The air in the sprawling mansion hung heavy with the scent of polished mahogany and the faint musk of the stepfather’s stale sweat, a lingering reminder of his presence. The summer heat seeped through the open windows, carrying the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional clink of ice in a glass from the bar downstairs. Calvin’s stepfather, Edgar, a plump man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair and a tailored linen suit that clung to his frame, lounged in the study, his eyes glinting with a predatory focus. His angular face, marked by sharp cheekbones and a thin, pursed mouth, betrayed a restless energy as he sipped bourbon, the amber liquid catching the dim light of a crystal chandelier. Edgar’s silk tie was loosened, revealing a patch of graying chest hair, and his polished loafers tapped rhythmically against the hardwood floor, a subtle sign of his anticipation for Calvin’s return from tennis practice.
Calvin, a collegiate tennis player with a lean, muscular frame honed by years of relentless practice, slipped into the mansion’s study, his body still slick with sweat from the court. Tomorrow would be his 21st birthday, but that seemed almost secondary to the weight of everything else. At fifteen, he’d been taken in by Edgar after a cruise ship accident claimed his mother’s entire family, leaving him with no one but this man whose desires now shadowed their every interaction.
He knew Edgar was gay, a fact cemented when he caught him sniffing his jockstraps and boxers post-gym, an incident that silenced their words forever, an incident that left their conversations strained and infrequent: leaving only a tense, unspoken understanding. Calvin stripped off his dirty clothes in his room, donning semi-transparent silk boxers that clung to his thighs, and sprawled on the study’s long sofa, pretending to be in deep sleep, his chiseled chest rising slowly. The only times they spoke were when Calvin was making a request, as he asked for the latest gadgets, designer clothes, or expensive vacations - a silent exchange of material possessions for the affection and intimacy they both craved but could never openly acknowledge.
He was acutely aware of being treated like a muscular callboy, a male sex slave edged under Edgar’s very strict “no sex” rule when he was 15, which banned any form of ejaculation in the mansion - originally to keep Calvin from bringing women home and making love with them, but now a tool to torment him with unfulfilled desire. Edgar’s gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the 20-year old jock there, the stepfather’s fingers tightening around his bourbon glass as he stood motionless, the air thick with the weight of their mutual, silent knowledge.
Edgar’s tailored linen suit, now slightly rumpled from the heat, accentuated his stout frame as he leaned against the study’s mahogany desk, his silver hair catching the chandelier’s glow. His polished loafers ceased their rhythmic tapping, replaced by a deliberate shift of weight as he observed Calvin’s “sleeping” form, the silk boxers revealing the contours of the young athlete’s body.
The “no ejaculation” rule, a twisted decree Edgar wielded to keep Calvin teetering on the edge of release, pulsed in his mind, a game of control that neither acknowledged aloud. Originally imposed to prevent Calvin from following in his irresponsible father's footsteps, now served a darker purpose—an instrument of control and torment, keeping the young athlete perpetually aroused and desperate. Edgar knew Calvin understood his role—nothing more than a muscular plaything, desired but denied, a callboy on display but never allowed to find release. And yet, the silence between them, born from that humiliating jockstrap incident, held firm.
The tennis captain lounged strategically on the mansion’s velvet chaise, his ice-blue silk boxers stretched tight, the sheer fabric showcasing his veiny cock tenting prominently, a damp patch of precum staining the delicate weave. He positioned himself deliberately during Edgar's visits, knowing his stepfather's gaze would inevitably find him, his chiseled abs and thick thighs glistening under the soft glow of the study's chandelier. Feigning sleep, Calvin's eyelids remained still, his breathing slow and steady, as he braced for the familiar touch. Both men knew the truth—Calvin was wide awake, and Edgar was using him for his own twisted desires. Yet, in a silent pact forged after the jockstrap incident, they maintained the charade. Calvin tolerated the illicit contact, enduring it to secure his stepfather's black credit card, a key to boundless wealth.
He knew the stepfather was using him, exploiting their twisted dynamic for his own twisted pleasure. The silk boxers did little to hide his arousal, a testament to the effectiveness of Edgar's sadistic 'no ejaculation' rule. Calvin remained still, pretending to sleep, even as every fiber of his being screamed to move, to confront Edgar's blatant objectification. The unspoken agreement hung heavy between them—Calvin, knowing full well that Edgar was using him for his own sexual gratification, chose to remain still, a silent sacrifice to maintain the delicate balance of their twisted dynamic. Edgar, too, wished for Calvin to stay 'sleeping,' his pride preventing him from acknowledging the open secret that threatened to humiliate him. Both men understood the precariousness of their arrangement—the slightest movement, the tiniest admission, could shatter the facade and leave Calvin bereft of the riches he craved, while Edgar's ego crumbled under the weight of his own desires. So they remained locked in this dance of denial, Calvin's chiseled body a constant temptation, Edgar's piercing gaze a silent command to stay motionless and unspoken.
The stepfather, an older man reeking of stale sweat and body odor, hovered nearby, his cold, bony hands trembling with restraint as he inhaled the musky air around Calvin’s sprawled form. Convinced Calvin was asleep, he traced his fingers over Calvin’s pecs and down the ridges of his abs, savoring the illicit contact that promised Calvin greater financial rewards for enduring more. The silence between them, an unbreakable rule since their arrangement began, pulsed with the room’s humid stillness, the cicadas outside bearing witness to Calvin’s calculated manipulation.
The stepfather’s gaunt frame, clad in a wrinkled silk robe that barely hid his sagging skin, shifted closer, his breath heavy with the sour tang of sweat as he loomed over Calvin’s “sleeping” body. His hands, icy and skeletal, roamed with deliberate slowness, grazing Calvin’s thighs and lingering near the precum-soaked boxers, the sheer fabric clinging obscenely, almost transparent, to the leaking tip and head of Calvin’s cock. Calvin, ever the cunning jock, maintained his pretense of sleep, his jaw tight, endured the groping as a transaction, each touch a deposit toward the black credit card’s limitless perks. The stepfather’s body odor, a rank cloud, mingled with the mansion’s polished wood scent, his fondling a ritual that never breached their wordless pact.
The study’s air was thick with the sour stench of Edgar’s stale sweat and grime, his portly frame pressing into the plush velvet of the chaise as he slid beside Calvin, his silk robe grazing the younger man’s sweat-slicked skin. Calvin, sprawled with calculated care, kept his eyes shut, his chiseled pecs rising steadily, feigning sleep as Edgar’s tongue, rough and deliberate, flicked across his left nipple, sending a jolt through his muscular frame. The stepfather’s cold, bony fingers found Calvin’s right nipple, pinching it with a slow, cruel twist, the sharp sensation making Calvin’s veiny biceps flex instinctively, though he held his pretense of slumber.
Edgar's fingers, trembling with barely restrained dominance, hooked into the waistband of Calvin's silk boxers. With a sharp tug, he yanked the garment down, unleashing the tennis captain's legendary physique. Calvin's rock-hard cock snapped upward, recoiling like a released spring and spraying a shower of precum, the clear liquid arc through the air, painting Calvin's chiseled abs and chest with glistening droplets. The most desired man on campus, the dream of every woman in their university, reduced to this—pretending to sleep, his arm blocking his eyes, reduced to a mere plaything for his stepfather's amusement. The fat stepfather's heart raced with power, knowing he held complete control over his stepson athlete. Calvin, who could have any woman he wanted, is being treated like a callboy, a plaything for Edgar's amusement.
