Ethan froze mid-stroke, his hand jerking away as if scalded. "No!" The refusal ripped out, raw and desperate. His hazel eyes snapped to the screen, wide with genuine panic. "Mr. Thorne, please... this is too far. I can't—" His voice cracked, the flush on his tanned skin deepening to crimson. He instinctively angled his hips away, his powerful shoulders tensing defensively. "This isn't... I won't."
Thorne's expression hardened instantly, the predatory satisfaction replaced by cold, implacable steel. He leaned forward, his sharp features filling Ethan's screen. "You will," he hissed, the veneer of civility utterly stripped away. "Or this ends. Right now. Your resume goes in the trash. Every application you've sent for the past six months? I'll ensure they know exactly why you were rejected." He paused, letting the threat sink in, his grey eyes boring into Ethan's soul. "The choice is yours, Ethan. Finish the demonstration... or spend the next year explaining gaps in your employment history." He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers again, a silent, immovable wall of coercion.
Ethan’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The desperate need for the job – the rent, the loans, the crushing weight of failure – crashed against the visceral horror of exposure. His hand hovered, trembling violently, over the straining black fabric. He squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, a tremor running through his powerful frame. Then, with a choked sound of utter defeat, he hooked trembling fingers into the opening of his fly. Thorne’s breath hitched audibly, a low, eager sound. The fabric gaped open slightly, revealing a strip of flushed skin and dark, coarse curls beneath. Finally, Ethan pulled the fabric completely aside. His cock sprang free, thick and achingly hard, straining upwards against his abdomen. It was long and substantial, flushed a deep, angry red from base to tip, the thick vein running along its underside pulsing visibly with each frantic heartbeat. The broad, mushroom-shaped head glistened obscenely under the harsh laptop light, slick with a thick bead of precum that pearled at the slit and clung, trembling, before threatening to drip onto the taut skin of his lower belly. It stood rigidly proud from the nest of dark curls, a stark, undeniable testament to the betrayal of his own body. Thorne released a low, appreciative groan, his grey eyes devouring the sight with naked hunger.
Ethan stood frozen, exposed beyond comprehension. His sculpted torso gleamed with sweat, every defined muscle locked rigid with tension. Below, the thick shaft pulsed visibly, the glistening tip drawing Thorne's rapt, unwavering gaze. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing his chest, making the air feel thick and suffocating. He couldn't look at the screen. He couldn't look down. His hazel eyes stared blankly at the wall beyond his laptop, seeing nothing but the sheer, degrading reality of what he had just done.
Thorne leaned forward until his sharp features dominated the screen, his ash-blond hair catching the light. His cool grey eyes were wide, pupils dilated, fixed intently on the rigid flesh Ethan had exposed. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp intake followed by a low, ragged exhale. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, the words barely more than a whisper crackling through the speakers. His gaze traveled the impressive length, lingering on the flushed, swollen head slick with precum. "How... how long is that?" His voice was thick, husky with disbelief and raw hunger.
Ethan flinched, the question slicing through the numb horror. His throat tightened. "I... I don't know," he stammered, the words thick and clumsy. His voice cracked.
"Bullshit," Thorne snapped instantly, leaning back slightly, his grey eyes narrowing with sudden suspicion and command. The predatory intensity sharpened. "You know. Every man knows. Tell me. Now." His tone brooked no evasion, the professional mask completely dissolved into naked coercion.
The desperate need for the job warred violently with the utter degradation. Ethan squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second, his powerful shoulders slumping infinitesimally. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silent room. His voice, when it came, was a raw, defeated whisper, thick with shame. "Eight... eight and a half inches." The admission hung in the air, obscene and final. He kept his gaze averted, unable to bear Thorne's reaction to the truth laid bare.
A sharp, triumphant bark of laughter exploded through the speakers, startlingly loud. Thorne threw his head back, ash-blond hair catching the light, his sharp features contorted in pure, unadulterated elation. "Eight and a half!" he crowed, slapping a hand down on his polished desk. The sound echoed harshly in Ethan's silent apartment. "God damn, Drummond! That's... that's exceptional." His grey eyes snapped back to the screen, blazing with predatory hunger, utterly captivated by the thick, flushed shaft straining upwards against Ethan's abdomen. "But don't be stingy. Show me everything. Pull those balls out through the fly too. Let's see the whole impressive package." His voice was thick with command and anticipation.
