Shane stepped into the glass room knowing he’d be watched.
He didn’t expect to be split open, filled, and carried.
Again. And again. Until nothing of him was left but devotion.
The club breathed in bass and exhaled sin.
Red light licked the ceiling in pulses. Violet fog curled around bare legs, sweat-slick arms, the ripple of dancers suspended in some fever dream that never quite ended. The music wasn’t heard, it was felt, a slow, grinding beat that crawled up the spine and gripped the back of your teeth.
And through it all, the glass room waited.
Set like a jewel at the heart of the club, lit from within, framed by shadow. One-way glass on three sides. The only way in was through the dark curtain and under his command.
The Handler stood inside already. Still. Watching.
Shane stepped barefoot onto the black stage.
The room swallowed him whole, light washing up his thighs, over the slick plane of his stomach, glistening where oil met skin. Every eye in the crowd turned. Every conversation died on its tongue. It was a hush that felt like a held breath.
He didn’t flinch.
Shane moved slow, like a panther in heat. The kind of slow that wasn’t shy, but designed. He knew where the lights hit. He tilted his jaw to catch the curve of his throat in the crimson glow. Arms lifted above his head, wrists pressed together… Offered.
The Handler didn’t speak yet.
Outside the glass, Javi leaned one shoulder against the bar, watching. One brow arched. His lips curled faintly around the straw of his drink, untouched. He looked like he was in on the secret already.
He always did.
Shane felt it. That gaze, heavier than the crowds.
The club was loud, but in the room, it was silent. Only the sound of breath and the low hum of something beginning. He could almost hear the slick stretch of the leather gloves as the Handler adjusted his stance.
The moment held.
He was here. Stripped, gleaming, heart galloping against his ribs. There was no modesty in him. No tremble. This wasn’t punishment.
This was performance.
This was prayer.
And tonight… he was going to be worshipped.
The glass was a mirror.
Shane stood before it, chest rising with a rhythm not quite steady, and stared at his own reflection, the stretch of his shoulders, the gleam of oil on the inside of his thighs, the pink flush already blooming high on his cheekbones.
He couldn’t see them.
But they could see everything.
A hundred eyes drinking him in. Pressed close. Thirsty. Men who came here for the spectacle, for the surrender. For the performance of a body built to take.
Shane didn’t need to see them to know they were there.
It was in the weight of the silence outside the glass. The air thickened. The music dimmed. Even the bass held its breath.
He moved closer to the pane. Slow, deliberate.
Raised one hand, palm out, pressed it to the cold surface. A shimmer of condensation bloomed beneath his touch. His own image looked back, arched and aching, bare to the bone. A man unraveled before the show even began.
And behind him, the Handler moved.
Not fast. Just one step. Just enough to fill the mirror’s edge with another shape, darker, taller, dressed in shadow and leather.
Shane didn’t turn.
He waited.
The Handler’s gloved hand rose behind him, hovered over the line of Shane’s spine. The air between them tightened. No touch yet. Just the ghost of it. Just the possibility.
Shane exhaled, shaky.
And the crowd on the other side of the glass saw the first crack in him.
Behind the pane, Javi said nothing.
He stood with his drink untouched, eyes pinned to Shane like the rest of the world had dropped away. He couldn’t be seen. But he watched.
And if Shane trembled in the light, it was for that.
The Handler didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Shane was already listening with every inch of him, ears, skin, the taut line of his stomach. He stood in the breath between command and obedience, trembling with the not-knowing. With want.
The crowd, beyond the glass, could see his waiting.
The way his spine curved. The flex in his thighs. The way his lips moved, not forming words, just parting in readiness. A whisper of need too raw to name.
Then…
The first touch.
A single fingertip, leather-slick, trailing up the inside of his thigh. Slow. So slow it almost wasn’t motion. Shane’s knees weakened instantly, his hand splayed on the glass for balance. His breath caught mid-throat.
The Handler moved behind him, not rushed. Every shift intentional, every brush choreographed like a dance meant to seduce air itself.
A second hand came to Shane’s hip. Firm. Still.
And then the voice.
“Open your mouth.”
Low. Measured. Not cruel, but carved from authority. The kind of voice that left no room for misunderstanding.
Shane obeyed.
Lips parted. Tongue wetting his lower lip. A soft, involuntary sound escaping from somewhere too deep to fake.
Behind the glass, the audience pressed closer.
Javi didn’t move. Just watched, mouth unreadable, jaw tight.
