Preston
Iknow what you’re thinking, brain, and I swear it’s not what it looks like.
Says me…to my own brain…which means it’s literally my brain arguing with itself, trying to spin this into something less apocalyptic than it actually is.
Because how the hell am I supposed to explain this disaster to myself?
And it is a disaster. A catastrophic, end-times mess.
First, I have a full-blown panic attack in front of Marcus because of issues. The same issues Dr. Duret and Dr. Fenwick are failing to fix because they’re apparently using Pinterest mood boards instead of medical degrees.
Then I let the same man who witnessed that beautiful performance of “Preston Loses His Shit Live” do this to me.
I don’t even know what “this” is, but it involves him shoving me into a locker with his massive, muscular body pressed against mine.
He’s heavy.
I don’t like heavy.
Heavy closes my throat and flips that morbid claustrophobia switch—the one that whispers, You’re being crushed alive, and there’s nothing you can do about it, sweetheart.
It’s the entire reason being straight makes sense—supposed to be straight. The women I fuck are lighter. I can lift them, flip them, and control every inch of the interaction. They can’t overpower me. I don’t let them.
My eyes widen because…wait. I’m letting Marcus.
I’m choosing to keep my hands braced against the locker when I could reach back and fight.
Hit.
Punch.
Kick.
He isn’t that much bigger than me, and I can fight—really fight bloody. I’ve taken down so many men bigger than me, slashed them to pieces, and watched their eyes turn vacant.
So why the fuck am I not doing anything right now? I’m actually choosing to…allow this.
Blasphemy.
Try again, brain. Give me literally any other explanation for the clusterfuck you got us into.
Marcus pulls away—and instead of relief, something weird, restricting, and uncomfortable ignites low in my stomach.
I can still feel his heat on my back, radiating in small, feverish sparks that coil inside me, settling deep in my gut.
The air turns thick. Charged. My body reacts instantly—tingling, tightening, coming back to life in ways I disapprove of.
What the fuck is happening? Seriously. I want out.
Give me the emergency exit. The fire escape. A trapdoor. Anything—
Thwack.
My spine jerks as the stick’s shaft connects with my ass. Pain explodes across the muscles as they give out under the strike.
“Count.” The rough edge of his voice fills the locker room like a curse in the form of a command.
“What?” I try to snap at him, but really, the feel of that lash was so fucking good, I’m distracted by how my blood rushes to my cock.
Thwack.
I get on my tiptoes, sinking my teeth into my lower lip as a groan tries to escape, and it does. Partially.
“Two. Count.” There’s a tap-tap noise of the stick hitting his hand. “Let me hear your voice.”
Thwack.
I clamp my teeth on my lip harder, even as my entire body vibrates with the hit, bursting across my spine and rushing all the way to my dick.
It’s swelling fast, and my head just does not understand it.
Why?
Just…why?
A shoulder presses into mine, and I stiffen but soon relax. It’s just a shoulder. A warm, broad shoulder that’s coupled with deep, rambling breaths that spread across my back.
Marcus reaches for my face in slow motion. I see his thumb before he shoves it into my mouth, forcing me to release my lower lip from beneath my teeth.
And now, his thumb is in my mouth, and my brain kind of stops functioning, unsure of what reaction I should have.
Marcus’s rough, deep voice sneaks into my ear like an ancient curse. “Don’t do that. You’ll bleed.”
My lips tremble around his thumb.
That’s the whole point of this surreal experience, though. Me, bleeding and hurting for his sick entertainment and mine.
His thumb slips out of my mouth, and his weight disappears from behind me. Before I can think about the loss, another hit comes.
A moan slips out of me, and I’m about to sink my teeth—
“Don’t.” His command carries in the air sharper than his whip. “Let me hear your voice, baby.”
Why?
Just why?
“Count for me, yeah?”
“F-four,” I whisper, then immediately purse my lips, because that was not me. That wanton, husky, needy tone can’t belong to me.
I’ll deny it under oath.
“Good boy.”
The way he purrs it sends a violent jolt straight to my already aching dick, hardening it at a pace that should qualify as a medical emergency.
I try to huff, but it dies in my throat and becomes a groan when he lands another blow, closer to my upper thighs.
And sweet fucking Jesus—I want out. Because how is this feeling so good?
Not just good. More than good.
Life-altering good.
Existential-crisis good.
I’ve never been this horny in my entire goddamn life.
And it terrifies me, because what the hell, me?
There are levels of horny, and apparently, I’ve just unlocked Horny—Pro Max Edition with Marcus Osborn, of all people?
This is too much. Too intense.
I want to tap out.
Friends.
That’s the word that will end this. I can leave and never come back.
Instead…
“Five.” It comes out cracked because my ass is throbbing.
