The Start

The air in Ray’s room hung heavy, a swamp of teenage musk—sweat-soaked gym clothes, the sharp bite of Axe body spray, and the faint, sour tang of spilled Monster energy drinks. His bed was a battlefield: sheets twisted into knots, a single flat pillow shoved against the headboard, and a dented track trophy wobbling on the nightstand, its cheap gold plastic glinting under the dim glow of a desk lamp. Wedged deep between the box spring and the mattress, like a dirty secret, was what I’d come for: Ray’s fleshlight. My hand shook as I reached for it, fingers brushing the worn fabric of the mattress, my pulse pounding like a drum in my skull. Ray wouldn’t be back for hours—track practice always ran late on Thursdays—but the risk of being caught in his sanctum, stealing his most intimate possession, sent a jolt of electric heat through my veins. My cock twitched, already half-hard, straining against my jeans, as I imagined what I’d do with it.

I’m Jozef Bergstrom, a senior at West Wolferton Valley High School. People slap the “nerd” label on me, but they’re just lazy shits who don’t get it. I’m not some scrawny sitcom dork with taped glasses and a pocket protector. At 6’1”, I’ve got the broad shoulders and lean muscle of a swim and dive team veteran—years of slicing through chlorinated water have carved my chest and arms into something solid, my abs a faint ripple under tanned skin. My dark blonde hair’s always a little too long, curling at the nape of my neck, and my hazel eyes catch the light in a way that makes girls do a double-take. I’m also captain of the debate team and founder of the Young Daae Society, a science club where we geek out over quantum physics and biotech. Yeah, I’m smart—my brain’s a fucking supercomputer—but I’m no stereotype. I play right field on the baseball team, my legs strong enough to sprint the bases, my arms quick enough to snag a line drive. Still, I’m invisible next to my brother.

Ray—fuck, Ray’s the one they all see, the golden idol of the family and the school. My Irish twin, born ten months after me, he’s a senior too, but he’s the sun to my shadow. At 5’11”, Ray’s body is a goddamn masterpiece, a living sculpture of lean, chiseled muscle that seems to defy gravity. His skin’s a warm, sun-kissed bronze, stretched taut over every curve and ridge, like it was painted on by some horny Renaissance artist. His chest is broad but not bulky, pecs firm and defined, each one capped with a small, dusky nipple that hardens to a sharp point when he’s worked up. His abs are a work of art—six tight, symmetrical bricks that flex and ripple with every breath, narrowing to a sharp V that disappears into his waistband. His arms are corded with muscle, veins snaking under the skin, biceps bulging when he grips a bat or pins an opponent on the wrestling mat. His thighs are thick, powerful, built from years of sprinting and tackling, dusted with fine dark hair that catches the light. And his ass—Jesus, his ass is perfection, two round, firm globes that clench and release with every step, so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. His face is just as lethal: sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and green eyes that burn with a mix of cocky confidence and restless hunger. His dark brown hair, perpetually tousled, falls in messy waves over his forehead, framing a grin that’s equal parts charm and trouble. Ray’s the captain of the track team, starting pitcher for baseball, running back for football, and last year’s state division champ in lightweight wrestling. He moves like a predator, all fluid grace and coiled power, and every girl—and more than a few guys—at school wants a piece of him.

For years, I’d watched him, my body betraying me with a hunger I couldn’t name. It crystallized two summers ago, in our shared bathroom, steam curling around us like a perverse, drug-laced fog, thick with the scent of Ray’s citrus body wash. He stepped out of the shower, his body a glistening, wet furnace, his cock half-hard and heavy from jerking off, swinging thick and veined between his thighs, the pink head slick with precum that dripped onto the tiles. His pecs flexed as he toweled off, broad slabs glistening, water streaming down the tight grooves of his six-pack, tracing the sharp V of his pelvis to pool in the dark, trimmed hair above his cock. His ass clenched with each step, two sculpted globes rippling under bronzed skin, the dimples carving deep, his tight, pink hole winking briefly as he bent to grab his shorts, a fleeting glimpse that burned into my soul. My cock surged, rock-hard in my jeans, throbbing painfully, leaking a thick, sticky wet spot that soaked through to my thigh. My breath hitched, my hazel eyes raking over every slick inch—his nipples hardening in the cool air, his thighs bulging with veins, his balls heavy and swaying. I wanted to shove him against the tiles, lick the water from his abs, suck the precum from his cock, bury my face in that perfect ass and tongue his hole until he screamed. My hands trembled, itching to grab him, to pin him down, to claim every chiseled curve as mine, to break him into a whimpering mess for me alone. Ray glanced over, his green eyes narrowing for a split second, a flicker of confusion, then shrugged, toweling his hair, oblivious to the inferno raging in my gut. That moment rewrote me, a filthy obsession that fueled every wank, every dark fantasy.