The Handler took two fingers and pressed them against Shane’s lips. Not in. Not yet. Just resting there. Just a weight. Testing the readiness. The ache.
Shane leaned into it.
God, he leaned.
His mouth enveloped the leather like it was oxygen. Eyes fluttered shut. Cheeks hollowed with hunger he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.
The Handler let him take. Then withdrew. Slow.
“You’re ready,” he said, not asking.
And Shane nodded.
Then dropped to his knees.
The crowd saw it. The motion, fluid and reverent, like prayer.
He kneeled facing the glass, palms pressed against it, thighs parted. The room behind him crackled like heat lightning.
The Handler walked a slow circle, once. Twice.
Then stood still behind him again.
“You’ll stay open,” he said.
Shane’s breath stuttered.
“Yes.”
The first door behind the glass opened.
Not the Handler. Someone else now. One of many.
The door closed with a hush that felt louder than a scream.
Shane didn’t look back. He couldn’t see the man who entered. Could only hear the sound of boots on black tile. Feel the shift in the air. The electricity that licked along his spine.
He stayed kneeling.
Palms pressed to the glass. Back arched, thighs wide, body offered like a sacrament.
And still, he couldn’t see the audience.
But they saw him.
Javi saw him.
And every flicker of movement sent a new pulse of tension through the watching crowd. A collective ache sharpened by distance, by hunger, by the terrible beauty of watching something you couldn’t yet touch.
The first man came forward.
Still silent. Trained, perhaps. Or simply reverent.
His hands were bare. Cool fingers traced the line of Shane’s lower back, slow and exploratory. Shane gasped, not from pain, not even from surprise, but from the unbearable intimacy of being handled.
The first brush of unfamiliar skin on his was like fire.
The man’s hands spread over Shane’s hips. Firm, exploratory. Not rough, yet. Just enough pressure to claim. To say: I see you. I’m here. You’re mine, for this.
The Handler stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching.
Approving.
Shane’s breath came faster now.
The man behind him leaned forward, lips ghosting over the nape of Shane’s neck. No kiss. Just the warmth of exhale. And Shane shivered.
The crowd did not cheer. They watched.
Eyes wide. Mouths open. Thirst thick in the dark.
Javi’s fingers tapped once on the glass.
Just once.
A signal? A warning? A thread?
Shane heard nothing, but he felt it.
Felt Javi’s attention like a chain around his throat. Gentle. Tight.
The man’s hands moved lower. Slid along the crease of Shane’s thighs. Then back up, fingers tracing the curve of his ass with a worshipful slowness that made Shane tremble from the knees up.
Still clothed, the man shifted closer.
Pressing. Testing. Not inside.
Not yet.
Just the first brush. The tease.
The Handler stepped forward now. Gloved fingers under Shane’s chin, lifting his face just slightly. Making him look at himself in the glass.
“What do you see?” he asked, voice rich as sin.
Shane swallowed.
“Myself.”
The Handler leaned in close enough for only Shane to hear the next words.
“No. You see what they want.”
A soft moan caught in Shane’s throat.
The man behind him gripped harder. Pressed closer.
Shane’s reflection looked flushed, hungry, undone by hands barely begun.
The room was heat and breath and glass.
Shane’s body trembled in the spotlight, kissed red by the lights above, sweat beginning to bead where touch had lingered. His arms ached from holding still, from offering. But he didn’t move.
He wouldn’t.
The man behind him was readying. He could hear it, the rustle of fabric, the sound of fingers wetting slick, the sigh of something large being freed from restraint. Shane bit down softly on his own lip and let the noise crawl through him.
He could feel the eyes. So many.
The crowd beyond the glass hadn’t moved, barely breathed. Their silence was almost holy.
He wanted to give them something worth worshipping.
The Handler was still there, just to the side now, gloved hand resting lightly on Shane’s nape. Not holding. Just reminding. A tether of presence.
“Tell him,” the Handler said quietly.
Shane blinked.
“Tell him what you want.”
His voice caught.
Then, steady:
“I want you to open me.”
A pause.
And then hands spread him, firm, reverent, precise.
Shane groaned, forehead touching glass. Heat bloomed inside him, anticipation curling tight in his belly. He could feel the man behind him, now pressed close. Still not inside. Just there. There.
The Handler moved to Shane’s front, resting fingers under his chin again, tilting his head up.
“Look,” he said.