Using his own scrawny legs, Edgar forced Calvin’s thighs apart, hooking the jock’s left leg over the sofa’s backrest and nudging his right to dangle toward the floor, spreading him obscenely under the chandelier’s dim glow. The room pulsed with the cicadas’ drone outside, a fitting soundtrack to Calvin’s silent endurance, his flushed cheeks betraying arousal as he played his part for the promise of the jet’s keys.
Edgar’s gaunt face, shadowed by the flicker of lamplight, hovered closer, his breath hot and rank as he wrapped his bony hand around Calvin’s throbbing cock, jerking it with slow, deliberate strokes that lingered on the sensitive frenulum. Calvin’s ripped abs tensed, his body flexing under the teasing touch, each muscle rippling as he fought to maintain the ruse of sleep, his low moans—half-sleep, half-arousal—slipping out into the humid air. The stepfather’s fingers, cold and precise, grazed the leaking slit of Calvin’s cock, lightly scratching the tender flesh, coaxing more thick, clear precum to dribble down the shaft, pooling against his taut balls.
Edgar’s own legs pressed harder, keeping Calvin’s spread position locked, the jock’s muscular thighs quivering from the strain as his body betrayed its edging torment. For nearly four hours, Calvin endured this slow, relentless tease, his face flushed crimson, his moans growing throatier, yet his eyes never opened, his performance flawless as Edgar’s hands worked him to the brink without release. The stepfather’s grimy scent clung to the air, a constant reminder of the price Calvin paid, his mind already picturing the jet’s leather seats and the freedom it would buy.
Edgar's legs pressed firmly against Calvin's spread thighs, not out of necessity, but as a symbol of his dominance. Calvin, dedicated to his role, remained perfectly immobile, his sweat-drenched body a statue of tense muscles. Every fiber of his being was engaged in an isometric flex, his abs, pecs, and quads contracted tightly, yet he lay there, eyes closed, breaths even, the picture of a man lost in sleep. Only the rare tremor in his thighs or the slight parting of his lips betrayed the truth—Calvin was awake, enduring hours of torment, his body screaming for release, but his mind unyielding in its commitment to the charade. Edgar's hands roamed freely, pushing Calvin to the edge of climax again and again, yet never allowing him the satisfaction of completion. The stepfather’s grimy scent clung to the air, a constant reminder of the price Calvin paid, his mind already picturing the jet’s leather seats and the freedom it would buy.
Calvin’s veiny, ripped physique gleamed with sweat, each flex of his pecs and abs a silent testament to his collegiate jock training, as Edgar’s relentless teasing pushed him deeper into the haze of arousal. The stepfather’s scratches on Calvin’s leaking slit grew lighter, almost torturous, each flick of his nail drawing more precum that slicked his fingers, the viscous fluid dripping onto the chaise’s velvet. Calvin’s moans, now a steady rhythm, blurred the line between feigned sleep and raw desire, his blushing face and trembling limbs betraying the edge he was forced to ride. Edgar’s pinching of the right nipple grew sharper, a counterpoint to the slow, wet laps of his tongue on the left, the dual sensations making Calvin’s cock throb harder in the old man’s grip. The study’s oppressive heat and Edgar’s rank odor wrapped around them, a cocoon for their wordless transaction, Calvin’s endurance stretching through the agonizing hours for his fleeting reward.
As the fourth hour neared its end, Calvin’s body was a taut bowstring, every muscle flexed and glistening, his cock painfully hard and leaking a steady stream of precum that Edgar’s teasing fingers smeared across his shaft. The stepfather’s legs still pinned Calvin’s open, the jock’s left thigh still hanging against the sofa’s backrest, his right foot brushing the hardwood floor, left arm over the eyes, right arm behind his head, his vulnerability complete. Edgar’s jerks slowed, his thumb grazing the frenulum with maddening precision, keeping the stepson edged, his flushed cheeks glowing under the chandelier’s light. The scratching at his slit ceased, leaving Calvin’s cock twitching, desperate for release that the “no sex” rule forbade, his moans now unmistakably aroused yet cloaked in the pretense of sleep. Finally, Edgar withdrew, his bony hands lingering on Calvin’s thigh before he rose, his robe rustling as he left the study, satisfied with his control.
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Calvin stirred on the chaise, his muscular frame glistening with sweat as he “woke” after thirty minutes, his 6.5-inch cock still veiny and rigid, straining against the semitransparent silk boxers. He trudged upstairs, the precum-soaked fabric clinging to his thighs, and stepped into the marble bathroom, where cold water fell from the shower, doing little to soften his throbbing erection as he scrubbed his chiseled pecs and abs. Downstairs, the glass dining table reflected the chandelier’s glow, set for a late-night dinner where Edgar, reeking of stale sweat and clad in a loose silk robe, already sat, his gaunt face sharpening.
Calvin descended the stairs, his muscular frame on full
display in a fresh pair of semitransparent boxers. His erect cock strained
against the fabric, the tip visibly soaked and transparent. He stretched
languidly, flexing his abs and pretending to be freshly showered, a picture of
innocent post-nap energy. But the illusion was shattered by the earring
dangling from his left earlobe—a small satanic cross glinting in the light. To
complete the ironic tableau, a matching earring pierced his right nipple, a blatant
contradiction to his role as a devout Catholic university student and the
singles tennis captain. He knew the look reeked of male prostitution, a
deliberate choice to extract maximum concessions from Edgar. His stepfather's
eyes narrowed as they raked over Calvin's body, taking in the provocative
display. The irony was not lost on either of them—the wholesome athlete, now a
willing plaything, dressed to deceive and manipulate.
As Calvin descended the stairs, Edgar looked up from his seat, offering a warm, familiar smile. "Ah, you're up," he said, stretching as if just waking from a nap. "It's dinner time, and I was just thinking about you. Tomorrow’s the big day—your 21st."
Calvin began eating, his fork scraping the plate, acutely aware of Edgar's gaze raking over his broad shoulders and rippling biceps. The stepfather's eyes lingered on the precum-streaked boxers, his hunger unmasked and palpable. Calvin swallowed hard, a mix of dread and anticipation churning in his stomach. He wanted something good for his birthday, something that would make his sexual ordeal worth enduring. Clearing his throat, Calvin broke their usual silence—the only time words passed between them, and asked:
“Can I borrow the jet to buy an Panigale in Italy?”
Edgar’s thin lips curled slightly, his voice low as he asked:
“Are you maintaining your grades and varsity captainship?”
Calvin nodded, “Yes,” his tone steady, knowing the sexy motorcycle's keys were within reach.
Edgar leaned back, his bony fingers drumming the glass table, the faint clink of his bourbon glass punctuating the humid air as he studied Calvin’s sculpted form, the jock’s erection an unspoken taunt:
“Very well,” Edgar rasped, “I expect you to leave early and return by night.”
