Chapter 2 Victor
VICTOR
Islam the bathroom door and brace myself against the sink, knuckles white.
Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me? My reflection glares back, face flushed, pupils blown wide. And my dick—still straining against my zipper like I’m some teenager who’s never been touched.
“Get it together,” I mutter, splashing cold water on my face. The droplets cling to my stubble, rolling down my neck.
This isn’t me. I don’t get hard for men. Never have. I’ve been with enough women to know what I like. What I want.
So why can’t I shake Theo’s words from my head? The way he looked at me. Like he knew something about me that I didn’t even know myself.
I adjust myself, willing my body to calm the fuck down. But every time I close my eyes, I see him—leaning in close, that smirk playing on his lips, voice low and certain when he talked about what he’d do to me. What he’d let me do to him.
“Fucking mind games,” I growl, gripping the edge of the sink harder.
Maybe it’s just been too long. That’s it. I haven’t been with anyone since that redhead last month. My body’s just desperate. Would react to anything remotely sexual. That has to be it.
But even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit.
I’ve never questioned myself before. Not once. Not even in those drunken college nights when boundaries got blurry. I always knew who I was. What I wanted.
So why now? Why him?
I stare at my reflection again. Same face. Same eyes. Same man I’ve always been. Yet something feels shifted, like the ground beneath my feet isn’t as solid as I thought.
There’s no getting rid of this. Not with cold water. Not with deep breaths. Not with all the fucking willpower in the world.
I check over my shoulder—empty bathroom, thank God—and lock myself in the furthest stall. The metal door clicks shut, and I lean against it, already fumbling with my belt. The zipper slides down, and I release a hiss of relief as my cock springs free, bobbing heavily between my legs.
Christ, I’m harder than usual. Veins pulsing visibly along my thick shaft. Like my body’s trying to prove something.
How the fuck did Theo know? All that talk about me having a monster cock as if he could see right through my clothes. Right through me.
I spit into my palm and wrap my hand around myself, groaning at the contact. Just need to get this out of my system. One quick release and I’ll be fine. Back to normal. Back to myself.
I start stroking, finding a rhythm, eyes falling shut.
And there he is. Theo. Not how he looked at the bar, but transformed—stretched across some nameless bed in black lace that clings to his lean body. Stockings hugging his thighs. That fucking knowing smile on his lips.
“What do you want, Victor?” Fantasy-Theo asks, his cock pushing against the delicate fabric, the head peeking.
“Nothing,” I whisper in the empty stall, even as my hand moves faster. “I don’t want this.”
But in my mind, Theo’s spreading his legs wider. Beckoning me closer. Offering everything.
A deep groan tears from my throat before I can stop it, echoing against the bathroom tiles. I bite down on my lip to silence myself, but the images won’t stop flooding in—Theo on his knees, Theo bent over, Theo whispering filth in my ear while his small hands explore my body.
Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about how small he’d look compared to me. I’m at least a foot taller, a hundred pounds heavier. The thought of it—of him looking so delicate against me—is almost perverse.
And it turns me the fuck on.
I squeeze tighter, hissing through clenched teeth as pleasure shoots up my spine. My cock throbs in my hand, harder than it’s been in years.
In my mind, Theo’s no longer on some faceless bed. He’s bent over the edge of my fighting ring, gripping the ropes, those lean muscles in his back flexing as he looks over his shoulder at me. That same smirk from earlier, but hungrier now. More desperate.
“You gonna just stand there?” Fantasy-Theo asks, hooking his thumbs into the sides of a black thong I’ve never seen but can picture perfectly against his olive skin.
He drags it down slowly, revealing inch by inch of what has to be the prettiest ass I’ve ever seen. Round and tight, but with just enough give that my fingers would leave marks if I grabbed him.
“Fuck,” I grunt, stroking faster now.
Fantasy-Theo kicks the thong aside, completely naked now except for those stockings. He spreads his legs wider, and I can see his cock hanging between his thighs—not small like I would’ve expected, but decent-sized. Hard and heavy, the head glistening with precum.
“Come on, Victor,” he breathes, arching his back to push that perfect ass higher. “Show me what a real man feels like.”
I can’t hold back anymore—not in this fantasy, not with the way he’s displaying himself for me. I step forward, hands drawn like magnets to those perfect cheeks. My fingers dig into the flesh, harder than I mean to, but Fantasy-Theo just moans and pushes back against my grip.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Show me how much you want this.”
