I must’ve passed out without meaning to. With my bag unpacked, the first rent in JD’s hand, and the apartment quiet except for the hum of the fridge, there is nothing left to do except collapse on the mattress, belly full of pizza and beer.
Then—I don’t know if a minute or an hour later—my limp body is grabbed by several rough, strong hands. My limbs spread out and my weak torso bends as the bed disappears beneath me. I’m airborne, chest heaving, no idea if I’m terrified or turned on. Maybe both.
They haul me through the flat in a blur—I see kitchen counters, floorboards, walls, shadows; I feel their strong legs flashing around me. Then the grip vanishes at once, and I hit the floor with a thud that rattles my ribs. I curl up like a newborn pulled from the mother’s womb.
For a moment, there is silence. Then I hear breathing—bestial lungs swallowing air in front of me, as if waiting for their prey. I lift my head and there they are: JD, Tomasz, and Ivan, lined up with their hands behind their backs, and I realize, painfully and beautifully, I am in their control now. And the truth is, I want to see where this play takes me.
JD stands in the middle. He’s like a building—a slab of living stone dressed in clothes. His gaze aims forward, and I don’t dare address him—not like this. He’s the alpha, the king. I feel it in my bones, in my groin, everywhere.
Tomasz’s chest shines to JD’s right. He’s in shorts now; they hug his thighs so tightly, making him bulge in the middle. He looks half-bored, like this is beneath him.
Ivan’s on the left. He’s trying too hard to occupy the space, but without enough meat on his bones, he just looks comical. His eyes flick toward me, mouth twitching. He’s already breaking character.
JD raises his fist. His voice cracks the room: the tribunal is in session. He orders me to stand and calls me by my full name—Benedict. My crimes spill from his mouth: jerking off alone on the train, wasting what should belong to the brotherhood. Do I deny it? To that I can only grin like an idiot and shake my head.
Next, he asks whether I regret it, and I nod, curious for what comes next. Tomasz scoffs, saying my regret is nothing. He says that if I truly regret it, I must face the tribunal in my natural form. I blink, lost, until JD clarifies that I am to undress.
A sudden heat wave floods me. I’ve never thought much about my body, and a boy like me can’t compete with gods—JD’s bulk, Tomasz’s carved frame, and Ivan’s unapologetic confidence. I shrink inside, flimsy and pale.
JD cuts through with a command again. There’s no more room for hesitation. My body obeys. I peel off my T-shirt; it snags my hair and leaves it messy. I stand bare, feeling every inch of my twenty-one-year-old frame under their eyes: thin arms, pale torso, and a couple of comical hairs between my nipples.
Tomasz instructs me to strip further. My breath grows heavy. My hands fumble at my belt buckle, the clink of metal loud in the silence. As the zipper slides, I already feel myself swell inside my jeans—my cock betraying me (or celebrating me).
The denim slides off my calves, and I kick the crumpled fabric toward my shirt. My cock strains against my underwear again, still obscene, and I try to think of something plain, safe—but the urge is stronger. My body wants this.
Tomasz signals for more. I force courage and confidence into myself. I see three pairs of eyes, waiting. My thumbs hook the waistband. One breath, then I shove down. The elastic scrapes my skin, and my cock springs free—hard, unashamed.
And suddenly I’m there—naked before them, three men devouring me with their eyes. My cock juts skyward, throbbing, framed by a rough patch of pubic hair. Shame, thrill, reverence, panic—everything collides in one unbearable knot. I don’t know what I am anymore, victim or disciple, weakling or chosen. I only know this: I am hard, impossibly hard, every cell alive and worshiping that fact. And somehow, in spite of everything, the sight of my cock—stiff, defying gravity—fills me with pride.
JD, Tomasz, and Ivan smile in unison, one brain split three ways, their bulges twitching in agreement. JD, as if waking from a half-buried dream, growls that my regret must be sealed with payment. His gaze cuts across his brothers, sharp and commanding, and he calls for their proposals.
Ivan’s eyes flick to my cock, a devilish grin twisting his face. He says they should cut it off, salt it, shove it in my—but JD smacks the back of his head and tells him to shut up. Ivan jerks, laughs, then snaps back into character. His own hardness strains against his shorts, and I ache to see it freed.
JD turns to Tomasz who suggests branding—a mark for everyone to see, proof of what I’ve become. JD erupts with laughter, a general mocking a raw recruit. Ivan rubs his hands together, sparking with excitement. Tomasz just smiles, slow and predatory, savoring the sentence.
I stand there exposed, trying to make my brain work, but it won’t—the world has shrunk to the tight coil in my groin.