After a pause, his eyes glinting with a double-edged intent, he added:
"Just reminding you, we agreed to this when you were fifteen, after your father abandoned you when your mother died..." Edgar paused, the words hanging heavy in the air.
"You may bring a girl here, but you know the, rule—no ejaculatory sex until I deem you ready…" then after a long pause, he added: "... for marriage."
The last words hung heavy, the stepfather’s implication clear to both, the 'no cumming' rule a leash Edgar wielded to edge Calvin, its true purpose veiled in pretense. Calvin’s jaw stopped, his fork pausing mid-bite, before he met Edgar’s gaze, his voice low and laced with a subtle nod to their game.
“Got it, no cumming—until you say so,” he said, the words carrying a faint, knowing edge, sealing their twisted pact as the cicadas outside the mansion droned.
The dining room's oppressive heat pressed against Calvin's skin, his boxers' wet patch spreading on the the bottom side of the glass table from Edgar's unrelenting stare. The stepfather's odor mingled with the scent of seared steak, and Calvin could feel his own erection straining against the silk, the tip literally hitting the glass table's bottom surface. Edgar's gaze flicked down, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of Calvin's cockhead pressing against the glass, leaving a wet, leaking imprint. Calvin chewed slowly, his muscular arms flexing with each movement, aware of the power he held in this silent negotiation. His body was a currency, a tool to extract the Panigale and the use of the jet, and the rule's double meaning pulsed between them, keeping Calvin on edge, his erection refusing to subside as he finished his meal.
Edgar's mind wandered, a smirk playing on his lips as he contemplated Calvin's upcoming birthday. Twenty-one, the perfect age to push boundaries, to explore the depths of his desires. The boy was asking for so much - a very expensive motorcycle, the use of his private jet, and of course a large sum of allowance, though he didn't mention it. It was only fair that he give something in return, something dirty and sexual.
He imagined 'sleeping' Calvin, spread eagle on the basement table, blindfolded, helpless as he was edged over and over again, not moving, enduring everything like a man. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, his arousal growing. Yes, tomorrow would be a good day. A day to remind Calvin of his place, of the power he held over the boy. Edgar's smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Very well.” Before stepping out, he turned, his voice oily with feigned concern, “Your room’s undergoing maintenance—plumbing issues—so when you return from Italy, sleep in the basement; it’ll be turned upside down; but I know you wouldn't mind."
His lips twitched, implying the basement’s acrid, dungeon-like stench—damp and mildewy, like wet clothes festering in a sealed cabinet, a rank odor he knew Calvin found perversely arousing, heightening his sense of being dirty and desirable.
Edgar stepped toward the door but doubled back, adding, “Hit the gym before sleeping down there; new equipment’s arrived.”
Calvin, his leaking cock still tenting the semitransparent boxers, nodded, summarizing:
"Plane to Italy, buy the red hot motorcycle, plane to Queens, hit the gym, sleep in the basement—got it.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll be quick in Italy; university tennis exhibition at 7 PM,” prompting Edgar’s curt nod, though his eyes gleamed with darker intent.
Edgar leaned against the mess hall’s doorframe, his bony fingers on the wood, voice soft but heavy. “The plumbing’s out, so no shower when you’re back.” The words, seemingly innocent, urged Calvin to stay unbathed, his musk from the fresh silk boxers—set for Italy, Queens, the tennis match, workout, and sleep—a treat for Edgar.
“And the laundromat messed up—no clean clothes. You were supposed to wear that white suit to Italy, but now you’ll be stuck in the dress pants, sleeves, tie, and those Nikes for the exhibition match. That okay with you, son?”
Calvin, still seated on the glass dining table, sweat-slicked, “Yeah, I’ll manage.”
“When you’re back for your workout, just keep those boxers on to save the suit,” Edgar said, tone warm but suggestive. “It’s just us here, and you’re a man, right?”
Calvin’s lips parted, a soft breath escaping, body trembling from Edgar’s edging. “So, these same boxers for Italy, the match, my workout, and sleeping?” Edgar’s eyes lingered on the wet silk, Calvin’s cockhead smearing precum on the glass, then flicked up with a knowing smile.
“You might have to... Also, the basement’s bed—well, it’s a rickety, unstable table, mildewy. A jacked guy like you might snap it in half - you’re a muscular man now...” His voice turned sly. “There’s cuffs in the table’s drawers—use them on your limbs to secure yourself so you don’t fall off. They’re a little rusty and have some mildew, so be careful, though. Would this be fine?” The gentle tone hid Edgar’s intent to keep Calvin bound, his satanic cross earring and nipple piercing glinting—a Catholic tennis captain playing a prostitute’s role for Edgar’s rewards.
Calvin leaned back, his sweat-slicked shoulders brushing the table, maintaining his composed facade despite the edging. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said, voice low and deliberately submissive. “No issue. Those musky, mildewy, rusty cuffs on my wrists and ankles will keep me locked in place while I sleep, so I won’t move much and wreck that table. I’m used to staying still at night, so it’ll hold up just fine. That’s what you’re worried about?” His words, laced with compliance, sealed their silent game, his satanic cross earring and nipple piercing glinting—a Catholic tennis captain playing a prostitute for Edgar’s lavish rewards, his body trembling under the unspoken tension.
Edgar leaned against the mess hall’s doorframe, his gaunt fingers brushing the wood, his voice soft but heavy with intent. “Yeah, you’re a jacked man now, after all. Also, you might need the sleep mask since the light’s broken. No blanket, though.”
He paused, his gaze drifting over Calvin’s muscular form, imagining him in self-afflicted bondage while pretending to be asleep. “You might look... a bit too exposed, but safer that way, I guess. You don’t have to worry about someone catching you in such a position after all, as the gardeners and day maids don’t have keys to the basement…”
Calvin’s fork paused, his voice low and casually compliant, masking the edging’s intensity. “Got it, no blanket. I’ll grab the sleep mask and lock those musky, mildewy, rusty cuffs on my wrists and ankles to stay still while I sleep, so that rickety table won’t break. That’ll keep everything secure, won’t it?”
The stepfather continued; “Yes, son, that’ll work perfectly. The table’s rickety, but it’s got a mechanism to pull those cuffs tight, keeping you still so you won’t break it.” His eyes gleamed, picturing Calvin restrained. “Just set everything up first—sleep mask, boxers, all of it—before pulling that rusty lever. It’ll stretch the cuffs, locking your wrists and ankles far apart so you can’t move and ruin the table.”
Calvin sat at the glass dining table, fork still, his voice low and deliberately submissive, masking the heat of Edgar’s edging. “Alright, I’ll handle it,” he said, tone casual but calculated. “So after my workout, when I'm going to sleep, I’ll put on the sleep mask, keep the boxers, lock those musky, mildewy, rusty cuffs on my wrists and ankles, then pull the lever to stay pinned while I sleep?"
"Yes son."
"I don’t move much anyway, so the table should hold. Feeling a bit exposed, but I’ll just lock the basement door so no one finds me there.” His words, compliant and steady, reinforced their silent game, his satanic cross earring and nipple piercing glinting—a Catholic tennis captain playing a prostitute for Edgar’s lavish rewards.
The lock was useless, though—Edgar held the only key.