The obsession deepened months later when I cracked Ray’s door one night, drawn by his low moans. He was naked, hunched over his bed, the fleshlight wedged between his mattress, his ass bouncing as he fucked it, two perfect globes clenching, dimples deepening with each thrust. His pecs flexed, nipples hard, sweat streaming down his rippling abs, his seven-inch cock plunging into the toy, the silicone slick with lube and precum. “Fuck ... yeah...” he growled, his voice raw, his green eyes half-lidded, lost in gooning bliss as thick, white ropes of cum flooded the toy, spilling onto the sheets. My cock ached, my mind screaming to replace that toy, to feel his heat, to own his release. Ray fucked his fleshlight to ecstasy, while I choked my cock in silence, hating his ease, his oblivious perfection, my envy a blade twisting in my gut.

That hunger pushed me further, a year ago, when I heard Ray’s moans again, louder, more desperate. I peered through his door, my heart slamming as he knelt on his bed, naked, sweat-soaked, the fleshlight gripping his cock, his thighs trembling, veins bulging under bronzed skin. His abs clenched, six bricks rippling, his balls heavy and slapping the toy, his ass flexing, dimples carving deep as he thrust, his green eyes glassy with need. “Nngh ... fuck...” he groaned, his voice thick, his cock erupting, thick cum overflowing the silicone, dripping down his shaft. He collapsed, panting, then stumbled to the bathroom, the shower hissing seconds later. I crept in, my cock throbbing, and grabbed the fleshlight, still warm, heavy with Ray’s seed. The musky, salty scent hit me, primal and obscene, the toy slick with his thick, creamy cum, glistening in the dim light. Overwhelmed by the nastiness, I didn’t fuck it—I brought it to my lips, my tongue darting out, lapping the hot, bitter load, savoring its raw, animal taste, my cock leaking in my jeans as I licked it clean, every drop a twisted communion with Ray’s essence. Then I slid it onto my own cock, the silicone tight and slick, still warm from his body, my thrusts frantic, my cum mixing with the faint traces of his, a filthy claim. I returned it to its hiding spot, still loaded with my seed, a secret violation Ray would never know. As I slipped out, I froze—Ray’s footsteps thudded back, his door creaking. Through the crack, I heard his bed creak, then a slick squelch, his low moan, “Oh ... fuck, yeah...” as he fucked the fleshlight again, my cum lubing his cock, his thrusts wet and rhythmic, oblivious to my taint inside him. My cock surged, my mind screaming to see it—his sweat-slick body, his ass bouncing, my seed coating him. I needed eyes in that room, hidden lenses to capture every thrust, every moan. That’s when it hit me: cameras, small and secret, to own his ecstasy forever. And why stop there? The world would pay to see Ray broken, his body a spectacle online, where depraved voyeurs would shower me with cash to watch him cum.

That taste, that stolen act, that unseen fuck fueled my plan. SomeSluts.com was a dark, underground platform where perverts paid thousands for live streams of jocks like Ray—sweat-soaked, muscle-bound gods fucked raw, their bodies exposed in hyper-realistic detail. The chat was a cesspool, demanding close-ups of holes and cocks for $100, $500 for brutal acts, with AI-driven camera angles zooming on command, milking every tip for subscribers and premium replays. My supercomputer mind lit up: Ray’s body was my ticket to power, a goldmine for subscriptions and tip-driven depravity, his perfect form streamed to thousands, maybe millions. I’d build a twisted empire, not just to sate my lust but to own him, to make his body a global fetish, every thrust bankrolled by perverts begging for more. I bought a cheap lens the next week, testing it in my room, dreaming of Ray’s body in 32K clarity, my plan taking shape with every hidden frame.