Shane stared into his own reflection, mouth parted, pupils wide, body flushed and trembling. He looked used already. Feral. Beautiful.
The man behind him leaned in and let the thick head of his cock nudge gently against him.
Shane’s mouth fell open.
Consent filled the air like incense, thick, deliberate, undeniable.
The Handler’s hand curled gently around Shane’s throat, not squeezing, just holding.
“Do you want to be filled?” he asked.
Shane’s voice was nothing but breath.
“Yes…”
The crowd didn’t roar. They exhaled. As one.
And just as the man behind him pressed forward… Just as Shane’s body opened around the first inch, gasping, legs trembling...
Time slipped.
It wasn’t pain. It was pressure, stretching him around something thick and real and intended. His knees spread wider on instinct, toes curling against the polished floor. The pane of glass met his forehead again, cool and unyielding. The contrast only made him burn hotter.
Behind him, the man groaned, low and guttural, at the way Shane took him.
The Handler didn’t move. Just watched. One gloved hand rested on Shane’s lower back, anchoring him, controlling the angle of his arch with subtle pressure. He was a picture. A scene framed in sweat and surrender.
And the crowd was starving.
Javi stood motionless, one hand now flat against the glass. The only part of him betraying tension was his jaw, clenched so tightly it looked carved from marble. He hadn’t blinked.
Shane moaned, soft and broken, as the man behind him pushed deeper. Slow. Measured. Letting him feel every inch, every breath of stretch.
But only partway.
Then stopped.
Held there, throbbing inside him.
The Handler leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of Shane’s ear.
“You’re not full yet.”
Shane whimpered. His whole body vibrated with the ache of it. Of being almost.
Almost taken.
Almost filled.
Almost undone.
The Handler turned his head gently toward the glass again.
“Let them see you want it.”
Shane obeyed.
Arched harder.
Pressed his hips back against the man’s cock, desperate for friction, for motion, for more. The crowd beyond the glass pulsed with energy. Like one great held breath.
The man behind him growled, grip tightening.
And then, he drove in.
One sharp, breathless thrust that sank him to the hilt, pulling a strangled cry from Shane’s chest. The kind of sound that vibrated in the ribs, that painted the glass with breath and fog and raw, wild need.
Shane’s hands scrabbled against the pane, fingers spread wide, body arched hard. The stretch was perfect. Brutal. Worshipful. It filled him in a way that bordered on violent, but felt like home.
The man paused once more, buried to the base, his hips flush against Shane’s ass. The air around them hummed with the silence of reverence. The kind that falls over churches before someone confesses.
Then…
He moved.
Long, dragging pulls. Slow enough to savour, deep enough to ruin. His rhythm built with the patience of someone who wanted to see him break piece by piece. And Shane… God, Shane was giving it.
Moans slipped from his lips like prayers.
Outside, the crowd surged forward, the glass fogging with breath, fists clenching. Javi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But something had shifted in him. One hand had curled into a fist against his thigh.
He watched Shane take it.
Watched his best friend be split open in a room full of strangers.
And not just take it…
Beg for it.
Because that’s what Shane was doing now, gasping, voice rough, whispering, “More… deeper…”
The Handler nodded once, almost imperceptible.
Another man entered the room.
This one taller. Broader.
And he dropped to his knees in front of Shane without a word.
Shane’s eyes widened.
Mouth parted.
The second man’s hand curled around his jaw, thumb stroking his lower lip, then pushing gently inward. Testing.
Shane opened for him like a flower in heat.
The man slid two fingers in deep, Shane gagging just slightly, and then melting around them, rocking forward into the pressure, even as the man behind him began to fuck him harder now, each thrust a sharp, slick sound of need meeting surrender.
The Handler moved to the side. Watched.
He said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Shane’s body was telling the story now, in gasps and arch and sweat. His cock, hard and leaking, bounced with each rhythm. He wasn’t touching himself. Wasn’t allowed. But he looked so close.
So close to breaking.
The man in front of him pulled out his fingers. Unzipped.
Shane’s eyes fluttered.
And opened his mouth again.
His lips wrapped around the second man’s cock like he’d been waiting all night for it.
No hesitation.
Just hunger, pure, practiced, perfect. He took the first inches fast, eyes watering, then steadied, mouth stretching wide, jaw relaxing as the man fed him deeper.
And still the man behind him didn’t stop.
