: First Kill
The deep, dreamless sleep clung to Dominic like warm tar. Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, finally pried his eyes open. He blinked, disoriented. The scent hit him first – not the lingering nuttiness of avocado oil, but something richer, muskier. Old. A thick aroma of damp earth and… something sweetly fermented. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Heaven. His head throbbed faintly, the pungent aroma slowly giving him the clarity he needed this morning. What once would have been a sticky discomfort, was now a sheen of delight and knowing pleasures. He revelled in the previous days intensity, but knew it was past. He also knew he had to wash the bedding. Hilary would be back tomorrow and this wouldn't do.
He groaned, pushing himself upright against the headboard. The oversized grey vest was roomy and soft. He slowly peeled it off, throwing it to the corner where the discarded robe and underwear had been left. Looking down confirmed the lack of mess: no streaks of oil catching the light, no dried white trails mapping the curve of his oiled belly, no clamminess disappearing into the thatch of dark hair above his cock. He began to stroke and massage his clear, bright skin. Usually he would have been straight into the shower to deal with such "dirt". But now he saw and scented it for what it was - his essence, his nourishment. The pleasant ache from yesterday was now a low, warm tenderness. His nipples felt alive, hypersensitive, even to the air. Deep inside, the newly discovered awareness of his prostate was a faint, insistent echo. Satisfied emptiness had become an awareness of future need.
But right now, he needed water. And then a shower. He was still intending to properly mentor young Daveed. He felt that part of this situation was truly real, in the same way he now felt his body was truly his. And he was determined to start following that voice from here on out.
Stumbling out of bed, his bare feet hit the cool wooden floor. He shuffled towards the bathroom, opening, and emptying, a bottle of water in three gulps. Better. He opened another and finished half. He purposefully went to the mirror this time. The ritual of the night before felt distant, almost embarrassing in the harsh morning light, but he wanted to remember. He would surely need a proper cleansing at some point, but for now a quick celebration. The shower was warm and inviting. He gently rinsed his body with the warm, flowing water. He was thorough, but never harsh, going over his chest and between his legs multiple times, enjoying the residual memories of intense, wild pleasure. Feeling refreshed, he patted himself dry.
Padding down to the kitchen for coffee, completely naked, without a care in the world, the comforting aroma of old books and the rhythmic tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the living room greeted him. Order. Normalcy. But with a hint of something new. He caught sight of his plump and engorged chest. He was entranced, impressed. He could feel the echo of his old feelings, the hate, the venom, but they were almost silent now. He filled the kettle, his gaze drifting to the garden outside the window. Neat rows. Tended edges. Peaceful. Natural.
The kettle whistled its sharp, demanding cry. He poured boiling water over the grounds, the rich smell of coffee momentarily displacing the old-book scent. He carried his mug into the living room, drawn towards the worn couch by the window. The familiar groove welcomed him. He sank down, taking a deep, grateful sip of hot coffee. The steam warmed his face. Outside, a robin hopped across the immaculate lawn.
He relaxed back, letting the caffeine seep in, the quiet domesticity a balm. His hand rested on his soft, rounded belly, slowly circling and enjoying the delicate sensations. He considered the dramatic shift. Only a few days ago this would have been impossible. Detestable. But now, and without conscious thought, his fingertips trailed across and around his nipples. Even though the incessant need was dulled, the touch sent a faint, warn jolt down his spine, straight to that deep, tender spot inside him. He gently guided his hand away, a flush warming his neck. Still there. This is still happening. And he had never been happier.
He took another sip, focusing on the robin. His mug rested on the arm of the worn couch. As he leaned forward slightly to watch the bird, his breasts bunched together. He couldn't help but run his finger up and down the crevice between them. His mind drifting back to the thick cock from Daveed's pictures. Why wasn't he freaking out? Why wasn't he concerned? Why was he so calm?
He finished the coffee, feeling clear-headed and energised. He wandered to the study to check he had been as thorough as he thought with the clean up. Suddenly the three trophies on the desk stood out to him in a disarming new light. They were shaped like hard dicks. How had he never noticed that before. Smooth, slightly yielding but firm material rose from the solid base in a thick column, standing proud and erect. His mind raced with possibilities, but he knew it wasn't time. His body would let him know. He smirked in gleeful anticipation. Maybe after Daveed had left?
He padded back upstairs to get dressed and go prepare for his next session with Daveed. He spent time going through his clothes, most of which were just sacks of cloth. He couldn't face being that guy again. He needed to go shopping. Or maybe online shopping. The idea of people seeing him shop for clothes was still triggering. They would be thinking that people like him shouldn't care about their appearance. Wouldn't they?