Ray’s fleshlight wasn’t just a toy—it was his fucking lifeline, his sacred relic, the only thing keeping his raging hormones in check. He’d bought it sophomore year, a secret purchase with his lawn-mowing cash, after months of battling the ache from cheerleaders’ bouncing tits and tight asses during practice. Ray’s discipline was ironclad—no hookups, no drama, just a full ride to Wolf-U on the horizon—but his cock was a traitor, hard and throbbing after every sprint, his balls heavy with need. The fleshlight was his salvation, a tight, warm silicone pussy that gripped his seven-inch cock like a lover’s throat, letting him goon for hours, edging until his pecs glistened, his abs clenched, his ass bounced with every thrust, dimples deepening under sweat-soaked skin. He’d wedge it between his mattress, fucking it slow, then fast, his moans low and guttural, his cum erupting in thick, white ropes that overflowed the toy, pooling on his sheets. It was his escape from the pressure of being West Wolferton’s golden boy, the only thing stopping his lust from consuming him. Without it, he’d be a slave to his cock, and I knew that dependence was my weapon, the crack in his armor I’d exploit to shatter him.

Now, standing in his room, my fingers closing around the fleshlight’s worn case, I was crossing a line I’d only dared to dream about. It was the key to a plan I’d been crafting for months, ever since that bathroom moment, those stolen glimpses of Ray’s ecstasy, that depraved taste of his seed, that unseen fuck with my cum as his lube, and the dark, screaming corners of the world where fantasies like mine were currency, traded in cum and power.

The Spark

“JOZEF!” Ray’s voice sliced through the house like a blade, raw and pissed, as he stormed in from practice. I was sprawled on the living room couch, pretending to scroll through X on my phone, but my heart was already racing, a predator sensing prey. Ray stood in the doorway, his track uniform clinging to his sweat-drenched body like a second skin. The thin black tank top hugged his pecs, the fabric stretched tight across his chest, outlining the hard points of his nipples. His shorts rode low on his hips, the elastic waistband digging into the V of his pelvis, hinting at the bulge beneath. His thighs flexed as he shifted his weight, the muscles bunching under smooth, bronzed skin, veins faintly visible under the sheen of sweat. His face was flushed, cheeks pink from exertion, his green eyes blazing with irritation.

“What’s up, squirt?” I drawled, knowing the nickname would piss him off. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking under the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

“Where is it, Jozef?” he snapped, dropping his gym bag with a heavy thud. The air around him smelled of salt and heat, his sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead in dark, curling strands.

“Lose something?” I kept my tone light, but my pulse was hammering, my cock already stirring at the sight of him—angry, gorgeous, and mine to toy with.

“My fleshlight, you fucker! I was looking for it this morning, and before practice. Where is it?” His voice was low, almost a growl, his chest heaving as he took a step closer.

I’d rehearsed this moment for weeks, perfecting the mix of guilt and innocence. I let my shoulders slump, my hazel eyes widening just enough to sell it. “Sorry, bro. I ... borrowed it. Felt too fucking good to resist.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight, searching my face like he could smell the lie. “You’re such a fucking prick, Jo,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was a crack in it, a flicker of the kid who trusted me to have his back. He stepped closer, his sweat-soaked chest inches from mine, the heat of his body hitting me like a drug, his nipple points visible through his tank top. “We share everything, but you don’t get to fuck with this. Get it back. Now.” His green eyes burned, half rage, half plea, and I had to fight the urge to grab him, to feel that chiseled body under my hands. “I’m fucking beat, horny as hell, and I just wanna nut and pass out,” he added, his voice raw, the cheerleaders’ teasing still tormenting him.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back on the couch, my own body on display—my swim-toned arms flexing as I crossed them, my jeans snug against my thighs. “Why not just hook up? Those girls would drop their panties for you in a heartbeat. Hell, half the team would too.”

Ray sighed, running a hand through his damp hair, the motion making his bicep bulge and his abs tighten under the tank top. “We’ve been over this, Jo. High school girls are a fucking minefield—drama, clinginess, all that bullshit. I’m not tanking my grades or my focus before Wolf-U. I just wanna keep things clean until college. No strings, no complications.”

I nodded, pretending to care about his logic. Ray’s discipline was part of what made him so fucking hot—his ability to say no to the horde of groupies throwing themselves at him, all while his body screamed yes. “Fair,” I said. “But if you’re that pent-up, just jerk it.” Truthfully I ached to offer to help him out, but not only was that not the plan, but I know that he would pass. We had jerked off together once as kids, but he never finished, and said he just wasn’t into that. It didn’t matter that we were watching his favorite porn, “Horny MILFs.”

“It’s not the same,” he snapped, his voice thick with frustration. His green eyes darkened, and I could see the hunger in them, the need he was trying to keep locked down. “The fleshlight’s ... fuck, it’s so much better. It’s tight, it’s warm, it’s—” He stopped, his cheeks flushing darker, like he’d said too much. “Just go get it, Jo.”