The rhythm had shifted now. Sharper. More relentless. A steady, brutal tempo that split Shane open again and again, the slap of hips against him echoing in the chamber like a heartbeat made of flesh and want.
He was caught between them, breathless and gagged, full in both ends.
The second man groaned, hips twitching as Shane swallowed around him, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, not from pain but from pleasure too big to hold. His hands pressed to the glass for balance, but it wasn't enough. His whole body trembled.
And the crowd…
The crowd had lost control.
Fingers dug into thighs. Zippers drawn down. Tongues dragged over lips. They watched Shane fall apart like it was sacred. A baptism in sweat and sound. No shame. Just need.
Javi hadn’t moved.
But something cracked in his stillness.
One hand at his belt. The other still against the glass. He watched Shane’s throat bulge around the cock in his mouth, watched his ass bounce under the relentless pounding, and his eyes… they burned.
Inside the room, the second man pulled back with a wet sound, leaving Shane gasping, drooling, panting next to the glass.
“Please…” Shane moaned.
He wasn’t speaking to either of them now.
He was speaking to the air.
To the room.
To anyone watching who might take pity or take possession.
The Handler finally stepped forward again.
Placed a hand on Shane’s chest, flat and warm, pressing gently.
Then nodded.
Two more men entered.
Shane turned his head toward the sound. Tried to lift his face. Failed.
He didn’t ask who they were.
Didn’t care.
His body was already trembling again, on the edge of something bigger than climax. Something that felt like devotion.
And he was ready to be taken, deeper.
The second man gripped Shane’s jaw again, fingers slick with spit, and turned his face toward him, not rough, but possessive.
“Open,” he said, low.
Shane obeyed. Lips parted, throat raw, breath trembling.
The man didn’t feed him again.
Instead, he spat into Shane’s mouth. Slow. Deliberate.
Shane swallowed without being told.
Behind him, the first man grunted and pulled out suddenly, his cock smeared with slick. Shane groaned at the loss. It wasn’t pain, it was emptiness. Too sudden. Too bare.
But only for a second.
Because then another body pressed up behind him, thicker, hotter. One of the new men. No introduction. Just hands that grabbed his waist like a lifeline and cock already nudging against his slick entrance.
No teasing this time.
He entered in one long, unstoppable thrust.
Shane’s scream cracked against the glass.
The sound was raw, beautiful, humiliating. His whole body lifted on his knees from the force, hips driven forward. The second man caught his weight. His hands were fists. His mouth hung open, panting.
The man didn’t wait.
Fucked him hard. Brutally. Each thrust deeper than the last, each one dragging a new sound from Shane’s throat that didn’t even sound human anymore. It was need, pure and carved open.
Javi flinched.
A single step forward. Hand still clenched tight on his belt. He watched Shane take it, watched his friend become something elemental. Not broken, no.
Transcendent.
The second man, still in front, fisted his cock slowly now, just watching. The third moved in behind, kissing Shane’s shoulders as the one fucking him tore him apart. Kissing him like he was something beautiful, even as his hips slammed into him like punishment.
The Handler circled them all. One gloved hand resting on Shane’s jaw, turning his face toward the light. So the crowd could see.
“Tell them what you are,” he murmured.
Shane blinked, dazed, open-mouthed.
“I’m…”
He swallowed, voice wrecked.
“I’m yours.”
“No,” the Handler said gently, dragging his fingers over Shane’s lips.
“You’re theirs.”
The crowd erupted.
Not with cheers, but with motion.
Hands stroking. Cocks freed. Men in the dark losing the war with their own self-control. Shane moaned louder, the sound pressed flat against the glass now. His body was shaking, dripping, held open by force and fire.
He was close.
So close.
But he hadn’t been given permission.
The man behind him grabbed his hips tighter, leaned in, and whispered something that made Shane’s eyes roll back…
And the next thrust sent him flying.
Not in space. Not in distance
But inward. Shattered. Stripped of speech. Shane’s whole body seized, then liquefied, a moan stuttering from his lips like the last note of a hymn.
He came.
Cock untouched, shaking as his orgasm ripped through him, splattering across the glass in desperate, hot streaks. His arms gave out. His head slumped against the slick, fogged pane, mouth still open, gasping like he couldn’t find enough air to anchor him.
The crowd pressed closer.
They had seen everything. Every drop. Every tremble. The beauty of it wasn’t in the control. It was in the undoing.
Behind him, the man still moved.
Still fucking him.
Hard.
Relentless.
