“Take off my pants.” Ricky ravaged Martin’s mouth, biting and sucking and demolishing the last thread of Martin’s control. “Fuck me. Give it to me, goddammit.”
There was a reason he shouldn’t, but his mind emptied. Lust and primal instinct consumed his body. The drive to fuck moved his arms and hips as he wrenched Ricky onto his stomach and shoved Ricky’s flimsy cotton pants out of the way.
Ricky’s rock-hard glutes filled his hands. He wedged his fingers into the crevice, spreading muscle and flesh to expose the tight, dark hole within.
His dick throbbed with its own heartbeat, jerking against the restraint of his jeans. He stabbed a thumb into Ricky’s anus, twisting it as deep as it would go, digging past nerves and muscles that were bone-dry and begging to bleed.
Ricky gasped, and his entire body went taut, strung like a bow. “Fucking spit on it.”
“Shut the fuck up.” He yanked his thumb out and impaled Ricky’s ass with two dry fingers. Then he added a third and thrust.
A low, distressed groan strangled in Ricky’s throat, but he didn’t fight. Martin rammed harder, faster, stretching Ricky’s anal cavity with fiery friction and ruthlessness.
Ricky lifted his hips, flexing into the deep penetration as he wedged a hand beneath him and jacked himself off.
With each piercing stab of his fingers, Martin felt the scorching burn in his own rectum. He felt the hot panting breaths on his back and the river rocks grinding beneath his knees as he flailed beneath excruciating pain.
Memories flogged him, pounding his body and contorting the windowless prison cell into the thick woodland of the Texas wilderness.
He found himself lying on a riverbed, his face in ice-cold water. A huge hand forced his head into the stream as a stiff penis tore things inside him, making him bleed from his butt.
It was his first time camping. Two months after his dad died. Jeff lived in an RV and told him that night they needed to go to the river to catch fish.
He’d lied.
Martin lost his virginity with his face submerged underwater. Before he passed out, he was given air. When he screamed, he was dunked again.
There had been no lubrication or spit to lessen the brutality. Not that day nor the four-hundred-and-twenty-six days that followed.
But there was always blood. All of his underwear was stained with it. Dark brown reminders of the damage inside him.
He felt that damage now as he forced dry muscles to suck his thrusting fingers. Heavy groans penetrated his ears, so very different than soundless screams he’d kept trapped in his throat.
Blinking rapidly, he yanked his hand away and stared at it. No blood. No damage.
“If you want me to bleed, you’re going to have to try harder.” Ricky glared at him over his shoulder. “My ass is conditioned to take a pounding.”
Van Quiso had ensured that. When he’d fucked Martin and Ricky, he taught them how to take it without tensing. Van knew what he was doing. He was merciless and depraved, but when it came to sex, he was a master. He knew how to thrust without tearing skin, how to whip without leaving a scar, and how to ride that delicate line between pleasure and pain.
Martin had been trained by Van, but he didn’t have Van’s sophistication. His fourteen-year-old mind had been molded by a savage monster, and that was what he became whenever he tried to have sex.
His cock lay swollen and trapped at an uncomfortable angle in his jeans. He only needed to release it, and in the next breath, he could be deep inside Ricky.
He would lose his mind, his inhibitions. He would go fucking crazy, rutting and humping and undulating his hips until he was spent. Like a feral dog.
Just like Jeff.
He pushed to his feet and stumbled to the sink to wash his hands and clear his thoughts.
“So that’s it?” Ricky stood and yanked up his pants. “I know you want this. The proof is straining your zipper. Why don’t you at least try?”
“I did try, and I made myself sick.” He kept his tone tempered as everything inside him buzzed and throbbed for relief.
Ricky’s expression fell, and his gaze thickened with disappointment. “I’m going to take a cold shower.” He pointed at the bulge in Martin’s jeans. “Take care of that before I get back.”
He grabbed a towel and soap and didn’t give Martin a backward glance before charging into the hall.
The door closed with a resentful smack, and an iron band wrapped around Martin’s chest, squeezing tight.
Ricky shouldn’t be out there alone, but it was for the best. They hadn’t been attacked since that day in the stairwell, and Martin posed more of a danger to him than anyone else.
He glared down at his raging hard-on and unzipped his pants. This was the first time he’d been alone in almost two months, and he wouldn’t waste it.