Here it was—the moment I’d been waiting for. I let my face fall, my voice dropping to a regretful murmur. “Yeah, about that...”

Ray froze, his jaw tightening, a vein pulsing in his neck. “What?”

“It broke.”

His eyes widened, a mix of disbelief and rage. “What the fuck do you mean, broke? How do you break a fleshlight?”

“It broke,” I said, my voice heavy with feigned regret. “Tried cleaning it, and the silicone tore—cheap piece of shit must’ve been defective. I’ll replace it, I swear.”

“You fucking better,” he growled, pointing a finger at me, his bicep flexing with the motion. “You owe me, Jo. Now get the fuck out of my face.”

He stormed upstairs, his ass flexing in those tight shorts with every step, and I waited until his door slammed before slipping into my room. The second I was alone, I pulled up the live feed from the nano-cameras with adaptive AI enhancement I’d hidden in his room—32K resolution, small enough to blend into the grain of his headboard, the corner of his desk, the base of his lamp. I’d spent months splicing footage of Ray: his lean, sweat-slicked body as he fucked his fleshlight, his cock hard and leaking, his face twisted in pleasure. Those videos were gold on my SomeSluts.com account, pulling in thousands from strangers who couldn’t get enough of my brother’s perfect body. Ray’s full-ride scholarship to Wolf-U was locked in, but I was still hustling to cover my tuition. This wasn’t just about money, though—it was about control. And my plan was about to blow the lid off everything.

The Waiting Game

For two months, I made Ray suffer. At first, I fed him bullshit about the cost of a new fleshlight. “They’re expensive, bro,” I’d say, watching his frustration build like a storm cloud. When I finally told him I had ordered a replacement, I dragged out the delivery timeline, blaming “supply chain issues” from some obscure website. Every day, Ray grew more unhinged. He’d snap at his teammates during practice, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. At home, he’d slam doors, glare at me over dinner, and once, I caught him punching a wall in the garage, his knuckles red and raw. Ray tried everything to kill the ache. Cold showers left him shivering, his cock still hard, the icy water no match for the fire in his balls. He doubled his gym time, benching until his pecs screamed, sprinting until his thighs burned, but the sweat only made him hornier, his nipples hardening under his tank top, his ass clenching with every step. Once, I saw him on the live feed, standing naked in front of his mirror, flexing his abs, his cock throbbing as he pressed a rolled-up towel against it, mimicking the fleshlight’s grip. “Fuck ... need it...” he muttered, his voice breaking, his green eyes desperate. The chat went wild—$100 to zoom in on his leaking cock—while I grinned, knowing he was mine to break. One night, the feed caught Ray at his lowest—naked, humping a pillow like a desperate animal, his cock leaking, his moans, “Fuck ... need it...” a broken plea. The chat erupted:

“$75 for that slut to grind harder!”
“Zoom on that virgin hole—$100!”

Tips spiked, my empire growing, Ray’s ruin a public tease, his body already mine. He spent the night sobbing as he strangled his cock. The viewers wanting to lick the tears from his body while spewing out filthy ideas. Our parents started to worry, their whispers floating through the house at night. “Is Ray okay?” Mom asked, her brow furrowed over her coffee mug. “He’s been so ... angry.”

“He’s fine,” I’d say, hiding my grin behind a forkful of eggs. “Just stressed about college apps.”

The truth was, Ray was unraveling without his toy. That fleshlight had been his release valve, the way he burned off the sexual tension that came with being West Wolferton’s resident heartthrob. Cheerleaders, jocks, even teachers—everyone wanted a piece of him, and he’d trained himself to say no, channeling all that pent-up lust into that silicone tube. Without it, he was a live wire, sparking at the slightest touch, and I was the one holding the match.

I watched him on the live feed every night, my cock throbbing as I studied his body. Ray would strip down after practice, his skin still glistening with sweat, his muscles taut from running sprints. His pecs would flex as he peeled off his tank top, revealing the smooth, bronze expanse of his chest, his nipples hardening in the cool air of his room. His abs would clench as he bent to untie his sneakers, the V of his pelvis deepening as he kicked off his shorts. His cock, even soft, was a thing of beauty—thick, veined, nestled in a trimmed patch of dark hair, the head a soft pink that darkened when he got hard. His balls hung low, heavy, swaying slightly as he moved. But it was his ass that killed me—two perfect, round globes, firm and smooth, with a faint dimple on each cheek. When he bent over, his cheeks would part just enough to reveal the tight, pink pucker of his virgin hole, untouched and begging for attention.