Shane cried out again, too sensitive now, nerves on fire, whole body pulsing with the aftershock, but he didn’t say stop.
Didn’t say slow.
He said nothing, and gave everything.
Javi’s breath caught in his throat.
The sweat on his skin had nothing to do with the heat of the room.
Javi couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t blink. His hand was halfway down his pants now, stroking slow, tortured, as he watched Shane be held there, filled over and over.
The second man pulled out at last, leaving Shane gasping, hole twitching, body swaying from the aftershock. But he didn’t fall.
Because the third man caught him.
Lifted him.
Strong arms wrapped around Shane’s waist, pulling him off his knees, into the air. Shane’s legs parted on instinct, wrapping around the man’s hips, slick thighs trembling. His cock, still hard despite release, slapped against his stomach, leaking.
And then… He sank down onto the man’s cock with a sob.
Not fast. Not all the way. Just the first few inches. Enough to stretch him open again. Enough to set every nerve inside him screaming awake. His arms clutched around the man’s shoulders. He was riding now. Carried. Cradled. Fucked from below.
Held like a toy. Moved like a wave.
Javi’s breath punched out of him.
The fourth man stepped forward, not to replace. To join.
One hand on Shane’s lower back. The other braced on the first man’s hip. And when he bent forward, cock nudging between Shane’s cheeks, pressing against the tightness already filled…
Shane whimpered.
“Please…”
The Handler crouched beside him now. Smiling.
Voice like silk soaked in smoke.
“You want two.”
It wasn’t a question.
Shane nodded, eyes wet, lips trembling, legs wrapped tighter around the first man’s waist.
The Handler lifted Shane’s chin. Kept his gaze forward. Toward the glass. Toward the crowd.
“Then they’ll give you two.”
The second cock pressed in, slow, thick, insistent, stretching Shane wider than he’d ever been. The first man groaned. Shane cried out. His entire body arched in the man’s arms, neck exposed, mouth open in a silent scream.
Glass fogged. Sweat dripped.
He was taken.
Split.
Ridden.
Turned into something worshipful.
And the Handler whispered against the back of his neck:
“Don’t break yet.”
He didn’t break.
Not yet.
But his body told a different story.
The sound he made, when both cocks moved inside him, grinding slow, opposing rhythms, wasn’t just moan or whimper or cry. It was a sound from somewhere deep, somewhere wordless. A surrender shaped like music.
Shane clung to the third man, riding him with trembling thighs locked around his waist, forehead pressed into the man’s neck. His back arched into the fourth man’s thrusts, cock buried inside him from behind. Their bodies moved in sync, one anchoring, the other devouring.
The rhythm was slow but brutal. Unrelenting. Divine.
Spit shone on Shane’s chin. Come dried in streaks on the glass. His lips, red and swollen. His body, slick with sweat and sin and the reverence of being taken.
The audience couldn’t look away.
Some had stopped touching themselves. Just watching. Awed. Devoted. Witnessing.
The Handler moved closer now. One hand at Shane’s throat, not squeezing, just there. A tether.
The other wiped the tears from Shane’s cheeks and smeared them gently into the flush along his jaw.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmured.
Shane moaned. Not words. Just need.
The two men inside him moved deeper now, faster. Shane’s head rolled back. His cock twitched against the third man’s stomach, untouched and desperate.
The Handler leaned in close to his temple.
“Now.”
And Shane shattered.
He came again, untouched, body jerking in the cradle of their arms, his moan broken and wet. His hole clenched around the cocks inside him, milking them both.
The man beneath him groaned, pulled him tight, and came with a full-body shudder. Moments later, the fourth man’s thrusts grew erratic, then stilled. A flood of warmth filled him from behind.
Shane sagged, body spent.
But it wasn’t over.
The Handler moved in, lifting him from their arms like he weighed nothing. Shane whimpered, instinctively curling into the heat of him, but the Handler turned, carried him like a gift, and lowered him carefully onto the cock of the first man, still hard. Still waiting.
Shane gasped as he sank down again, already stretched, already dripping.
And as he settled, shivering…
The second man stepped behind him.
Gripped his hips.
Pressed in.
Another cock. Another stretch.
Another wave.
Shane’s back arched, the Handler’s hands still on his shoulders, steadying him, holding him in place as the second man began to fuck him from behind.
The first groaned beneath him.
Shane sobbed, body overwhelmed, overstimulated, overflowing.
But not broken.
