Chapter 5: Al Fresco Training
The morning light through the cabin window was a cold, accusing blade. It cut across the rumpled sheets and found the ache in Brandon’s bones, a deep, resonant throb that was a permanent echo of the night before. He moved gingerly, the ghost of Lamar’s fullness still a vivid pressure inside him. The cage, a constant, humiliating presence, felt heavier.
Lamar was already up, brewing coffee. He handed Brandon a mug without a word, his smile easy, as if the previous night had been nothing more than a shared drink. “Get some protein in you,” he said, nudging a plate of eggs. “Gonna need your strength.”
The comment felt like a stone dropped into Brandon’s gut. He ate in silence, the food tasting of nothing.
“Thought we’d get some air today,” Lamar announced later, his tone light. “Some friends of mine are up at the lake house. Just a few guys. Nice guys.”
A tremor of panic, sharp and cold, went through Brandon. “Friends?”
“Just to hang out. Be social.” Lamar’s eyes held his, calm and unreadable. “You’re here to explore, right?”
The drive was short, the silence filled with the crunch of gravel under tires. The lake house was larger, newer, a broad deck stretching out over water so still it looked like smoked glass. Three men were already there, lounging in Adirondack chairs, beers in hand. They were like variations of Lamar—larger, confident, their laughter booming across the quiet water.
“This is the kid I was telling you about,” Lamar said, clapping a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Brandy.”
The name hung in the open air. One of the men, a bearded guy with thick arms, grinned. “No shit.”
The bearded man’s name was Ray. He set his beer down with a soft thud on the weathered planks of the deck. His eyes, a flat, appraising gray, scanned Brandon from his nervous hands to his sneakered feet. “Lamar said you were eager. Didn’t say you were so… compact.”
Another man, younger with a shaved head, chuckled low in his throat. “Looks like a strong wind would carry him off.”
“He’s sturdier than he looks,” Lamar said, his hand still a heavy weight on Brandon’s shoulder. It felt less like reassurance and more like a claim, a brand. “Took it like a champ last night. Didn’t you, Brandy?”
Heat flooded Brandon’s face, a sickly wave of shame that was part arousal. He stared at the grain of the pine deck, watching a lost ant navigate a canyon.
“Words, sweetheart,” Ray prompted, his voice a lazy drawl. “You take that big black cock all the way?”
The directness was a slap. Brandon’s mouth worked, but only a dry click came out. He gave a jerky, infinitesimal nod.
The third man, silent until now, leaned forward. He had the calm eyes of a hunter. “Prove it.”
Lamar’s grip tightened. “Now, Eli, be polite. We just got here.”
“Proof is polite,” Eli said, unblinking. “Otherwise it’s just talk. Let’s see the merchandise.”
Brandon’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Lamar’s sigh was one of mock exasperation, a performance for his friends. “You heard him, Brandy. They’re doubting my word. Can’t have that.”
His hands went to the button of Brandon’s shorts. There was no fumbling, just efficient, practiced motion. The zipper’s buzz was deafening. The shorts and underwear were tugged down to his thighs in one motion, baring him to the cool lake air and the three pairs of watching eyes.
The pink plastic cage, glistening with a faint sheen of leftover lubricant, looked obscenely bright against his pale skin. His trapped, useless flesh strained within it.
Ray whistled, long and low. “Well, shit. He wasn’t kidding. That is a proper little sissy clit.”
“All dressed up with nowhere to go,” the shaved-head man mused, taking a swig of his beer.
Eli stood up. He walked over, his movements slow and deliberate. He crouched, his face level with Brandon’s groin. Brandon flinched, wanting to cover himself but paralyzed. Eli didn’t touch. He just looked, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled. “Smells like sex,” he stated flatly. “Smells like he’s been used. Lamar’s telling the truth.”
“Told you,” Lamar said, a smile in his voice.
“But the real question,” Ray said, leaning back again and spreading his arms along the chair, “is capacity. One load is beginner’s luck. What’s his limit?”
A cold knot formed in Brandon’s stomach. Eli stood up, his shadow falling over Brandon. “Let’s find out.” He looked at Lamar. “You stake your claim first. Then we’ll see what’s left in the tank.”
Lamar didn’t hesitate. He guided Brandon, who moved like a sleepwalker, to the heavy picnic table bolted to the deck. The wood was warm from the sun on its surface, but carried a deep, damp chill underneath. “Over the table, Brandy. Ass in the air. Let the boys see what they’re betting on.”
Hands pushed him forward. His bare stomach and chest met the sun-warmed planks. His caged dick pressed awkwardly against the wood. His bare ass was elevated, exposed. He heard the shuffle of feet, the creak of chairs as the men gathered around.
“Five hundred says he taps out after two,” Ray said, his voice close.