Ray tried to jerk off without the fleshlight, but it wasn’t enough. I’d watch him on the feed, his hand moving furiously, his face twisted in frustration as he chased a release that never quite came. He’d curse under his breath, his voice rough, his body tense. “Fuck, Jo,” he’d mutter once, like he knew I was the cause of his torment. I’d grin, my own cock leaking as I imagined what was coming.

The Delivery

Even before trashing the one toy, I had gotten his new fleshlight from The Toy Shop, a hard to find online retailer that supplied things from “The Zone,” a part of Wolferton that most people didn’t know about. Their catalog was a freak show—custom molds shaped like alien anatomy, vibrators that synced with VR porn, lubes laced with shit no FDA would touch. And a mysterious new device called a “portal” that cost more than my car. However, the toy I’d ordered was deceptively simple: a clear silicone tube, soft and flexible, designed to mimic the real thing. But the real kicker was the lube—a thick, pearlescent gel infused with a Cialis-based compound and something else, something the website only hinted at with phrases like “sensory overload catalyst” and “extended neural bonding.” and “prolonged use has profound effects.” The instructions were vague but insistent: Soak the toy in the lube for at least a week. The longer, the better. I’d gone overboard, soaking it for three months in a sealed container hidden in my closet, letting the chemicals seep into the silicone until it practically pulsed with potential.

When I handed Ray the package, his face lit up like he’d just won the state championship. His green eyes, burning with two months of pent-up need, locked onto the box, his fingers trembling as he tore it open. “Fuck yeah,” he growled, his voice low and raw, thick with desperation. His need was so urgent he didn’t even sit down. Right there in the middle of his room, he stripped naked, peeling off his sweat-soaked track uniform with frantic urgency. His tank top came off first, revealing his broad, chiseled pecs, the dusky nipples hardening instantly in the cool air, protruding like sharp points. His shorts hit the floor next, his cock springing free—a thick, veined, seven-inch masterpiece, the shaft a deep pink darkening to a throbbing purple at the head, already leaking precum that glistened like dew. His balls were heavy, drawn up tight against his body, the skin flushed and taut, pulsing with need. His thighs flexed, the powerful muscles rippling under bronzed skin, veins snaking down to his calves. His ass, those perfect twin globes, clenched as he stood, the dimples deepening, the smooth skin catching the dim light of his desk lamp.

Ray clutched the fleshlight like a lifeline, his fingers tracing the silicone opening with a lover’s tenderness, his green eyes glazed with hunger. He squirted a thick dollop of the shimmering lube onto his cock, the gel coating his shaft in a slick, glossy sheen. Standing in the center of his room, legs spread, muscles tense, he slid the toy onto his cock, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips as the silicone gripped him. His hips bucked instinctively, fucking the toy with slow, deliberate thrusts, his abs clenching, the six-pack rippling under his bronzed skin, sweat beading in the grooves. His biceps bulged as he held the toy, veins popping under his forearms, his knuckles white with effort. His ass flexed with each thrust, the round globes tightening, the dimples deepening, the smooth skin glistening with fresh sweat. His balls slapped against the toy, heavy and swollen, the skin flushed a deep pink, the wet squish-squish of lube and silicone filling the room.

I backed out, the door slamming behind me, but the thin walls carried every sound—Ray’s moans, the obscene squelch of the toy, the creak of the floor under his shifting weight. In my room, I pulled up the live feed on my laptop, the 32K nano-cameras capturing every pornographic detail with adaptive AI enhancement. I hit the live-stream button on my SomeSluts account, the chat exploding instantly with viewer comments:

“Holy fuck, that body is unreal!”
“His cock’s so fucking hard, bet he’s gonna blow any second!”
“$50 for him to turn around and show that hole!”
“Fuck, that jock’s body is a goddamn wet dream—rip those muscles apart!”
“Zoom in on that tight ass—wanna see it clench and beg for a pounding!”
“His cock’s throbbing like a bitch in heat—$75 to make him stroke it raw!”
“$100 for a close-up of that pink virgin hole—bet it’s starving for dick!”
“Look at those sweaty tits bounce—pinch those nipples till he screams!”
“That slab of meat’s leaking like a faucet—$50 to make him taste his own juice!”
“Fuck, his balls are so full they’re gonna burst—smack ‘em hard!”
“$200 to spread those cheeks and finger that slutty hole till he cries!”