Calvin's mind raced, piecing together the implications of Edgar's words. He knew his stepfather owned the mansion, and with that came the complete set of keys, including those to the basement. In fact, they didn't even have gardeners anymore, and Calvin hadn't seen a day maid since he'd been away at university. His thoughts drifted to two days prior, when he was digging for motorcycle parts and he'd stumbled upon the basement's splintered table, its broken drawers revealing rusty chained cuffs with mildewy leather, and inside carefully wrapped plastic, a one-foot stainless steel urethral sounder with a large pencil's diameter, partially curved, and a thick, studded stainless steel rod, a foot long and wide as a tuna can. It all clicked into place: spreadeagled, blindfolded, 'asleep', he'd be edged, his holes penetrated by both sounders brushing his prostate's sides, all for the Panigale's keys to lure near-perfect women.
The stepfather continued to lean against the mess hall’s doorframe, his gaunt frame stiff, his voice carrying a clipped, pseudo-concerned stepfatherly tone that barely hid a cold, perverse edge. “Listen, son, I’m concerned you might have trouble… trying to relieve yourself, without destroying the table and falling off yourself,” he said, his brow creasing in false worry, though his mind churned with dark, twisted plans.
“Tomorrow night, before you strap yourself to that table to avoid rolling off in your sleep, you’ll find some packages on the basement table's drawers—use what’s inside,” Edgar instructed, describing vaguely towards the sounder and the anal plug, his voice carrying a clipped, pseudo-concerned stepfatherly tone that barely hid a cold, perverse edge; "...use their contents, and make sure you visit the loo to empty yourself first."
“It’s to prevent any… untidy situations while sleeping, should you try to relieve yourself, I’m sure you understand since you’re not supposed to move much or the table might break,” he added, his tone almost concerned but tinged with bored detachment, carrying an undercurrent of expectation that brooked no argument and reeked of double meaning.
“How far should I… ease them in?” he asked, voice low and deliberately submissive, the words carrying a subtle, charged undertone that only someone privy to the sounder and anal plug’s purpose would catch.
Edgar’s eyes narrowed, a cold spark of sadistic pleasure flaring as he caught the suggestive lilt in Calvin’s tone, confirming the boy was fully entangled in their twisted game. His thin lips twitched faintly, barely concealing his dark delight. “Deep enough to keep that table clean, as deep as your emptied bladder and bowels ensure no distractions from your sleep, as deep as that brawny, tennis-forged physique of yours can withstand, as deep as every muscle feels alive with that perfect point of control before you sleep,” he said icily, his words laced with a subtle hint of pushing physical boundaries to a precise, exhilarating edge, his gaze flicking briefly to Calvin’s crotch, where the silk boxers clung tightly, the 6.5-inch cock’s tip faintly tapping the glass table’s underside.
“Look at you, you’re built like a champion, son, a varsity titan honed for relentless trials, sculpted to take unyielding… challenges, no matter what they entail. Drive it as far as your resolve can endure, as far as you find that sweet spot where everything is blocked and nothing leaks out to make a mess. Ensure everything’s firmly in place before you secure those cuffs—nothing must shift while you’re out, clear?”
“Understood, I’ll manage,” he said curtly, voice thick with calculated compliance, his eyes steady despite the heat pulsing beneath his skin.
“Those contents to prevent you from making a mess of the table… they won’t keep you awake, will they, son?” he asked, his voice low and edged with a chilling formality, probing Calvin’s resolve with a hint of perverse curiosity, his gaunt frame leaning slightly forward, as if drawn to the tension coiling in the air.
“No way, I sleep like a rock. Besides, you know I barely move an inch while sleeping anyway, no matter how intense things get… even if you stir my insides!” he said with a roguish grin, his voice laced with a playful, suggestive edge before he let out a rough, rumbling laugh that bounced off the mess hall’s scarred walls, his eyes flashing with a mix of cheeky defiance and knowing amusement.
Edgar's mind wandered, conjuring vivid images of Calvin, now 21, preparing himself for the night's activities. He pictured his stepson, the tennis captain of New York State's top Catholic university, now a hardened male prostitute, standing alone in the dimly lit basement. In his imagination, Calvin slowly unboxed the urethral sounder and anal plug, his strong, calloused fingers trembling slightly as he coated them with lube. Edgar listened, as if he were there, to the guttural moans and sexual groans that escaped Calvin's lips as he inserted the devices deep into his own sweat-drenched body, the sounds echoing off the cold, damp walls of the basement as he prepared to 'sleep'. The thought sent a shiver down Edgar's spine, a twisted mix of arousal and disgust twisting his features as he imagined the pain and pleasure etched on Calvin's face.
Edgar’s silver hair caught the chandelier’s glow as he prepared to leave, his stale-sweat odor clogging the air, “Silly boy. I’ll be late, around 1 AM, and leave by 7 AM—busy schedule.”
The implication was blatant: six hours of relentless edging, Calvin’s veiny, 6.5-inch cock teased, his slit scratched, precum pooling, his muscular frame flexing against the cuffs, blindfolded on the mildewy table as Edgar’s cold hands and the sounders worked him, probing his urethra and ass, the studded rod stretching him, grazing his prostate until he moaned, flushed, and tortured, never cumming. All while never moving, pretending to be asleep.
The stepfather’s eyes lingered on Calvin’s twitching, leaking cock, the transparent boxers now a second skin, and both men shared a knowing glance, their silence a flimsy veil over Calvin’s role as a callboy, his body a currency for wealth. Edgar’s thoughts churned—how long could they maintain this pretense, this “no talking” farce while he used Calvin’s chiseled physique? Calvin’s mind mirrored the question, his arousal spiking at the basement’s promised depravity, the Panigale’s roar already seducing the women he’d chase. The cicadas’ hum outside sealed their unspoken pact, the mansion a stage for their twisted game.
Calvin’s broad shoulders tensed as he chewed his steak, the stepfather, pausing to reiterate from the hallway, “I know what the motorcycle is for.” His voice hardened, “You can bring a girl here when you ride with your motorcycle, but no ejaculatory sex, as set when you were fifteen, until I say you’re ready… for marriage.”
The pause before “marriage” again dripped with double meaning, the 'no cumming' rule a leash both understood, Edgar’s control over Calvin’s release a perverse bond.
Calvin met his gaze, his voice low, “Yeah, I know. No cumming—only when you allow it," the words laced with a faint, complicit edge, acknowledging their game’s twisted stakes. Edgar’s lips curled, his odor lingering as he finally left, the dining room’s silence heavy with the promise of the basement’s six-hour torment.
The chandelier’s dim light cast shadows across Calvin’s sculpted frame, his precum pooling in the boxers, a sticky testament to his calculated endurance. His mind raced with the Panigale’s sleek curves, the jet’s roar, and the women he’d draw with his new prize, their GPAs and bodies near perfection, all worth the basement’s degradation. The mildewy table, the cuffs, the sounders—each detail sharpened his arousal, the basement’s acrid stench already fueling his sense of being a dirty, sexy prize. Edgar’s late-night arrival, his six-hour edging session, loomed like a contract, Calvin’s body to be spread, blindfolded, and teased, his holes filled, his prostate battered both sides, all while 'asleep', moaning for the jet and motorcycle.