Ethan flinched as if struck. His trembling hand, slick with nervous sweat, returned to the gaping fly. With clumsy, jerky movements, he hooked trembling fingers deeper into the opening in the tight black briefs. He tugged downwards and sideways, pulling the fabric wider. Finally, the heavy, low-hanging sac emerged, thick-skinned and taut, pulled tight by the rigid shaft above. His testicles were substantial, full and pendulous, hanging heavy beneath the base of his cock, the skin flushed a deep pink and drawn smooth by the tension. They swung slightly with the movement. Ethan’s eyes focused on the straining erection. The thick shaft pulsed visibly, the broad, slick head glistening obscenely under the harsh laptop light, a thick bead of precum trembling at the slit. Below, the heavy balls hung low and full, completing the brutally exposed tableau against the backdrop of Ethan's sweat-slicked, sculpted abdomen and powerful thighs.
Thorne leaned impossibly closer to his camera, his face dominating the screen, his cool grey eyes wide and utterly fixated. A low, appreciative groan escaped him. "Fuck," he breathed, the word thick with reverence and lust. "Look at that... magnificent." Ethan stood rigidly exposed, every defined muscle in his torso locked tight, trembling faintly. Sweat traced paths down the ridges of his abdomen, dripping onto the hardwood floor. His powerful thighs, thickly corded with muscle beneath the briefs, quivered with the strain of maintaining his stance and the sheer, overwhelming humiliation. He stared blankly past the laptop, his clean-shaven jaw clenched so tight it ached, his hazel eyes burning with unshed tears of utter violation. The dark curls spilled over the stretched waistband, the thick cock jutting obscenely, the heavy balls hanging vulnerably – a complete, degrading display commanded by the man on the screen. Thorne’s rapt gaze devoured every inch.
"Stroke it," Thorne commanded, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that crackled with intensity through the speakers. His grey eyes burned with hunger. "Slowly. Use your whole hand. Show me how it feels." Ethan flinched, a tremor shaking his powerful frame. His gaze remained fixed on the wall, refusing to meet Thorne’s eyes. Slowly, mechanically, his trembling hand moved. His fingers, slick with sweat, wrapped around the thick base. The skin was hot, impossibly hard beneath his palm. He squeezed involuntarily, a choked gasp escaping his lips as sensation ripped through him. He began to move his hand upwards in a slow, deliberate glide, the foreskin pulling taut over the swollen crown. Precum slicked the path, easing the motion. Thorne’s breath hitched audibly. "Yes," he hissed, leaning forward until his forehead almost touched his own screen. "Just like that."
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. The physical sensation was overwhelming, a raw, electric current that drowned out the horror for fleeting moments. His body betrayed him utterly. The slow drag of his calloused palm over the sensitive underside, the way his thumb brushed the slick, swollen head on each upstroke – it sent shockwaves through his nervous system. His powerful chest heaved with ragged breaths. A low groan, deep and involuntary, rumbled in his throat as his hips thrust forward slightly into his own grip, seeking more friction. The shame was a distant echo beneath the roaring tide of biological imperative. Hormones screamed, his body responding with primal intensity to the relentless stimulation, his mind momentarily adrift in the purely physical feedback loop.
He moaned. The sound was low, guttural, and utterly genuine – a raw expression of pleasure ripped from him despite himself. His hand moved faster now, no longer hesitant but driven by the fierce ache building in his groin. His head tipped back slightly, exposing the strong column of his sweat-slicked throat. His hips rocked rhythmically into his fist, the powerful muscles of his abdomen and thighs flexing with each thrust. The laptop screen, Thorne’s rapt face, the violation – it all blurred into a haze. For a few desperate, agonizing seconds, Ethan Drummond was lost in the sensation, his body hurtling towards release, the job, the shame, the predator on the screen momentarily forgotten in the blinding, animal need.