Not yet.
The first two didn’t hold back now.
The man beneath him fucked up into Shane’s wrecked hole with slow, grinding strokes that made his entire body bounce in the Handler’s hands. The second man behind him thrust harder, sharper, each one pushing Shane further into delirium, forcing breathless cries from his throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore.
He was limp between them.
No strength left. No resistance. But still open, still taking, still aching.
His cock, soft now, leaking, bounced with every thrust. His mouth hung open. Drool glistened on his tongue.
The Handler stayed close, palms firm on Shane’s ribs, guiding the motion, ensuring every inch was buried, every thrust landed just right.
The men didn’t speak.
They grunted. Groaned. One cursed softly, praising the tight hole, the way Shane didn’t pull away.
The crowd was still.
Staring.
Undone by what they saw. Not a performance anymore. A ritual.
And then…
The first man came, cock buried deep, arms wrapped around Shane’s waist. He held him close, pulsing inside until he gasped, and stilled. The second man followed moments later, his thrusts losing rhythm, becoming frantic, then sudden and still. His warmth joined the others already dripping from Shane’s body.
Shane collapsed forward, panting, eyes glassy.
The two men eased out slowly.
A thick trail of slick and seed ran down his thighs, his hole still trembling, twitching from the ghost of everything it had held.
The Handler caught him as he slumped, cradled him like something holy.
“Good,” he whispered. “So good.”
The men left without a word.
The curtain closed behind them.
And then.
The Handler turned.
Lifted Shane gently again, legs dangling, head on his shoulder. He carried him across the glass room. Laid him down on a wide leather divan, dark and low to the floor, where the light kissed every inch of his ruined body.
The Handler stood.
Turned to the glass.
Raised a single hand.
The curtain over the one-way glass shifted.
It didn’t close.
It opened.
And there, just on the other side, waiting, was Javi.
The Handler’s voice was quiet. Final.
“Clean him.”
And Javi stepped through the doorway.
No hesitation.
Only heat.
Only need.
Javi stepped inside like he’d been summoned by more than the Handler’s voice.
Like he’d been summoned by fate.
The crowd outside was gone now. Curtain drawn. The room returned to something quieter, more sacred. But the scent of it still lingered, sweat, sex, the ache of being watched. It clung to Shane’s skin like smoke.
He lay limp on the divan, legs parted, body shining. Marked. Bruised. Glowing.
Javi approached slowly.
He didn’t speak.
Just knelt beside the edge of the couch and reached for him.
His fingers were bare. Warm. Reverent. They started at Shane’s ankle, stroking upward, calf, knee, thigh. Tracing the evidence left behind. The smears. The tremble. The quiver in muscles that had given everything.
Shane’s eyes fluttered open.
He looked at Javi like he was dreaming. Or maybe like this was the part he’d waited for all night. Not the fucking. Not the crowd.
This.
Javi’s hands moved with impossible care.
He wiped Shane clean with a damp cloth the Handler had left behind. Gentle strokes between his cheeks, down his thighs, over the soft folds of his spent cock. Shane gasped, shivering at the sensitivity, but never pulled away.
“Javi…” he whispered. Cracked and soft.
Javi looked up.
“I’m here.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an anchor.
The last stroke of the cloth paused at Shane’s navel. Javi’s fingers lingered there. Pressed. Warm.
Then lower.
Not to fuck. Not to tease.
Just to hold.
Shane’s hand moved, slow and shaking, and found Javi’s. Wove their fingers together.
Silence stretched.
And then.
Javi leaned in.
Not for his mouth.
But for his forehead.
He pressed it to Shane’s. Closed his eyes. Let his breath mingle with the slow, uneven rhythm of Shane’s exhale.
“You’re not done,” he whispered.
Shane shivered.
“You’re mine, next time.”
A pulse answered between Shane’s legs. Weak, but alive.
Javi kissed his temple.
And pulled the blanket up over him like a promise.
✍️ From Rowan Thornwell
Some stories are fantasy. This one is only half a lie.
I love what it feels like to kneel. To be cracked open. To be witnessed.
That’s what Shane carries for me, not the shame, but the holiness of being watched.
"Consent filled the air like incense". This is palpable. It sent my mind reeling back to service at Our Lady of Perpetual Help and the sit, stand, kneel ritual of Catholism.
Now I feel the need for confession. And I haven't been Catholic for decades.
💥💯‼️💥🔥🔥🔥😈🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