JD orders Ivan to do the honours. Ivan pulls a black marker from his pocket, proving this has all been planned. He steps close, locking eyes with me. I catch excitement, mischief, even dumb joy—and I like it. I feel the tether spark between us, and I don’t want it to break.
He tells me to kneel. I obey, eyes locked. My cock stays rigid, a pillar defiant even as my legs fold beneath me.
Ivan bites the cap off, pops the marker open, and presses his warm hand to my forehead. He yanks my hair aside, exposing a canvas. The tip scrapes rough and wet across my skin. The first stroke squeaks; then more follow, slow and deliberate, each line carved like a masterpiece.
I wait, wired and hopeful, as the ink creeps from my brows toward my hairline. Ivan looks absurdly focused, as if he were painting the Sistine Chapel. I close my eyes, nerves buzzing, humiliated and honoured all at once. I don’t know what he’s drawing—only that it’s me now.
When his hand lifts, my hair stands wild. He steps back smirking, satisfied, and returns to JD’s side.
JD leans forward, and tells me to stand. I force myself upright, legs unsteady and trembling. My head feels light, floating somewhere above me, while my cock feels impossibly heavy, holding me in place like an anchor. Its sudden rock stiffness owns me, it’s a reminder that this is only the beginning.
JD says that even though I’m branded now, the mark on my forehead means nothing if I don’t believe it. If I want to be one of them, I have to admit it—say it out loud. Shake off the shame, shake off the guilt. Speak the truth.
And then it scrapes out of me: I like jerking off, I say. The words tickle on my tongue. My cheeks burn. JD’s gaze cuts me down like a blade. He makes me repeat it. My voice cracks, rises, reforms: I like jerking off.
He asks what it makes of me. I say—an onanist. He pushes harder. My throat tightens, but the words crawl out, shaking: I love jerking off. I really, truly love it. Tomasz smirks, Ivan grins like a wild animal. JD is like a stone and drives me on, until the shame bleeds away, until the words are fire in my veins.
I love to grab my cock. I love to stroke him. I serve my cock. The words roar from me now, angry, urgent, ravenous, proud. I love my fucking penis. Each syllable spits from my mouth like a storm. My chest heaves. My skin burns. I am an addicted masturbator. My cock pulses harder, hotter, swelling with every confession.
Then it tips over—humiliation flips to fury, embarrassment to exultation. I roar it, deep and wild, voice breaking, higher and wilder: My cock is my KING. My GOD. I am his SOLDIER, his PRIEST, his fucking ALTAR. I was born to SERVE him, to WORSHIP him, to PLEASE him. I … AM … MY … FUCKING … COCK.
The words shake me, spin me dizzy—but I can’t stop. I burn, every nerve alive, and my cock at the center is pulsing like a drum. Shame is gone. Fear is gone. It’s a trance, a shift—I feel the boy inside me vanish, replaced by something harder, stronger, climbing up to the surface. I feel testosterone pumping through my veins, and my chest expands, shoulders square. I could smash through walls. I am a beast, a monster, a man finally born. My nudity doesn’t shame me—it’s armor, proof, a banner. My cock isn’t something to hide—it’s the flag I fight under, the center of who I am. But even as I roar, I still don’t know what Ivan drew on my forehead.
And the brothers erupt. Tomasz grins sharp, his hand tracing the bulge in his shorts. Ivan stomps and claps like a wild animal, his erection straining against thin fabric, half menace, half absurdity. Even JD’s chest rises fuller, his cock outlined huge and heavy beneath the cotton of his shorts, as if the tribunal itself had stirred him. They don’t need words—cheers, laughter, the heat in their bodies says it all. They celebrate me as if I were born into them, cock-first.
Then JD shoves me toward the bathroom. I stumble in, naked, cock still skyward, every muscle humming. The mirror glares back: my body harder than ever, chest heaving, veins proud. My jaw seems sharper, my gaze darker and keener. My forehead, marked black—the ink obscene and perfect: a huge cock stretching wide, and drops shooting from its tip. I laugh at how dumb and true the image is.
Behind me in the mirror, I catch JD biting his bottom lip, grinning—a tough character finally gone, leaving a muscular teddy bear. Tomasz leans against the doorway, his hairy armpits exposed, smiling lazily. Ivan hovers close, bouncing with impatience, excitement crackling off him.
A sudden wetness pools at the tip of my cock. I glance in the mirror and see a drop of precum sliding down the shaft. My eyes sweep the bathroom, taking in the other cocks straining, impatient, desperate to break free.
The thought clicks between us, sharp and electric. Then, Tomasz finally breaks the silence: Let’s fucking bate.
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