"Stop." Thorne's command sliced through the heavy air, sharp as broken glass. It wasn't loud, but it carried the chilling weight of absolute authority. Ethan froze mid-stroke, his hand tightening convulsively around his slick shaft. The abrupt cessation was a physical shock. Reality crashed back in like icy water. He gasped, his eyes flying open, wide and disoriented, locking instantly onto Thorne’s face dominating the screen. The interviewer’s expression was no longer rapturous hunger; it was cold calculation, a predator assessing captured prey. Grey eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. The flush of arousal on Ethan’s sculpted chest deepened into a crimson wave of pure, suffocating humiliation. He stood exposed, trembling, his cock still achingly hard and glistening in his fist, the heavy sac drawn tight beneath it.
"Enough," Thorne stated, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier husky intensity. He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers again, a picture of regained control. His gaze traveled deliberately down Ethan’s sweat-streaked torso, lingering on the straining black briefs framing the obscene display. "Those," he flicked a dismissive finger towards the screen, "are redundant now. Remove them. Completely." The command was chillingly casual, delivered with the finality of a judge passing sentence. "I want nothing obstructing the view."
Ethan’s breath hitched. His hand fell away from his erection as if burned. He stared at Thorne, a silent plea trapped in his burning hazel eyes. Thorne merely raised an eyebrow, a silent, immovable reminder of the power he held. Despair, cold and absolute, washed over Ethan. With trembling fingers slick with sweat and precum, he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of the black briefs. He pushed down, the fabric catching momentarily on the thick swell of his hips before sliding over the powerful curve of his ass. They pooled around his ankles, a dark puddle on the pale hardwood floor. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside with a bare foot. He stood utterly naked now: six feet of sculpted muscle gleaming under the harsh laptop light, sweat tracing paths down his defined chest and abdomen, his thick cock jutting proudly, flushed and slick, the heavy testicles hanging vulnerably beneath. The air felt frigid against his exposed skin. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, unable to lift his eyes to the screen and the man who owned this moment of utter degradation. Thorne’s satisfied silence was louder than any words.
"Turn around," Thorne commanded, his voice low and thick with anticipation. Ethan flinched but obeyed, pivoting slowly on bare feet. The powerful muscles of his back shifted beneath taut skin – the broad sweep of his latissimus dorsi framing his spine, the deep groove running down to his narrow waist, the defined ridges of his erector spinae muscles flanking his spine like twin columns. Below, his ass was a masterpiece of disciplined training: two firm, high globes of muscle, perfectly rounded and separated by a deep, shadowed cleft. The skin there was smooth, unblemished, and slightly paler than his tanned back. Thorne inhaled sharply. "Christ," he breathed, the word laden with raw appreciation. "Look at that." His grey eyes devoured the sculpted curves, the way the powerful glutes tightened subtly as Ethan shifted his weight. "Magnificent musculature, Ethan. Truly." The praise was a violation in itself.
"Now," Thorne continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper charged with command. "Bend over. Spread those cheeks wide. Show me everything." Ethan froze. A choked sound escaped him. The humiliation intensified, a crushing weight centered low in his belly. Slowly, trembling violently, he bent forward at the waist. His powerful back arched, the defined muscles stretching taut. He reached back with shaking hands, fingers sinking into the firm flesh of his own ass cheeks. With a shuddering breath that felt like tearing flesh, he pulled them apart. The chilly air of the apartment rushed against his exposed anus, a shocking, intimate sensation that made him gasp sharply. His hole, a tight pink pucker nestled within a dusting of dark hair, clenched involuntarily against the sudden exposure. The vulnerability was absolute, laid bare for Thorne’s hungry gaze.
Thorne released a low, ragged groan of pure lust. "Yes," he hissed, leaning forward until his face filled Ethan’s screen. His grey eyes were wide, pupils blown black, utterly fixated on the exposed vulnerability. "Perfect." Ethan trembled, bent over, hands gripping his own flesh, feeling the icy air kiss his most private opening. Thorne’s rapt silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the harsh rasp of Ethan’s own panicked breathing and the faint hum of the laptop fan. The chill intensified the sensation, making his hole twitch involuntarily again, a tiny, humiliating pulse under Thorne’s relentless scrutiny. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the next command, knowing it would come, knowing he would obey. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor between his spread feet.
