Chapter 19 Damian #2
Of course, the majority of clips are of guys on their beds, moaning in pleasure as they get themselves off.
They don’t look at the camera, but that’s the beauty of it.
And coupled with the off-centre, mostly elevated angles, you feel like you’re really peeking into a clandestine moment, intruding on a scene that’s not meant for you.
I grip my aching cock, thinking of Kit like this, arching his back as he prepares for one of his toys, while I hide in the shadows. Yes, this has potential.
Suddenly, this is less about research and more about relieving the problem in my boxers. I need… I need Kit. Obviously, I can’t have him right now, but there must be a model on here who’s a close enough match to fuel my imagination.
It doesn’t take me long. I scroll down the page, searching for pale skin, slender limbs, and a shock of white-blond hair.
There, exactly what I need. A perfect substitute for my heart’s desire.
I click on the link, and…
My blood runs cold.
No.
No, no, no.
No, it can’t be.
Kit?
I stare in horror as videos load onto the profile, hundreds of them, one after the other, all starring the man I love. Every single one. Panic grips my throat as damning clips roll over my screen.
Soon, I can’t see past the tears in my eyes. I blink, quickly swiping them away as my endless scrolling finally takes me to the bottom of the profile. Here it is. Video one.
With shaking fingers, I click.
I recognise Kit’s outfit immediately. We’d spent the night in London with Jasper, downing cocktails in some swanky nightclub, and pulling some pretty shit moves on the dancefloor. Well, Kit’s were perfect, of course. Mine not so much.
It was his eighteenth birthday.
I watch, utterly numb, as Kit stumbles into his bedroom, pulls the mesh top from his body, and then wriggles from side to side to remove his tight black jeans. His bedroom light is off, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Whatever camera is running has night vision. It adds to the intrusion.
Now, completely naked, Kit collapses onto his bed, falling on top of the covers to sleep face down on his pillow.
He always says it’s too hot in his room.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Before the video cuts out, it zooms into his ass and frames those cute little dimples at the base of his spine that I love so much.
No. No, no, no.
I click on the next video. The angle is the same, the camera hidden somewhere in the top right-hand corner over his bed. I’ve always thought his room was laid out to give him more space to dance. Now, I think of the shelves lining the far wall, and I’m not so sure.
This video is short, and the picture is almost pixel-perfect. The setup is immaculate. Kit walks over to his mirror in just a towel, fluffing his hair with his hand before starting his skincare.
I pray it won’t happen, but I know it will.
I’ve seen his nighttime routine enough to remember it by heart.
He bends down to pick out a pair of underwear from his dresser, and then…
drops the towel. He’s placed in exactly the right spot for the camera to capture his back while the mirror…
well, the mirror shows everything, from the waterdrops still clinging to his chest, to his sculpted abs and softened penis.
It’s a teasing glance, a split second where Kit’s naked before he steps into his flannel PJs.
Fuck, no. Please no. Not Kit. Please, not Kit.
I start the next video, and then the next, scrolling up the page and praying this isn’t real.
There are over two hundred entries. Kit dancing, stretching, always in a small pair of shorts and nothing else.
Some of them I’d bought myself, and I want to cry at how depraved they look on a camera he has no idea is there.
Then, I see it. The final scene. The reason I’m no longer a resident of the Hansel house. A sob breaks out of my throat, tears streaming down my face as I tap on the last video, uploaded at ten this morning. It has over seventy thousand views.
I know what this is, and I know I shouldn’t watch. Of everything I’ve seen, this, this will be what breaks me.
Or am I already broken?
I can barely concentrate on what I’m seeing, knowing how this video will end. Still, I register the key moments.
Kit opening a fancy parcel on his bed, running a thin strip of red lace through his fingers.
Kit stripping down and posing in his mirror, the scarlet red shorts announcing his last moments of innocence.
And there I am, bursting through his door in a blaze of desperation and pure need.
I pounce, devouring him, worshipping him, pulling off his shorts and throwing them across the room.
Then, I’m inside him, my fingers, my cock, all of it captured for anyone to see.
The moment isn’t ours any longer. Every moan, every sigh, every touch, every thrust of my hips or arch of Kit’s back, they’re fair game.
Our first orgasms together don’t belong to us now.
We’ve lost them to whatever sick game this is.
I can’t watch anymore. I exit the video, and the footage automatically resets to the beginning when Kit opens the lingerie left on his bed.
The lingerie?
I scroll down the page and spot a photo, a selfie of Kit in the lacy, white number he wore on the first night he came to my room for something more. A photo he has since sent to me.
Suddenly, the pieces start to click together, revealing a picture I’d never have thought possible in a million years.
Could it be true? Surely not. But then I remember that next day at breakfast, the day Dad found Kit’s phone in the den when we hadn’t been there that morning.
I didn’t think anything of it at the time, too distracted by Kit and what we’d done the night before.
Well, nothing’s distracting me now. It was Dad, I know it.
He took Kit’s phone and loaded the photo to this site.
It’s the only scenario that makes sense, and it guts me.
How did the father I once looked up to become this?
A man who groomed his own stepson so that he could take advantage of him in the most corrupt way?
It all makes a sick sort of sense, the dance lessons, the endless clothes, the pole, the master suite, the seedy men who hang off my father whenever Kit’s around… the lingerie.
Fuck.
With trembling fingers, I close the site and pull up Kit’s number.
“Hey, stalker. Needy much,” he yawns, answering my call. My heart rips in two.
“Who sent you the underwear?” I whisper urgently.
“What? Damian, what are you—”
“Who sent it to you, Kit? I need to know.”
“But… I don’t understand?”
I close my eyes, a fresh stream of tears streaking down my cheeks. “Kit, who sent it?”
There’s a pause on the end of the line, Kit’s shaking breath the only thing I hear.
“You. It was you.”