I spread him open, exposing that tight puckered hole. It’s pink and perfect and nothing like anything I’ve ever wanted before. But now it’s all I can think about. All I need.
My cock throbs in my hand—both in the fantasy and here in this bathroom stall. I’m leaking everywhere, the head slick with precum as I imagine rubbing it against Theo’s entrance. In my mind, I tease him, circling that sensitive ring of muscle, painting it with my wetness.
“Don’t make me beg,” Fantasy-Theo whimpers, looking over his shoulder with those dark, knowing eyes.
But I want to hear him beg. Need to hear it. Need to know he wants this as badly as I do.
I imagine reaching for a bottle of lube—where it came from, I don’t know or care—and drizzling it liberally over his hole, watching it glisten, watching it drip down to his balls.
“Please,” he finally says, voice breaking just enough to satisfy some primal part of me. “I need you inside me, Victor. Now.”
I position myself, the head of my cock pressing against him. There’s resistance—he’s tight, maybe too tight for something as thick as me—but in my fantasy, it doesn’t matter. I push forward, feeling that initial pop as his body gives way, watching his hole stretch obscenely around my width.
Fantasy-Theo lets out a sound I’ve never heard before—part pain, part pleasure, completely intoxicating. His back arches sharply, fingers gripping the ropes of the ring so tightly his knuckles go white.
“Oh god,” he gasps as I sink deeper. “You’re so fucking big.”
In my fantasy, I’m pushing deeper now, sliding into Theo’s tight heat inch by inch. He’s so fucking small compared to me, his entire body shuddering. My hands nearly span his entire waist, fingers digging into flesh that yields so perfectly to my grip.
“Take it,” I growl, the words escaping in the empty bathroom stall as I stroke myself faster. “Take all of it.”
Fantasy-Theo moans, his back arching impossibly further.
I pull back until just the head remains inside, watching his hole cling desperately to my shaft, before slamming forward again. The sound that tears from his throat is raw, broken, fucking beautiful.
“More,” Fantasy-Theo begs, pushing back against me. “Harder.”
Each thrust stretches him wider, his body accepting me like it was made for this purpose. For me. The tight ring of muscle grips my cock like a vise, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine.
“So fucking tight,” I hiss, my real hand working furiously now. My cock feels like steel. “So fucking perfect.”
The obscenity of it—this small, elegant man taking my massive cock—pushes me to the edge. I imagine how he would look beneath me, completely overwhelmed by my size, my strength, my desire. How his hole would be stretched to its limit, pink and puffy around my girth.
It’s too much.
“Fuck,” I grunt, barely managing to aim at the toilet as my orgasm crashes through me. Thick ropes of cum shoot from my cock, splashing against porcelain, some hitting water with soft plops. It keeps coming, more than usual, painting the bowl white as I stroke myself through each pulse.
My breathing comes heavy as the last pulses of my orgasm fade. I stare at the mess I’ve made. Evidence of what I just did. Of the fantasy that I just jerked off to.
Reality crashes back. The cold bathroom stall. The hard floor beneath my feet. The sticky wetness on my hand.
What the fuck?
I grab toilet paper and clean myself up, wiping away the traces, but the memory won’t disappear so easily. My hands shake as I tuck myself back into my pants, fumbling with the zipper.
“Christ,” I whisper, disgust rising in my throat.
I’ve never—not once in my life—jerked off thinking about a man. Let alone someone like Theo.
I flush the toilet, watching the evidence swirl away, wishing my thoughts could follow just as easily. The lock on the stall feels heavier than it should as I slide it open, each movement mechanical.
At the sink, I can barely look at my reflection. Same face. Same eyes. But I don’t recognize the man staring back at me.
I wash my hands thoroughly, scrubbing until my skin turns pink. The cold water helps clear my head, bit by bit. This wasn’t me. It was the alcohol. The atmosphere in Purgatory. Theo is getting in my head with his mind games.
“Never again,” I promise myself, voice low but firm. “This never happened.”
I splash more water on my face, willing my complexion to return to normal. The flush of shame gradually recedes. I straighten my shoulders, crack my neck.
Victor Kaine doesn’t question himself. I’ve built my reputation on being unshakeable, unmovable.
One weird fucking moment in a bathroom stall isn’t going to change that.
I dry my hands, fix my clothing, and take one last steadying breath. The face in the mirror hardens into something I recognize—the man I’ve always been. The only man I’ll ever be.
I pull the door open and step back into the hallway, ready to rejoin the party and put this moment behind me forever.