"Finger," Thorne commanded abruptly, his voice thick and rough. "Put your finger in your mouth. Coat it thoroughly." Ethan froze mid-tremor. The implication slammed into him like a physical blow. His eyes snapped open, staring blindly at the hardwood grain beneath him. A choked sound escaped his throat. He couldn’t. He physically couldn't move his hands from where they held his cheeks apart. Thorne growled, "Now, Ethan. Or this ends poorly for you." Desperation warred with utter revulsion. Slowly, shaking violently, Ethan released his right cheek. He brought his trembling hand up towards his face, fingers slick with sweat. He hesitated, staring at his own fingers inches from his lips. Thorne’s impatient silence crackled through the speakers. With a shuddering gasp, Ethan shoved his index finger deep into his mouth, tasting salt and panic.
He sucked hard, coating the finger thickly in saliva, the act itself feeling grotesquely intimate under Thorne’s gaze. He pulled it out, glistening wetly. Thorne’s breath hitched audibly. "Good," he purred, a dark satisfaction in his tone. "Now… use it. Finger yourself. Slowly. Deep." Ethan’s stomach lurched. He stared at his own wet finger, hovering near the exposed cleft. The humiliation was absolute. He’d stripped, bent over, spread himself… but this? This felt like the final, irrevocable violation. He hesitated, his powerful frame locked rigid with horror. Thorne’s voice snapped like a whip. "Do it, Ethan! Show me how accommodating you can be!" A ragged sob tore from Ethan’s throat. He squeezed his eyes shut again, blocking out the screen, the room, everything but the crushing weight of necessity. His trembling finger pressed against his tight opening. The cold, wet touch against the sensitive ring of muscle made him gasp sharply. He pushed inward, a burning stretch against resistance.
The intrusion was shocking, alien. Ethan whimpered, his finger sinking slowly past the tight sphincter, coated in his own spit. The sensation was intensely intimate, violating, amplified a thousandfold by Thorne’s rapt, unseen gaze. He pushed deeper, feeling the slick slide inside himself, the involuntary clench of his muscles around the invading digit. Thorne released a low, appreciative groan. "Deeper," he commanded hoarsely. Ethan obeyed, burying his finger to the knuckle inside his own body, a shudder wracking his frame. He remained bent, trembling, finger buried deep, utterly exposed and degraded, the laptop camera capturing every detail for Eric Thorne’s hungry, triumphant eyes. The silence stretched, thick with the violation and the soft, wet sound of Ethan’s own ragged breathing.
Thorne leaned forward, his grey eyes blazing with predatory intensity. "Another," he demanded, his voice rough and thick with undisguised lust. "Add another finger. Now." The command sliced through Ethan’s haze of humiliation. A choked gasp escaped him. He hesitated, his hand trembling violently near his exposed opening, his index finger still buried deep inside himself. The thought of stretching himself wider, deliberately, under Thorne’s command, was a fresh wave of horror. Thorne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do it!" he snapped, the threat implicit. "Or the job offer vanishes." Despair choked Ethan. With a ragged sob, he pulled his slick finger out slowly, the sensation making him gasp again. He shoved his middle finger into his mouth, coating it thickly with saliva, tasting salt and panic.
Trembling uncontrollably, Ethan positioned his two glistening fingers against his tight, pink opening. He pressed inward, the resistance immediate and fierce. He whimpered, pushing harder, feeling the burning stretch intensify as the second finger forced its way alongside the first. The sensation was sharp, overwhelming – a deep, internal violation he could feel radiating through his pelvis. He pushed deeper, knuckles straining against the resistant ring of muscle, burying both fingers inside himself. A low moan tore from his throat, a mixture of pain, unwanted sensation, and utter degradation. He stayed bent, legs shaking, fingers thrust deep into his own body, presenting himself completely for Thorne’s appraisal. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor between his spread feet.
Thorne watched, utterly absorbed. His breath came in short, sharp pants. "Move them," he ordered, his voice thick. "Slowly. In and out." Ethan obeyed, mechanically, dragging his slick fingers slowly out until just the tips remained, then pushing them back in deep. The wet slide echoed obscenely in the silent room. Each withdrawal and penetration was a fresh humiliation, a performance forced upon him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to detach, but the physical sensations were relentless: the stretch, the friction, the cold air hitting his exposed hole each time he withdrew. Thorne groaned again, a sound of pure, predatory satisfaction. "Yes," he hissed. "Just like that. Show me how much of a team player you really are." Ethan continued the agonizing rhythm, fingers pistoning slowly in and out of himself, trapped in a nightmare commanded by the man on the screen.