The stepfather’s busy schedule, his subtle cuffs suggestion, and the broken light’s sleep mask were all tools to deepen Calvin’s submission, a payment for luxury he’d pay with his flesh. Their knowing glances, the twitching cock Edgar swore he saw, sealed their mutual understanding, the mansion’s walls complicit in their wordless, illicit dance.
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Edgar’s gaunt frame leaned against the mess hall’s splintered doorframe, his sunken eyes locked on Calvin as the boy chewed, his mind spiraling into a vivid, perverse fantasy. In his imagination, Calvin roared into Queens on his sleek black Panigale, the motorcycle’s engine snarling as he disembarked from a private jet fresh from Italy. His white suit ensemble clung to his chiseled physique, the tailored jacket accentuating his broad shoulders and sculpted pecs, the slim-fit trousers hugging his powerful thighs. The fabric stretched taut across his groin, where his 6.5-inch cock strained against the semi-transparent crimson boxers, a damp spot of precum seeping through the white pants as he gripped the handlebars, his mind clouded with the knowledge that his body would pay for this lavish gift later. His thick biceps flexed as he steadied the bike, veins bulging, his muscular calves taut in his light blue Nike shoes, every movement radiating raw power and barely contained desire.
In Edgar’s twisted vision, Calvin rushed from the jet to a tennis exhibition match, peeling off the white suit jacket to reveal a long-sleeved blue dress shirt, the fabric stretched tight over his rippling back and arms. The necktie hung loose around his thick neck, white dress pants clinging to his toned glutes and thighs, light blue Nike shoes gripping the court with every explosive sprint. His muscles surged as he smashed the ball with relentless precision, his broad chest heaving, sweat soaking through the shirt to reveal the hard contours of his abs. His leaking cock pressed against the semi-transparent boxers, a faint wet patch forming as he dominated the court, winning the match with a primal roar, his powerful frame glistening under the stadium lights, every sinew sculpted for endurance and punishment.
Edgar’s fantasy shifted as Calvin returned home, the creak of the front door echoing in the dim house. Stripping down to his crimson semi-transparent boxers, Calvin’s massive physique gleamed under the flickering glow of a security camera Edgar imagined watching him through. In the cramped home gym, he bench-pressed a loaded barbell, his pecs bulging with each lift, triceps flaring, and abs contracting in rhythm. The boxers clung to his sweat-slicked thighs, the outline of his leaking cock unmistakable, precum soaking through the thin fabric, dripping faintly onto the bench. Edgar’s imagined lens zoomed in, capturing every flex of Calvin’s chiseled frame, his thick neck tensing, his powerful forearms straining, the satanic cross earring glinting as he grunted through each rep, unaware of the predatory gaze tracking his every move.
In Edgar’s mind, Calvin descended into the musky, mildewy basement, the air thick with damp rot and the metallic tang of rust. Stripping off the boxers, his naked body glistened, his 6.5-inch cock throbbing, slick with precum that dripped onto the cracked concrete. His fingers tugged at the dangling cross of his nipple piercing, a low groan escaping his lips as his arousal spiked, his abs clenching. He retrieved the large, studded stainless steel buttplug from the splintered drawer, its cold weight heavy in his calloused hand. With deliberate slowness, he worked it against his tight entrance, his muscular glutes flexing as he pushed, groaning louder as the studded surface grazed his prostate, sending jolts of pleasure through his massive frame, his leaking cock twitching with every inch he forced in.
Edgar’s sunken eyes burned with twisted hunger as he leaned against the mess hall’s splintered doorframe, his gaunt frame rigid, watching Calvin chew, his mind spiraling into a depraved fantasy. In his vision, Calvin knelt on one knee in the musky basement, the air thick with mildew and rust, his chiseled physique trembling from overwhelming arousal. His broad pecs heaved, sweat dripping down his carved abs, his thick thighs quaking as he gripped the polished steel urethral sounder. His 6.5-inch cock throbbed, leaking slick, sticky precum that splattered onto the cracked concrete in obscene, glistening pools. “Oh, fuck, Father!” he groaned loudly, his voice raw, as he twirled the sounder against his swollen tip, forcing it into his tight urethra. “Ngh, it’s stretching me, so fucking tight!” he moaned, his muscular arms shaking, veins bulging. He yanked his nipple piercing, his other hand jerking his leaking cock, precum streaming, but the sounder blocked any release. “Shit, Father, I can’t cum, it’s locked in!” he gasped, his green eyes fluttering as he pushed the steel deeper, each twist drawing a guttural groan. “I’m your secret callboy, Father, your filthy fucking toy!” he cried, his hips jerking, the studded buttplug grinding his prostate. “My varsity training’s fucking useless against this—ngh!—and I’m so damn grateful for it!” His voice broke into a desperate moan, “This punishment’s for that bike you paid for, Father, I deserve this!” He screamed, “Don’t let me cum, keep me suffering, I’m your dirty boy!” His body shook, collapsing further onto his knee, overwhelmed by the filthy intensity, his moans echoing off the damp walls.
In Edgar’s dark reverie, Calvin’s sculpted frame quivered as he fought to rise, his thick biceps flexing, sweat pouring down his chiseled chest. “Oh, God, Father, it’s so deep!” he groaned, the sounder’s bent tip locking against his prostate, sending a jolt of pleasure so intense he nearly collapsed again. “Fuck, it’s hitting me, twisting inside!” he yelled, his voice a mix of pain and ecstasy, his hand still jerking his leaking cock, precum dripping in thick ropes. “I’m trying so hard for you, Father!” he moaned, his abs clenching as he dragged himself toward the rusty table. “This is my payment, my dirty fucking debt for your money!” he gasped, yanking his nipple piercing harder, his muscular thighs trembling as he climbed. “I’m your secret slut, Father, punish me more!” he begged, his voice cracking with desperate need. “My training means nothing here, and I love it—fuck, I love it!” he screamed, the buttplug and sounder grinding with every move, his body a quivering mess of submission. “Don’t let me cum, Father, I don’t deserve it!” he pleaded, his moans and groans filling the stale air as he struggled to the table, his leaking cock throbbing, his entire being consumed by the sordid, degrading pleasure of his imagined role as Edgar’s filthy callboy.
Edgar’s twisted reverie deepened as he watched Calvin across the mess hall, his sunken eyes glinting with perverse hunger. In his mind, Calvin staggered to the rusty, mildewy table in the basement’s suffocating gloom, his sweat-drenched physique radiating raw power despite the trembling in his limbs. His chiseled body gleamed under the flickering bulb—broad pecs heaving, abs carved into slick ridges, thick thighs quaking from the intense arousal coursing through him. With shaking hands, he fastened the cold, biting metal cuffs around his thick wrists and muscular calves, each click sending a shiver through his taut frame. His fingers, unsteady from the overwhelming sensation of the sounder and studded plug grinding inside him, secured a black eye mask over his face, plunging him into total darkness. With a low, strained grunt, he yanked the lever, the table’s creaking mechanism stretching him taut into an X-shape, his massive biceps and quads bulging under the strain, his 6.5-inch cock twitching against the cold, gritty surface, leaking slick precum in sticky trails. The semi-transparent crimson boxers lay discarded on the floor, his exposed, throbbing cock and sweat-slicked body a vision of restrained power. In his mind, Calvin’s thoughts churned with filthy clarity:
'I’m so fucking exposed, every inch of my varsity body splayed out, ripe for Father to use like the dirty callboy I am, and I gotta keep pretending to sleep so he keeps edging this jacked-up frame without getting weird and stopping. That way, I can milk him for more—another bike, that private jet I borrowed, stacks of cash, all mine if I let him keep using me like this, fuck...'