He managed to find some more unworn, undonated clothes in a bag at the back of his wardrobe. He settled on a dark blue, somewhat fitted t-shirt, which clung nicely to his chest, and went down to just above the top of his legs. He couldn't decide on pants though. What did he want to wear? Something tight, something fitted. But unless he was willing to try out his wife's yoga pants, that wasn't going to happen. He was tempted but decided on some tapered chinos. For the first time he was glad his wife kept hold of things. Just in case.
His phone began to vibrate, with an insistent buzz. He absent-mindedly reached for it, knocking over the half empty water bottle, the lid sitting there next to it. He ignored the phone for a moment, focused on finding something to contain the spill. He quickly grabbed a cloth in from the bathroom. The buzzing stopped, then started again immediately. Persistent. He swore, abandoning the hopeless dabbing for a moment, and snatched up the phone. It was Daveed.
He jabbed the answer button, voice tight with stress. “Hello?”
“Alright, sunshine. You sound flustered. Rough morning?” Daveed’s voice was infuriatingly cheerful.
“I spilled some water is all. Sorry.” Dominic was still pressing the now damp cloth uselessly against the stain.
Daveed chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Relax, princess. It’s just water. Breathe.”
“If there's a stain” Dominic snapped, the name tasting sour. “Hilary will have a fit.”
“Fuck Hilary,” Daveed said, dismissive, almost bored. “Listen. How’s the bod? Still feeling sensationalized? Or just sticky?”
Dominic paused, the damp cloth forgotten in his hand. His eyes flickered down to his own chest, clean beneath the t-shirt, yet the phantom echo of sensation lingered. How did Daveed know? About the stickiness? The new sensations? “Sticky,” he admitted, the word escaping before he could stop it. “I was, anyway. I am... er... clean now. Mostly.”
“Mostly,” Daveed echoed, a knowing lilt in his voice. “Right. Listen, I felt bad. Not responding soon enough. Leaving you high and dry after unlocking Pandora’s Box. Well, Pandora’s Folder. So I've sent you a little care package.”
Dominic blinked. “A what?”
“Delivery notification should be pinging any second. Express. Call it reparations. And future investment.” Before Dominic could ask what that meant, Daveed ploughed on, his tone shifting, becoming more direct, almost instructional. “Go grab that avocado oil again.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it. Kitchen. Now.” The command was soft but absolute.
Confused, Dominic abandoned the small mess and wet cloth. He walked back into the kitchen. The green bottle stood where he’d left it on the counter. “Got it.”
“Good. Now, take off that shirt.”
Dominic froze. “Daveed, I—”
“Shirt. Off. Trust me.” The ‘trust me’ wasn’t a question. It was a statement, layered with the memory of unlocked folders and internal earthquakes.
Hesitantly, Dominic pulled the clean t-shirt over his head, dropping it on the kitchen floor. The cool air hit his bare skin. He felt exposed, ridiculous standing in his kitchen in just his pants, phone to his ear. “Okay…”
“Put your phone on speaker and pour some oil into your hand. A good amount. Now, rub your hands together. Warm it up.” Dominic obeyed, the familiar nutty scent rising. “Okay. Slow circles. Start on your chest. Not just brushing. Feel it. Feel the skin. The weight.”
Dominic’s hands, slick with oil, moved to his bare chest. He pressed his palms flat against the soft flesh, just below his collarbones. He began slow, circular motions, as instructed. The oil smoothed the friction, allowing his hands to glide. He felt the subtle give of the tissue beneath his skin, the underlying muscle. The warmth spread. He circled lower, his thumbs brushing the outer curves.
“Yeah,” Daveed murmured, his voice low and intimate in Dominic’s ear. “That’s it. Now, find them. Your titties. Cup them. Properly. Feel the weight in your hands.”
Dominic’s breath hitched. His hands slid lower, cupping the fuller swell beneath his pecs. He felt the soft, heavy weight settle into his palms. It was substantial. Real. He pressed gently, feeling the texture, the resilience and the softness. His thumbs instinctively stroked upwards, brushing over the peaks. A sharp, familiar jolt shot through him, straight to his groin and deep into his pelvis. He gasped.
“Sensitive?” Daveed asked, a smile evident in his voice.
“Y-yeah,” Dominic breathed, his hands still moving, kneading almost unconsciously now, drawn by the sensation blooming under his touch. The needful ache deep inside pulsed in time with the stroke of his nipples.