"Enough," Thorne commanded abruptly, breaking the rhythm. Ethan froze instantly, fingers buried deep. "Turn around," Thorne ordered, his voice regaining a chilling calm. "Face me." Relief warred with dread. Ethan pulled his fingers out slowly, a shudder wracking his frame at the sudden emptiness. He straightened slowly, the powerful muscles in his back protesting the awkward posture. He pivoted on bare feet, turning his naked body back towards the laptop camera. To his surprise, his cock was harder than ever, pulsing wildly and straining toward the ceiling. His thick cock, slick with precum, jutted obscenely against his abdomen. Thorne’s grey eyes swept over him with undisguised ownership. "Sit back down," Thorne instructed coolly. "In your chair."
Ethan moved stiffly, like a puppet on frayed strings. He lowered himself onto the leather desk chair, the cool surface a shock against his heated skin. He sat rigidly upright, his powerful thighs pressed together, instinctively trying to shield himself despite the utter exposure. Thorne’s sharp gaze missed nothing. "No," he stated flatly. "Legs up. On the desk." Ethan froze, staring at the screen, disbelief warring with the crushing inevitability. Thorne leaned forward, his face filling the frame. "Do it, Ethan. Show me everything. Your dedication hinges on it." Despair settled like lead in Ethan’s gut. With trembling hands slick with sweat and spit, he gripped the powerful muscles of his thighs. Slowly, shaking violently, he lifted his legs, bending at the knees. He brought his bare feet up onto the polished surface of his desk, planting his heels firmly on the wood. He spread his knees wide apart, forcing his powerful thighs open.
The position was brutally exposing. Ethan leaned back slightly in the chair, his legs spread wide on the desk, knees bent upwards. His thick, flushed cock lay rigid against his lower abdomen, the broad head glistening obscenely. Below, his heavy balls hung vulnerable against the cool leather seat. And between his spread thighs, framed by the powerful muscles of his inner thighs, his pink, slightly gaping hole was fully visible to the camera – still slick and glistening faintly from his own saliva. He stared blankly past the laptop, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, every defined muscle in his torso locked tight with tension and shame. The vulnerability was absolute, laid bare for Thorne’s hungry, triumphant gaze. Thorne inhaled sharply, a low, appreciative hum vibrating through the speakers. "Perfect," he breathed, his grey eyes fixed unblinkingly on the exposed intimacy.
Thorne leaned impossibly closer to his camera, his sharp features dominating Ethan’s screen. His grey eyes burned with intensity. "Use your fingers again," he commanded, his voice thick and rough with undisguised lust. "Both of them. Coat them thoroughly in your mouth first." Ethan flinched, a tremor shaking his frame. He hesitated, his gaze still averted. Thorne’s voice snapped like a whip. "Now, Ethan!" Desperation choked him. Slowly, trembling violently, Ethan raised his right hand towards his face. He shoved his index and middle fingers deep into his mouth, sucking hard, coating them thickly in saliva. The taste of salt filled his mouth. He pulled them out, glistening wetly. Thorne’s breath hitched audibly. "Good," he purred, a dark satisfaction saturating his tone. "Now... put them back in. Deep. And fuck yourself with them."
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. His slick fingers hovered near his exposed opening. He pressed inward, feeling the tight resistance yield as the wet tips breached the sensitive ring of muscle. A choked gasp escaped him as he pushed deeper, burying both fingers knuckle-deep inside himself again. The stretch burned, the intrusion violating. Thorne groaned, a sound of pure, satisfaction. "Yes... deeper," he hissed. "Now... move them. In and out. Harder." Ethan obeyed mechanically, his fingers pistoning slowly at first, then faster, driven by Thorne’s command. The wet, rhythmic sound of his fingers plunging in and out of his own body filled the silent room, amplified by the laptop speakers. Each withdrawal pulled his slick hole open wider; each penetration drove a shudder through his powerful frame. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto his heaving chest.