Forget comparing this to when he used his hand the other day—that was child’s play.
But this? This is deeper.
Pain digs beneath the skin and fills that fucking hollow place inside me until it spills over.
I want pain.
More.
All of it.
Even if I won’t be able to sit for a week.
So when two more blows land, I’m panting, groaning, my breath shuddering as I whisper, “Six…seven.”
The scents of wood and sweat fill my lungs as I sink into the sting, letting it curl through every nerve.
And here’s the fucked-up part—I’m not just taking it. I’m leaning into it.
Wanting it.
Begging for more.
Just…more.
The clank of the stick against the floor echoes in my ear before two large hands grab fistfuls of my ass.
“Ungh…fuck!” I breathe out in a moan as my heated skin absorbs the shock of his colder hands.
“Feeling better, baby?” His voice in my ear is smooth like honey but also gruff as his fingers curl into the abused flesh.
I look sideways, and my lips part when I catch a glimpse of his expression. Dark, unhinged, almost as if he’s a fucking animal on the hunt.
His breaths are deeper, not as unsteady or shattered as mine, but definitely not like the normal asshole Marcus who seems to take everything unseriously. Or pretends to, anyway.
And I like that.
At least I’m not the only one who’s acting out of character.
“Why did you stop?” My voice is lower than I intended.
“You want more?”
“Isn’t that the fucking point?”
“Shh.” He buries his nose in my hair, nuzzling softly, inhaling audibly.
My skin prickles, goose bumps erupting on the surface, screaming at how wrong it feels.
Wrong? No. Foreign. My head is slowly fogging up, as if it’s abandoning me, too, and I can’t stop the subtle dissociation—
“Breathe.” The single command yanks me out of my jumbled thoughts. “Like me. See?”
His chest is glued to my back now as he takes long, steady breaths.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
I’m creeped out by how I naturally match his breathing pattern and how well it actually works.
“Just stop touching me and hit me,” I grumble, squirming in his hold, then I wince and bite my lower lip because fuck, the feel of his hand on my ass is deliciously painful.
All big and firm and…not disgusting.
I really need a word with my doctors after this, because what the fuck?
Aren’t all these types of touches supposed to make my skin crawl?
“No,” he says in my hair.
“No?”
“Yes. No. You don’t see it, but you have angry purple welts on this beautiful ass and thighs. This is enough for one day.” He tightens his grip on my ass, and I grunt. “You can’t be walking around the other guys naked, or they’ll see these marks and ask questions I’m sure you don’t want to answer.”
“Like I did the past week, you mean.”
“The marks stayed for a week?”
“Two days.”
“Mmm. I wish I had a picture to keep under my pillow.”
“Wow, what a major pervert. Might need that restraining order after all.” I squirm, but he’s not letting me go, and maybe I like the feel of his hand too much to fight it.
There’s this continuous dull pain that’s intertwined with his soothing massage. I’d prefer it if it were only pain, but this isn’t too bad.
For now.
He chuckles softly and nuzzles his nose in my hair again. “You smell so good. Like the deep ocean and the mountains. Mmm. I could eat you alive.”
“What’s with all the cannibalism, Hannibal? Anyway, hard pass. Not into all of that.”
He laughs again, the sound vibrating against me. “No, you’re not. But you’re into pain, aren’t you, my prince?”
Still grabbing my ass cheek with one hand, he reaches around my waist and wraps his palm around my hard cock. It throbs in his firm grip like a first-rate whore.
I’d like to leave. Now and fucking thank you.
But I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just exist, pulling at the corner of my lip with my teeth.
“Look at you being so wound up after some little impact play.” He trails his nose down the side of my head. “Such a beautiful, huge cock.”
“Don’t go stating the obvious.”
“You’re often praised for the size, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh. I’m popular with the ladies for having a national treasure.”
“Hmm.” The sound is deep and a tad disapproving. “Now, this national treasure is so hard for me, baby.”
“Not for you.”
“No?” His voice darkens as he breathes so close to my ear, my spine jerks.
“No. A hand is a hand.”
“This is my hand, though.” He tugs on my cock in one rough movement, and my hips jerk as precum slides down the tip. “Not anyone else’s.”
“Doesn’t…matter… It’s just a physical reaction.”
“Mmm. I’d find the denial adorable if you weren’t leaking all over my fucking hand like a greedy little slut.”
“Oh, shit…” I gasp when he tightens his grip on my ass, and I’m swelling, my abs tightening as more precum drenches him.
It’s worse than the other time—so much worse.
I’m genuinely terrified I’ll come in two seconds flat and embarrass myself to eternity.
Because every firm tug and pull of his big, merciless hand is coupled with the aching pain in my ass.