“Keep going,” Daveed purred. “Focus on the nipples. Just the very tips. Light circles. Like you’re teasing someone you are desperate to please.”
Dominic obeyed, his thumbs finding the stiffening nubs. He circled them with the very pads of his fingers, slick with oil. The sensation was electric, intense, far more potent than the night before. It wasn't just arousal; it was a direct line to his core, a thrumming connection that made his legs feel weak. A low moan escaped him before he could clamp it down.
“Good boy,” Daveed whispered. The praise, unexpected and raw, sent a fresh wave of heat through Dominic. His cock stirred in his boxers, sticky with precum. “Now, Look down. Focus on your nipples. See how they’re getting bigger? More engorged?”
Dominic looked. His nipples were indeed visibly swollen, the pink areolas puffy, the tips hard and dark under the sheen of oil. He’d never looked so closely, so clinically. They looked different. Proud. Demanding attention.
“That is a sign,” Daveed said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a husky vibration in Dominic’s ear. “That’s your cunt talking. Your mancunt. Needy thing, isn’t it?”
The word – cunt – slammed into Dominic. Crude, shocking and devastatingly accurate. It bypassed thought and landed straight in his core, igniting a flare of heat and shame and undeniable, terrifying ownership. His breath stopped. His hands stilled on his chest. The connection between his thumbs and that deep internal ache became a blinding white line of sensation.
“Breathe, Dommie,” Daveed commanded softly. “Feel it. Own it. That’s your new centre. Your fucking cunt. Gets wet. Gets pleased. Gets filled. Gets used.” The doorbell rang, a resonant, two-tone chime echoing through the house. “Ah. Delivery. That’s for you. Go get it. But Dommie, baby?”
“Yeah?” Dominic managed, his voice strangled, his whole body humming.
“Leave the oil on. And the shirt off. And enjoy.” The line went dead.
Dominic stared at the phone, Daveed's raw declaration, "your fucking cunt," echoing in the sudden silence, vibrating through the oil-slick heat blooming across his bare chest. The doorbell chimed again, suddenly loud and insistent, slicing through the thick, nutty scent of avocado oil hanging in the air. He scrambled, heart pounding in his chest, giving rhythm to his growing panic. Shirt. He needed his shirt. He snatched the damp t-shirt off the kitchen floor, pulling it clumsily over his head. As it caught briefly on his engorged nipples, sending a fresh shiver through him, he realised he wasn't doing as he was told. He tentatively dropped the shirt back onto the chair and left the kitchen.
He padded towards the front door, the cool wood floor a shock under his bare feet. Through the frosted glass pane, a tall, indistinct figure shifted. Taking a shaky breath, Dominic unlocked the door and pulled it all the way open. Sunlight flooded the hallway, momentarily blinding him. Then his vision cleared.
It was the same UPS guy from yesterday. His face, a broad handsome, youthful grin. "Nice to see you again, Mr Wheatly". His eyes locked onto Dominic's. "You too... er...?" "Scott", he replied, all eagerness. "Nice to meet you, Scott," he replied. It was a game of chicken. Who would look first. Dominic could sense the partly open shirt and remember his visible bulge. But he now realised Scott was equally desperate to check out his display of soft masculinity. "You first", Dominic whispered, surprised at his own daring. Scott flushed, but his eyes were instantly taking in every inch of Dominic's naked flesh, his mouth going slack, his tongue resting on the bottom lip.
Dominic took his chance and raked his eyes over the young man's full, meaty chest. A little dusting of blonde hair gave them a glittering quality. The shirt was bulging just enough to glimpse the fat, puffy nipples nesting in the folds of the material. The bulge of his cock was perfectly proportional, a sliver of envy crept up Dominic's spine. Their eyes met again and they just smiled at each other.
"Package for you, sir" His voice was a surprisingly deep, pleasant rumble, a contrast to his boyish looks. He reached for the small, discrete cardboard box the man offered, their fingers brushing. A spark, hot and direct, shot up Dominic’s arm. Scott’s smile widened, turning almost salacious. He held Dominic’s gaze again, repeating the tongue dart to re-wet his lower lip. Dominic felt a fresh wave of heat flood his own face and chest, mingling with the oil. He was acutely aware of his own body, the state he was in, the way his nipples felt tight and heavy in the fresh air, after Daveed's distant attentions. And now this. Whatever it was.