His muscles tensed, fighting to remain still as if sleeping, the sounder and plug shifting with each ragged breath, amplifying the torment coursing through his vulnerable, sculpted form.
Edgar’s imagination lingered on Calvin, now stretched on the table, pretending to sleep as silently agreed on, his powerful body rigid despite the torment within. Every shallow breath shifted the plug and sounder, the studded steel grazing his prostate, the sounder’s bent tip twirling with each inhale, forcing his abs to clench and his thighs to quiver. His leaking cock dripped precum onto his chiseled abs, the slick fluid pooling in the ridges of his muscles, yet he refused to move, his resolve ironclad as he mentally begged for release, the pleasure so intense it melted his mind. Edgar, in his fantasy, stepped into the basement, his gaunt frame looming, his sunken eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as he prepared to use his stepson for edging, payment for the Panigale given for Calvin’s 21st birthday. Only then did Edgar’s mind snap back to the mess hall, where Calvin, the Catholic university student, sat, oblivious to the perverse scenario playing out in his stepfather’s head as he did this to himself.
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The mess hall’s stale air clung to the scarred wooden table as Calvin sat alone, the last bite of his meal gone, the faint clink of his fork against the plate echoing in the empty room. Edgar had slipped out, his scuffed loafers scraping the floor as he left, his gaunt frame vanishing through the splintered doorframe, leaving a chilling void. Calvin’s chiseled jaw tightened, his green eyes staring at the table’s gouged surface, his mind spiraling into a filthy tangle of dread and anticipation. Fuck, what’s coming tonight? he thought, his muscular thighs flexing beneath the tight crimson semi-transparent boxers, the damp fabric clinging to his 6.5-inch cock, already stirring with a faint leak of precum at the thought of what Edgar had planned. Can this jacked body even handle it? Staying still, pretending to sleep while he uses every goddamn inch of me? His broad pecs tensed, the satanic cross earring glinting as he shifted, knowing every nook and cranny of his varsity-honed frame would be splayed out, exposed like a cheap whore for his stepfather’s twisted games. A woman would sell her soul to fuck me, and here I am, Father’s dirty little callboy, my body his to use.
His mind flashed to that 'gift' from his 'secret tennis fan'—a steel urethral sounder, its cold, polished weight a perverse taunt. No one else would send that shit. It’s him, always him, Calvin thought, recalling the note:
“For you to get used to the feeling of a true body workout, on your transition to full adulthood next month.” His 21st birthday, marked by Edgar’s sick initiation.
He remembered sitting on the gym bench, the security camera’s red light blinking as he teased himself, arousal spiking as he slid the sounder into his cock. The steel scraped his insides, his prostate screaming as goosebumps erupted across his sculpted arms, his small hairs standing on end. His eyes had rolled back, mouth gaping, drool pooling as he twitched uncontrollably, the pleasure so intense it felt like his soul was draining, yet the sounder blocked any release. He thought; "Fuck, I couldn’t cum, just kept jerking, my body betraying me in front of his camera."
The memory seared Calvin’s mind as he lay there, wrists and ankles bound to the cold steel of the functional trainer, the ceiling camera’s unblinking eye capturing every twitch. Edgar’s instructions had been precise: cuff one wrist to the top bar, both ankles to the bottom sides, and ease the sounder in, slow and deliberate. Each slide of the slick metal rod grazed Calvin’s prostate, sending shudders through his chiseled frame, his lips parting with stifled moans, drool pooling on his chin. Edgar watched it all, his stepfather’s gaze heavy with intent. Now 21, Calvin’s gut twisted with the truth—Edgar hadn’t adopted him out of love. No, he was groomed to be a fuck toy, a callboy for Edgar’s twisted games, a vessel for his sophisticated stress relief through Calvin's relentless edging, bondage, and discipline, unspoken of as they pretend the young man is 'sleeping'.
The CCTV feed hummed in Edgar’s study, its grainy light casting shadows across his bloated frame, the air thick with the sour reek of unwashed flesh and stale cigar smoke. His robe, a gaudy crimson stretched tight over his sagging gut, clung to his sweaty skin, the fabric damp where it pressed against his rolls of fat. Edgar’s sausage-like fingers, yellowed nails chipped from nervous scratching, hovered over the monitor controls, zooming in on Calvin’s trembling body, the sounder’s metal tip glinting as it slid deeper, coaxing a low groan from Calvin’s parted lips. Edgar’s breath hitched, his rheumy eyes narrowing with a familiar hunger, his mind slipping back to decades ago, to the moment this twisted game began—not with Calvin, but with his father, Marcus.
Years ago, Edgar had been a different beast—a college professor at 44, his corpulence already a burden, his suits straining at the seams, reeking of cheap cologne to mask the odor of neglect. His cunning, though, was razor-sharp, his mind a labyrinth of manipulation. He didn’t adopt Calvin out of love for Lisa, Calvin’s frail mother, whose hospital stays left her a ghost in her own home. No, Edgar’s obsession was Marcus, Calvin’s father, a 19-year-old student with a tennis player’s lean muscle, all sharp jawlines and effortless charm. Marcus was a kakkoi god—tall, tanned, with tousled black hair and a grin that made girls and guys alike beg to be fucked. Edgar, too, had fantasized about Marcus, his dreams dripping with the image of that chiseled body writhing under his control. Marcus was reckless, a party animal who fucked his way through campus, silencing scandals with his family’s wealth, oblivious to the devastation he’d leave behind.
Edgar had wormed his way into Marcus’s family long before Calvin’s grandfather died, posing as a trustworthy business accountant on Marcus’s naive recommendation. The old man’s death left a vacuum, and Edgar slid in, all smiles and false loyalty, his eyes always on Marcus. One night, Edgar caught Marcus in a haze of debauchery—fucking a coed in a frat house bathroom, the girl’s moans echoing off the tiles. Edgar’s hidden camera captured every thrust, every bead of sweat on Marcus’s rippling back. The footage was gold. He cornered Marcus in his office, the air thick with the professor’s rancid breath. “You don’t want sweet Lisa crying herself to death, do you?” Edgar had sneered, his jowls quivering. “Or your family’s business empire collapsing under a scandal?” Marcus’s cocky grin faltered, his green eyes wide with panic. At 20, he caved, becoming Edgar’s private callboy, a secret sex toy bound by blackmail to perform in the shadows, his body a tool to sate Edgar’s desires while Lisa and the world remained none the wiser.