Ray had collapsed into his desk chair, the cheap wood creaking under his weight. His legs were spread wide, one foot planted on the floor, the other hooked over the armrest, his thighs trembling, the muscles bunching and releasing. His cock was buried in the fleshlight, the clear silicone revealing every inch—swollen to an almost painful purple, the head a deep, angry red, leaking so much precum it coated the toy’s interior, dripping onto the chair in thick, glistening strands. His balls pulsed with each thrust, heavy and full, the skin stretched tight, flushed red. His pecs flexed, the dusky nipples hard as pebbles, sweat streaming down his chest, pooling in the grooves of his abs. His face was a mask of desperate pleasure—green eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips parted as he panted, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His dark hair was matted to his forehead, strands clinging to his sharp cheekbones, a vein pulsing in his neck.

The chat went wild:

“Holy shit, those abs are carved for fucking—$150 to lick the sweat off that six-pack!”
“That cock’s pulsing like a whore’s throat—ram it deeper till it explodes!”
“$200 to spread those ass cheeks wide and tongue-fuck that tight pink hole!”
“This stud’s a walking cum factory—$75 to milk those heavy balls dry!”
“Fuck, those pecs are begging to be bitten—pinch those slutty nipples raw!”
“Look at that ass bounce like a bitch in heat—$100 to spank it till it’s raw red!”
“His precum’s dripping like a leaky slut—$50 to make him slurp it up!”
“$250 to shove a plug in that virgin hole and watch him squirm like a fucktoy!”

I watched on and off for two hours, my cock throbbing in my jeans, the viewer count climbing into the thousands, tips pouring in. Ray’s thrusts grew erratic, his moans turning to growls, then to something primal, almost feral, as the lube’s chemical cocktail amplified every sensation, keeping him hard but frustratingly unable to cum. His body trembled, his ass clenching so tight the dimples deepened, his hole winking between his spread cheeks, untouched but begging for attention. Sweat dripped down his spine, pooling in the small of his back, his thighs quivering with exhaustion.

The live feed showed Ray at his breaking point, his body a trembling furnace, his moans now guttural screams, “Fuck ... need ... more...” The lube’s chemicals had him hallucinating, his green eyes unfocused, seeing cheerleaders’ asses morph into something darker, hungrier. His hole winked between his spread cheeks, pulsing like it was alive, begging for violation. The chat erupted—$500 for “that slut to get fucked raw”—tips hitting $8,000, the counter flashing red. That was my cue. Ray was ripe, his body and mind cracked open, ready for me to claim.

When I slipped back into his room, Ray had changed positions. He’d wedged the fleshlight between his mattress and box spring, angling it for maximum leverage, and was humping it like a wild dog, his hips slamming forward with desperate, animalistic force. His body was a furnace—every muscle carved, every movement a testament to his athletic prowess. His pecs bounced with each thrust, the broad slabs glistening with sweat, the dusky nipples protruding half an inch, hard and sensitive. His abs rippled, the six-pack flexing, sweat streaming down the sharp V of his pelvis. His biceps bulged as he gripped the bedframe, veins popping under his forearms, his knuckles white. His thighs trembled, the powerful muscles bunching, dusted with fine dark hair that shimmered with sweat. His ass was the showstopper—two perfect globes, firm and smooth, bouncing with each thrust, the dimples deepening, the skin flushed pink from exertion. His hole, visible between his spread cheeks, was tight and pink, pulsing with his heartbeat, glistening with sweat.

Ray’s cock was a deep purple now, the head nearly black, leaking so much precum it overflowed the toy, dripping onto the sheets in sticky, glistening puddles. His balls slapped against the silicone, heavy and swollen, the skin taut and flushed red. His face was a vision of torment—green eyes glassy with lust, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and parted, a thin string of drool dripping from the corner of his mouth. His dark hair was matted to his forehead, sweat streaming down his sharp cheekbones, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His moans were incoherent, a mix of growls and whimpers, his body shaking with need but unable to find release.

When he saw me in the doorway, his eyes locked onto mine, wild and desperate. “Jo ... please...” he rasped, his voice broken, the words barely forming. “Help ... fuck ... need ... more...” He couldn’t articulate it, his lust and the lube’s effects overwhelming him, but his body begged, his hips grinding harder, his hole winking, his cock throbbing in the toy. “More ... fuck ... please...” he whined, his voice a raw, animalistic plea, his ass pushing back as if searching for something to fill it.