"Sign here," Scott requested, his voice soft but rough around the edges. He held his device low, in front of his thigh. Dominic took the stylus, leaning down to inscribe his signature - a messy scrawl. Dominic paused, his eyes moving to the centre of the man's body. A thick, throbbing dick was clearly hanging down in his short shorts, having replaced the modest bulge of moments before. It wasn't long enough to clear the hem, but not far off. It twitched and pulsed and twitched again. Dominic drooled onto the doormat. The man took the pad back, his knuckles brushing Dominic’s hand again. "See you another time, Dominic," he murmured, the promise heavy in his tone. He gave Dominic one last lingering look, blatantly checking him out again, his gaze like a physical touch. His hand rubbed the outline of his big floppy dick as he stepped back, before turning and walking to his truck with a confident, unhurried stride that showcased the impressive curve of his ass in those tight pants. Dominic watched him go, stunned, the box forgotten in his hands, a confusing mix of embarrassment, arousal, and disbelief swirling in his gut. "Er... yes... see you around, Scott," he managed, unsure if he'd been heard. The sheer, brazen hunger in that look, the confidence of displaying his body to the world, the specimen he was… And he was interested in him? In Dominic? This was madness. It left him breathless.
He shut the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. The box felt light in his hands. He tore it open right there in the hallway. Inside, nestled in plain packing paper, were two sleek, clear plastic domes connected by thin tubing to a small, discreet hand pump. Nipple pumps, the booklet informed him. Dominic stared at them. Daveed’s "care package." His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text flash on the screen from Daveed:
"Got it?" "Yes," Dominic quickly responded. "Good. Put them on. Under your shirt. Pump them tight. Keep them on. I’ll be there in 2 hours. Hope you're ready to help. I really do need it."
Dominic swallowed hard. Ready to help. He traced the smooth plastic surface of one dome with his fingertip. The memory of the UPS man’s hungry gaze collided with Daveed’s insistent command making him feel a strange mixture of giddy hedonism at this new sense of his body and a shameful fear of discovery and abandonment. He walked back to the kitchen, the oil bottle still on the counter. His chest felt hypersensitive in the open air, the lingering oil feeling deliciously sensual. Immediately, his nipples tightened further into stiff, aching points.
He picked up a pump dome. The rim was soft, flexible silicone. He positioned it over his right nipple, pressing it gently until it sealed against the oily skin with a faint suction. He did the same with the left. The sensation was immediate and intense – a concentrated, insistent pull right at the core of his sensitivity. He picked up the hand pump, squeezing it tentatively. A rush of air hissed. The suction intensified dramatically, yanking his nipple deep into the clear dome. He gasped, his knees almost buckling as a rush of pure, sweet pain-pleasure shot straight down his spine and pooled deep in his groin, awakening that needy ache Daveed had named. His cock twitched, thickening against his chinos.
He pumped again. And again. Watching, fascinated and excited, as his nipples swelled within the clear chambers, becoming impossibly large, turning a deeper pink, and engorged, distended by the vacuum. The stretched skin felt hot, throbbing, incredibly alive. Every slight movement sent vibrations radiating through his entire chest and down into his groin. He put the t-shirt back on. The fabric brushed over the rigid plastic domes, adding a layer of friction that made him whimper softly. The pumps were clearly visible, two distinct, hard bulges under the thin cotton, exaggerating the curve of his chest. He felt exposed, utterly transformed, and bizarrely powerful. Enlivened. Blessed.
He walked to the living room, the subtle shush-shush of the plastic domes shifting against his shirt with each step a constant, intimate reminder. He sank into the worn couch, the familiar grooves a stark contrast to the alien sensations radiating from his chest. He pulled his laptop onto his knees, needing focus. Daveed was coming. He needed to prepare for their session, as he had promised. He began working on templates and outlines that they could work on together to improve Daveed's situation. He had finally mentioned the troubles again, so he knew Daveed was serious about his needs. Focussing on this growing connection they had, Dominic knew it was the right thing to do his job properly, whatever else was happening.
But the insistent pull on his nipples, the rhythmic ache deep inside him, the sheer, overwhelming presence of the pumps under his shirt made concentration difficult. Every keystroke jostled them. Every breath made the suction shift minutely. He felt hyper-aware of his own body, of the anticipation coiling tight in his belly. He adjusted his position, trying to find comfort, but the movement only intensified the deep, resonant thrum of his mancunt. Two hours. He checked the time on the screen. One hour and fifty-four minutes. He stared at the documents, knowing what he had to do. He took a deep breath, accepted all the feelings his body was producing, gave them space to move through and out of his body. Moans creeped out, groans continued, but he just allowed them to be free and he decisively went to work. After about 90 minutes he was confidently ready. The clock on the wall ticked, each strike bringing his time with Daveed closer.