Edgar’s bulk loomed in the dimly lit office, the air rancid with his sour sweat and the lingering musk of Marcus’s naked body. The business meeting had ended hours ago, leaving Marcus stripped bare, his wrists locked behind his head, feet spread wide on the cold tile floor. His lean, tattooed frame glistened, muscles taut and popping, his erect cock dripping precum in slow, viscous beads that splattered softly below. The bent sounder in Edgar’s fat, trembling hand slid deeper into Marcus’s urethra, twisting with deliberate cruelty, forcing a sniveling whimper from the 29-year-old’s lips. Marcus’s green eyes rolled back, drool slicking his chiseled jaw as he fought to stay still, his body betraying him with shudders. Edgar’s jowls quivered, his voice a low, oily drawl as he leaned in, breath hot and foul. “You think I’m doing this for fun, boy? I’m helping Lisa. You can’t stop fucking every slut on campus, so I’m keeping you in line. You can cum anytime—oh, but only with Lisa, right? Except you can’t, can you? Poor sickly thing can’t take your cock without breaking.”
Edgar twisted the sounder again, the metal scraping inside Marcus’s piss slit, making his abs clench, veins bulging across his inked chest. “You strut around like the world bends to your pretty face and ripped body,” Edgar sneered, his free hand grazing Marcus’s sweat-soaked thigh. “As your professor, I’m teaching you humility. This is the price for being a walking wet dream—every gay man’s fantasy, every woman’s fuck toy. You need to learn hardship, Marcus. No moving while I edge you, not a twitch, so you know nothing comes easy, not even your own cum.” Marcus’s snivels grew sharper, his hips trembling as the sounder probed deeper, his balls tightening uselessly. Edgar’s eyes glinted with sadistic glee. “Straight alpha pricks like you, cheating on your sweet Lisa, deserve to be edged forever, no release, because it’s justice. You broke her trust, so I break your body, keeping you hard and aching till you beg.”
The professor’s robe parted, revealing his sagging gut as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a perverse whisper. “Oh, and there’s more, Marcus. First, your cock’s too perfect—thick, veined, always ready. It’s a sin to let it go unpunished, so I’m taming it, making it mine to toy with.” Another twist of the sounder drew a choked sob from Marcus, his knees buckling slightly. “Second, I’m saving you from yourself. That reckless dick of yours would ruin your empire, but under my hands, it’s controlled, disciplined, dripping only for me.” Edgar chuckled, his breath catching. “Third, it’s just too fucking hot—watching you, Mr. Kakkoi, squirm like a bitch, your muscles useless against my touch. Oh, how much your competitor, that fag Mr. Reynolds, would pay to see you like this. He’d probably jerk off right here, watching you drool and beg, your cock leaking for me.” Edgar’s fingers tightened on the sounder, his own arousal evident as he savored Marcus’s torment, the room thick with the scent of sweat and submission.
Edgar’s sausage-like fingers drove the sounder deeper into Marcus’s urethra, twisting it lightly like a drill, the metal scraping with cruel precision. Marcus’s lean, tattooed body jittered violently, his rippling muscles straining against his desperate attempts to stay immobile as Edgar had commanded. “Look at you, boy,” Edgar sneered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight, his rancid breath fogging the air. “All that strength draining out, leaking from your cock.” Marcus’s irises shrank to pinpricks, rolling upward as drool spilled from his trembling lips, his sniveling gasps sharp and broken. His flexed biceps and abs popped, veins bulging under sweat-slick skin, his erect cock throbbing, a thick bead of precum oozing down the sounder’s glinting length, pooling on the office floor.
“You see, Marcus,” Edgar began, his tone shifting to a pedantic drawl, “I’m your history professor, after all. Let me school you on why alpha pricks like you deserve this from older, weaker queers like me.” He leaned closer, his sagging gut brushing Marcus’s thigh, the room thick with the stench of his unwashed flesh. “In ancient times, Greek warriors, all muscle and bravado, were tamed by their elders’ cocks to teach respect—bowing to wisdom over brawn. Then there’s power: your kind, with your chiseled jaws and rippling pecs, think you rule the world, but edging you till you beg humbles you, shows you who’s really in charge. And don’t forget legacy—us old fags punish you to carve our mark, ensuring your perfect bodies serve us, not just your own egos.” Marcus’s body shook, the sounder’s slow twist wrenching a choked sob from his throat, his eyes glassy with arousal and shame.
Edgar’s lecture droned on, his fat hand steady on the sounder, twisting it ever so slightly to keep Marcus teetering on the edge. “The manlier you are, the more raw and muscular, the harsher the gay punishment,” he continued, his jowls quivering with glee. “Back in Rome, gladiators, all sweat and steel, were edged by their scrawny masters, cocks stretched and balls aching, to prove submission. The more chiseled the man, the more intense the torment—publicly stripped, cocks teased till they dripped, no release, just raw exposure to break their pride. It was ritual, boy, a tradition of older, weaker queers dominating the strong, making them squirm under our hands, their perfect bodies reduced to toys for our pleasure.” Marcus’s snivels grew louder, his thighs trembling, the swastika tattoos on his chest glistening as he fought to hold still.
“Why take it like a man?” Edgar purred, twisting the sounder again, slow and deliberate, watching Marcus’s face contort, aghast yet painfully aroused, veins popping along his neck. “Because real men endure, Marcus. They take the pain, the humiliation, and still stand tall, cock hard and leaking. You’re built like a god, but gods fall hardest. Are you a real man, boy?” Marcus’s body jolted, his abs clenching, drool dripping as he gasped, unable to answer. Edgar’s eyes gleamed, savoring the sight. “Prove it. Take this like your daddy’s blood demands.” The professor’s mind flashed to Marcus’s victories, how he’d crushed Vertigo Construction under Mr. Reynolds Voss, strutting into boardrooms with that strongheaded kakkoi vibe, his tailored suits hugging his muscular frame, radiating raw masculinity as he forced Voss’s company to fold into his family’s empire, leaving Reynolds with no choice but submission.
The next day, in a mildewy motel room reeking of damp rot and cheap whiskey, Edgar unveiled Marcus’s other side to Reynolds Voss. The competitor, a wiry man with a hawkish face and greedy eyes, stood slack-jawed as Marcus knelt, naked, hands behind his head, legs spread, his sweat-drenched body trembling, cock still rigid from Edgar’s relentless edging. The swastika tattoos shimmered under the flickering neon light, precum glistening on his thigh. Edgar grinned, his voice oily. “This is your conqueror, Reynolds. Look at him now.” Voss, his own arousal evident, agreed to sell Vertigo Construction to Edgar—de facto making the professor the shadow owner—in exchange for regular access to Marcus’s body. It was worth it, Voss thought, watching Marcus’s degradation, knowing the alpha’s submission was Edgar’s leash.
Reynolds stepped forward, his thin lips curling as he knelt between Marcus’s spread legs, sucking greedily at his anus, tongue probing the tight ring while his bony hand jerked Marcus’s cock, the sounder still lodged deep, denying release. Marcus’s hands stayed locked behind his head, his body quaking, swastika tattoos slick with sweat as he groaned, his balls tight and aching, no cum allowed. Edgar watched, his robe open, gut spilling out, relishing Marcus’s torment, the deal sealed by his submission. Back in the present, Edgar’s eyes flicked to the CCTV feed, Calvin’s muscular frame mirroring his father’s—legs cuffed wide, wrist bound high, sounder stretching his piss slit. “Like father, like son,” Edgar muttered, his fat fingers twitching as Calvin groaned, prostate grazed, body shivering, precum dripping to the gym floor, a perfect toy molded in his father’s image, punished for Edgar’s pleasure and his stolen inheritance.