"Now touch yourself," Thorne commanded abruptly, his voice thick and urgent. "Stroke that magnificent cock while you fuck yourself. Show me how much you want this job." Ethan froze mid-thrust, fingers buried deep. A choked sob tore from his throat. He couldn't look. He couldn't think. Slowly, trembling violently, his left hand moved. His fingers, slick with sweat, wrapped around the thick, rigid base of his cock. The heat, the impossible hardness beneath his palm, sent a jolt of unwelcome sensation through him. He squeezed involuntarily, a low groan rumbling deep in his chest. He began to stroke upwards in a slow, deliberate glide, his foreskin pulling taut over the swollen, slick head. Precum eased the motion. Simultaneously, his right hand kept plunging his fingers deep inside himself, the dual sensations – violation and stimulation – warring violently within him. Thorne’s rapturous groan echoed through the speakers. "Yes! Just like that! Faster!"
His body betrayed him utterly. The slow drag of his calloused palm over his sensitive shaft, the rhythmic clench and release around his invading fingers – it created a raw, electric feedback loop he couldn't control. His hips bucked forward slightly into his fist, seeking more friction. A deep, involuntary moan ripped from his throat as pleasure surged, fierce and undeniable, beneath the crushing weight of degradation. His hand moved faster on his cock, pumping roughly. His fingers pistoned harder, deeper inside himself, the wet, obscene sounds filling the air. His powerful thighs trembled violently against the desk surface. His head tipped back, exposing the sweat-slicked column of his throat, eyes squeezed shut against the horror, lost in the primal, unstoppable tide rising within him. Thorne watched, utterly rapt, his grey eyes devouring every twitch, every gasp, every bead of sweat tracing the defined planes of Ethan’s shuddering body as he obeyed the final, degrading command.
Then, Ethan’s knuckles pressed deep, grinding against something intensely sensitive inside him. A sharp, blinding jolt of pure pleasure exploded through his pelvis, radiating outwards like liquid fire. His eyes flew wide, a choked cry of pure ecstasy escaping him. Thorne vanished. The screen, the job, the threat – it all dissolved into white noise. There was only the desperate, driving need for more. His fingers curled, seeking that spot again, pressing hard. Another wave crashed over him, stronger this time, making his cock throb violently in his fist. He cried out, raw and unrestrained, his hips jerking wildly. He fucked himself onto his fingers with abandon, driving them deep, grinding relentlessly against the swollen bundle of nerves. His other hand became a blur on his shaft, stroking furiously, twisting roughly over the slick, swollen head. The world narrowed to the frantic rhythm of his hands, the blinding bursts of pleasure deep inside, the thick heat building unbearably in his groin. Sweat poured down his heaving chest and trembling abdomen.
He hit it again, harder. A guttural roar tore from him. His powerful body arched violently in the chair, muscles locking rigid. His balls drew impossibly tight against his body. The thick shaft in his hand pulsed like a live wire, impossibly hard. He was a piston – fingers plunging deep, palm sliding rough and fast over slick skin – consumed by a frantic, animalistic drive for release. The rhythmic slap of his hand and the wet squelch of his fingers inside himself were the only sounds he registered. He panted, ragged breaths tearing from his lungs, face contorted in agonized ecstasy. He was lost, utterly consumed by the physical sensation, chasing the blinding peak with desperate, brutal strokes.
His body was a sculpture of taut desperation. Every defined muscle in his torso stood out in sharp relief, locked rigid by the force of his arch. Sweat poured down the carved ridges of his abdomen, tracing paths through the dusting of dark hair below his navel, dripping onto the strained leather seat beneath him. His thick, powerful thighs trembled violently against the polished desk surface where his bare feet were planted wide. His massive cock, slick and flushed deep crimson, strained rigidly upwards against his abdomen. The broad, mushroom-shaped head glistened obscenely under the harsh laptop light, coated in thick precum that smeared down the shaft with each furious stroke of his fist. Below, his heavy balls, pulled tight and high against his body, pulsed visibly with the frantic rhythm of his impending climax.