“He took one last night and he’s still standing,” Lamar countered, a bottle of lube appearing in his hand from a pocket. The snap of the cap was crisp. “I’ll take that bet. I say he makes it to three.”
“Three different cocks?” the shaved-head man laughed. “Shit, I’ll see that. I’ve got three ready to go right now.”
Brandon squeezed his eyes shut. Their words were betting slips, settling over his skin like ash. Lamar’s slick fingers found his hole, still loose and tender from the night before. He pushed two inside without ceremony, a quick, brutal stretch that made Brandon gasp into the wood.
“Oh yeah,” Lamar crooned, working his fingers. “Still open for business. Good girl.”
He withdrew his fingers. The head of his cock, already thick and hard, nudged against the slicked entrance. There was no further warning, no slow push. Lamar drove forward, a single, powerful thrust that buried him halfway. The air left Brandon’s lungs in a pained rush.
“Fuck, look at that,” someone murmured appreciatively.
Lamar began to fuck him in earnest, each thrust a deep, pistoning motion that slid the table an inch across the deck with every impact. The wood groaned in protest. Brandon’s world narrowed to the brutal, stretching fullness, the slap of skin on skin, the coarse chatter of the men.
“Taking that base like a pro.”
“Look at that little cage jiggle. Bet he’s leaking like a sieve in there.”
“Gonna be a messy table.”
Lamar’s pace was relentless, a performance for an audience. He gripped Brandon’s hips hard, his fingers sure to leave bruises. His grunts were low and satisfied. Brandon felt the familiar, terrifying coil of pleasure tightening in his gut, a traitorous response to the violation.
“Gonna… gonna…” Brandon whimpered, the pressure in his cage becoming acute.
“You cum when I say you cum,” Lamar growled, never breaking rhythm. “You’re a hole. Holes don’t get a vote.”
The orgasm ripped through him anyway, a silent, wrenching convulsion that squeezed around Lamar’s driving cock. Nothing came out of his caged tip but a violent, humiliating shudder.
“There it is,” Eli observed clinically. “Dry. Pathetic.”
Lamar fucked him through the tremors, his movements becoming jagged, urgent. With a final, deep grind, he stilled. Brandon felt the hot, sudden flood inside him, a claiming pour that overflowed and dripped down his thighs onto the sun-bleached wood below.
Lamar pulled out with a wet, sickening sound. “One.”
Hands immediately grabbed Brandon’s shoulders, flipping him onto his back on the table. The sun was blinding. Ray stood over him, already stroking his own thick, ruddy cock. “My turn. Let’s see that face.”
Before Brandon could process the new position, Ray was pushing his legs apart and up. He entered in one rough shove, the different angle a fresh and shocking burn. Brandon cried out, a short, sharp sound lost in the vastness of the lake air.
Ray’s fucking was different—shorter, harder, more mechanical. He pounded into Brandon’s used body, his eyes fixed on Brandon’s tear-streaked face. “You love this, don’t you, you little faggot?” he grunted. “You love being our community cumdump.”
Brandon could only shake his head, a weak denial. Ray leaned down, his breath smelling of beer and peanuts. “Yeah you do. Your body’s telling the truth even if your mouth won’t.”
He came quickly, with a series of guttural curses, adding his own spend to the mess already leaking from Brandon. He stepped back, zipping up. “Two.”
Brandon felt split open, dripping, his mind floating somewhere above the deck. The shaved-head man was there before the last of the aftershocks had faded. He didn’t speak. He just pushed Brandon’s legs wider, spat into his hand, and guided himself in.
The stretch was agony now, a raw, overfilled ache. Brandon’s body tried to clench, to reject, but it was too loose, too broken. The man fucked with a steady, dull rhythm, watching with detached interest as Brandon trembled.
“He’s fading,” the man noted casually, as if commenting on the weather.
“He’s got one more in him,” Lamar said, his voice firm. “Don’t you, Brandy?”
Brandon’s vision swam. The lake behind the men was a blur of painful blue. He felt a cold, distant acceptance seeping in. This was what he was now. This was his purpose. He gave a tiny, defeated nod.
The man picked up pace, his thrusts becoming harder, seeking his own end. When he came, it was with a quiet sigh, adding another layer of wet heat to Brandon’s battered insides. He pulled out and walked away without another word.
“Three,” Lamar announced, a note of triumph in his voice. He looked down at Brandon, a wreck on the picnic table, shimmering with sweat and other men’s release. “Pay up, Ray.”
Brandon stared at the slats of wood above the deck’s canopy. His body was a distant, throbbing pain. A fly buzzed near his ankle. He heard the rustle of money changing hands, the pop of another beer can.
“So,” Eli’s calm voice cut through the haze. “Who’s going for four?”