“Keep still, boy,” Edgar growled into the empty room, his voice thick with arousal. “You’re almost as good as your daddy.” The memory of Marcus—his taut muscles, his stifled groans under Edgar’s command—burned in Edgar’s mind, overlapping with Calvin’s bound form. The boy’s cock throbbed, a bead of precum dripping to the gym floor, the sounder’s cold metal stretching him open. Edgar leaned back, his chair creaking under his weight, his own arousal stirring as he savored the control, the legacy of domination passed from father to son.
For fifteen years, this twisted arrangement thrived in the shadows. Lisa, bedridden and fading, confided in Edgar, believing him a trusted family friend, oblivious to the depravity binding her husband. Calvin, a boy with his father’s green eyes and athletic build, grew up equally clueless, idolizing Edgar as a mentor. Marcus’s double life never faltered—his public persona as a charming tycoon never cracked, even as Edgar milked his cock in secret, forcing him to stay still, to perform like a trained animal. The professor’s study became a den of perversion, its walls absorbing Marcus’s stifled moans as Edgar’s thick fingers probed and teased, his rancid breath hot against Marcus’s ear. When Marcus died in a fiery car crash at 35, the news shattered Lisa, Calvin, and even Edgar, though his grief was laced with a predator’s frustration. The loss of his toy left a void, but Edgar’s cunning eyes soon locked onto Calvin, now 15, his father’s spitting image, all lean muscle and untamed potential.
Edgar’s next move was calculated. He married Lisa, her frail body no match for his manipulative charm, her hospital bed a stage for his false devotion. Calvin, grieving his father, saw Edgar as a pillar of stability, unaware of the professor’s ulterior gaze. But tragedy struck again—Lisa and her extended family perished when their cruise ship sank under mysterious circumstances, the wreckage so complete it raised no suspicion. Edgar, now Calvin’s stepfather, adopted the boy officially, his legal guardianship a perfect mask for his plans. Calvin, at 17, began to mirror his father’s physique, his tight jockstraps catching Edgar’s eye during a late-night “inspection” that spiraled into obsession. The boy’s musky scent, trapped in the worn fabric, drove Edgar wild, his fat fingers clutching the jockstrap as he inhaled deeply, plotting Calvin’s transformation into his new toy. The study’s air grew heavier, the memory of that first sniff igniting Edgar’s arousal as he watched Calvin now, bound and writhing.
“Like father, like son,” Edgar rasped, his voice a low growl as he leaned closer to the monitor, his robe parting to reveal the sagging, sweat-soaked flesh of his chest. Calvin’s cock throbbed under the sounder’s slow, torturous slide, a bead of precum glistening before dripping to the gym floor. “Keep still, boy,” Edgar muttered, his tongue darting over his cracked lips. “You’re almost as good as your daddy.” The parallel was intoxicating—Marcus’s muscular frame had once bucked under Edgar’s control, just as Calvin’s did now, both molded into perfect, obedient playthings. Edgar’s heart pounded, his arousal swelling as he savored the sight of Calvin’s straining body, the sounder stretching his piss slit, the boy’s lips parting in a silent plea. The professor’s chair groaned under his shifting weight, his mind alight with the perverse legacy he’d crafted, father and son bound to his will, their bodies his to command.
Edgar’s jowls quivered as he hunched over the CCTV monitor, his rheumy eyes locked on Calvin’s muscular frame, stretched taut across the functional trainer like a sacrificial offering. The boy’s legs were splayed wide, ankles cuffed to the trainer’s base, his left wrist bound high to the pull-up bar, forcing his chiseled torso to arch. Each slow insertion of the sounder into his cock sent a jolt through him, the metal grazing his prostate, ripping a guttural groan from his throat—a wounded animal’s cry that echoed in the gym’s sterile air. Sweat glistened on his tanned skin, goosebumps prickling across his thighs as he shivered, his lips parting to mutter, “I’m punishing myself… for Edgar’s sick fucking satisfaction… for my inheritance.” His voice was raw, laced with a twisted pride, feeling both sexy and filthy, his cock throbbing with each agonizing slide, precum dribbling in thick, clear strands to the floor. Calvin’s mind burned with the injustice—his father’s bloodline wealth, his birthright, now legally Edgar’s, leaving him to whore himself out, a hot male prostitute trading his body for scraps of his own legacy.
Edgar’s fat fingers twitched, his robe gaping to reveal the sagging, sweat-soaked expanse of his chest, the stench of his unwashed body mingling with the room’s cigar-heavy haze. He leaned closer, his breath hitching as Calvin’s hips bucked involuntarily, the sounder’s tip hitting deep, forcing another low moan. “Keep still, boy,” Edgar growled, his voice thick with arousal, “just like your daddy… pretending to sleep while I edge you, so I keep showering you with your pretty toys.” Calvin’s green eyes, so like Marcus’s, fluttered half-open, his mind screaming at the thought of Edgar hoarding his family’s fortune. Yet, the act—his bound body, the sounder’s cold invasion, the camera’s unblinking eye—made him feel wickedly alive, a dirty Adonis working for his own money. His cock pulsed, the sounder’s stretch burning deliciously, his balls tightening as he fought to stay still, knowing Edgar’s gifts—cars, watches, cash—hinged on his performance as the perfect, silent fuck toy.
Calvin’s breath came in sharp gasps, his abs clenching as the sounder slid deeper, grazing his prostate again, sending a shiver through his sculpted frame. “Gotta… stay still,” he hissed through clenched teeth, drool slicking his chin, “so Edgar keeps paying… my fucking money.” The thought of his father’s empire, stolen by this grotesque professor, fueled a dark thrill—he was no victim, but a cunning hustler, his body a weapon to reclaim what was his. Edgar’s smirk widened on the other side of the screen, his sausage-like fingers adjusting the camera to zoom in on Calvin’s straining cock, the piss slit stretched wide around the sounder’s glinting metal, a slow drip of precum pooling beneath. The boy’s groans, his trembling submission, were a mirror of Marcus’s old performances.
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But how the hell do I stay still? he thought, his abs clenching at the idea of the sounder and plug grazing both sides of his prostate, the pleasure so brutal he’d want to scream, not lie immobile pretending to sleep. All for that bike, that jet, the cash—my body’s the price, and I’m his secret slut.
Calvin pushed back from the table, the chair creaking under his powerful frame. “Happy fucking birthday to me,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter, a faint smirk twisting his lips as he stood, his crimson boxers damp with precum, the outline of his throbbing cock clear. He rolled his thick shoulders, the muscles rippling under his tight black tank top, and headed for his room, each step heavy with the weight of what awaited. Gonna need all the rest I can get for this torture, he thought, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and filthy excitement, knowing Edgar would return to claim his payment, to edge his stepson’s exposed, varsity-honed body into oblivion.