He was suspended on the knife-edge. His knuckles ground deep inside him, pressing relentlessly against that swollen nerve cluster. His fist became a blur on his shaft, twisting brutally over the slick head on each upstroke. His hips bucked wildly, driving himself deeper onto his fingers, seeking more friction, more pressure. A high, keening whine escaped his clenched teeth. His vision blurred, tunneling. Every muscle fiber screamed with tension. The heat in his groin was unbearable, a supernova building pressure, threatening to erupt. He was seconds away, body coiled like a spring, utterly beyond thought, beyond shame, beyond anything but the raw, blinding need to come.
His knuckles slammed home. A guttural roar ripped from his throat, raw and primal. His powerful body arched violently off the chair, every defined muscle locking rigid – abdomen, chest, thighs, shoulders – a sculpture of taut agony and ecstasy. His balls drew impossibly tight against his body. The thick shaft in his fist pulsed like a hammer blow, impossibly hard. The first jet exploded violently – a thick, pearly-white rope that shot upwards with shocking force. It arced high, splattering hot and wet across his own sweat-slicked jawline and chin, clinging thickly. Before he could gasp, the second blast erupted, thicker, hotter, painting a thick streak across his heaving chest, catching the ridge of his left pec and dripping obscenely down the defined plane towards his nipple. His fingers plunged deeper inside himself, spasming uncontrollably as wave after wave tore through him.
The third eruption was a torrent. Thick, viscous streams erupted in rapid succession, pulsing violently from the swollen slit. Ropes lashed his abdomen, painting thick, white stripes across the ridges of his abs, pooling in the shallow valley of his navel. Another thick blast hit his collarbone, splattering upwards onto his throat. His head snapped back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as his body convulsed. Cum sprayed wildly – hitting his inner thighs, his trembling hand still pumping his shaft, the desk surface near his spread feet. His hole clenched violently around his buried fingers, spasming in time with each explosive pulse, milking the sensation deeper. The sheer volume was shocking; thick ropes painting his torso in obscene streaks, dripping down the trembling muscles of his abdomen, pooling in the crease of his groin where his cock still jerked violently in his fist.
Finally, the brutal convulsions subsided. His body slumped back into the chair, boneless, trembling violently. His chest heaved with ragged, gasping breaths. Thick ropes of pearly cum coated his face – jaw, chin, smeared across his cheekbone, and coating one lense of his glasses. More plastered his chest and abdomen in thick, cooling streaks, dripping slowly onto his thighs and the leather seat. His cock lay spent against his belly, still thick and flushed, glistening obscenely. His fingers remained buried deep inside his clenching hole, slick with his own saliva and the aftermath of his violent climax. The silence was deafening, broken only by his harsh panting and the faint hum of the laptop fan. Across the screen, Eric Thorne watched, utterly still, his grey eyes wide and gleaming with rapt, triumphant satisfaction. A slow smile spread across Thorne's sharp features. "Impressive," he breathed, the word thick with undisguised admiration and control. "Truly... exceptional dedication."
Ethan shuddered, a wave of nausea crashing over him as the blinding haze of orgasm receded. He pulled his fingers free slowly, a sharp gasp escaping him at the sensation. He stared blankly at his trembling, slick hand, then down at the obscene mess coating his torso. He slowly lowered his trembling legs from the desk, the cool air hitting his exposed groin making him flinch. He slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees, his powerful shoulders hunched. He dragged a trembling hand across his sticky jaw, smearing the cooling mess.
He forced himself to lift his head, his hazel eyes burning with exhaustion. He met Thorne’s grey gaze on the screen. The interviewer’s expression was calm now, composed, the hunger replaced by a chillingly professional satisfaction. "Mr. Thorne," Ethan rasped, his voice raw and wrecked. He cleared his throat, the sound thick. "What... what happens now?" The question hung in the air, heavy with desperation.
Thorne leaned back in his own leather chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips. "What happens now, Ethan?" he echoed, his voice smooth, confident, utterly in control. "Now, you get the job." He paused, letting the words sink in. "The position is yours. Strategic Development Analyst. Starting salary, one-fifty, plus bonuses and full benefits." Thorne’s grey eyes locked onto Ethan’s, holding him captive. "Effective immediately." A flicker of pure, unadulterated elation surged through Ethan’s exhaustion, momentarily eclipsing the shame. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over him. The job. He had the job. The crushing weight of debt, the fear of failure – lifted. A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped him. He stared at Thorne, unable to speak.
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