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The crowd erupted as Sig’s legs finally gave out and he collapsed to the floor. The Master knelt, pulling Sig’s trembling body against his chest, his hand moving between Sig's thighs to grant him the release he'd begged for. “You are forgiven, my sub. Come for me.”

A fire burned white-hot inside me as I watched those hands on him, helping him find release. That man didn’t understand Sig. He didn't know what he really wanted. He didn't deserve to touch him.

I’d found boys attractive before, but I’d never acted on it. There were always enough girls to keep my secrets buried. But Sig wasn't just any other boy. He hadn’t just challenged me; he had ruined me. And in that moment, seeing him broken and beautiful, all I fucking wanted was to be the one to protect him.

Chapter Six

George

I pushed through the velvet curtains, ignored the lingering stares of the men in the hallway, and burst through the steel door into the biting cold of the night air. Standing under the dim streetlight, I caught my breath. My eyes fell on a large graffiti mural of a girl with flowers, her cheeks stained with dark, mascara-run tears; a precise, haunting reflection of Sig’s broken image on his knees.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I stopped the recording, only to be met with a flood of missed messages from my dad and Flanagan, our lawyer. I clicked off my screen and walked toward my truck. The drive back to the dorms was a blur. My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned under my palms. I didn’t turn on the radio. I ignored the buzzing of my phone. I just sat in the hum of the engine, the image of Sig’s arched back and his desperate, rasping plea for ‘more’ burned into my retinas.

I entered my room and didn’t bother with the lights. The ambient glow of the campus streetlamps filtered through the blinds, casting long, cage-like shadows across the floor. I walked straight to the bathroom and hit the switch. The harsh LED light was unforgiving, reflecting a man I barely recognized.

I leaned my weight against the sink, the porcelain creaking under my massive frame. I looked at my reflection. My career was currently a pile of ash, yet I couldn't look past the memory of Sig’s golden eyes to actually give a shit about my life. The life he was so hellbent on ruining.

"I should hate him," I whispered, my voice sounding like grinding gravel in the small room.

But my mind was a loop of Sig’s bare back, stained red from the hits. I wanted to feel the heat of those fresh wounds under the pads of my fingers. My hand reached down, cupping myself. I unbuckled, unzipping with trembling fingers as I rubbed the head of my cock through the fabric of my briefs.

The image hit like a whip crack. Sig’s cock straining against the thin, damp fabric of his shorts, the wet spot blooming dark at the tip as he knelt there, exposed for his Master and the room. My own dick throbbed hard in my fist, already leaking, the head slick and angry as I shoved my jeans and briefs down just enough to free myself.

“Fuck you, I hate you, Sig,” I growled at the mirror, but my hand was already stroking. The rough and unforgiving strokes, the same way I wanted to fuck him. I pictured those golden eyes; wide, terrified, with no crowd to hide behind. Sig was looking up at me this time. Not some stranger in leather. Me. But I wasn’t like that bastard. I didn’t want to hurt him.

I closed my eyes and let the fantasy swallow me whole. This is what he wanted. He didn’t want that bastard who didn’t know him. He wanted me.

The vision of Sig on his knees in this very bathroom, his wrists cuffed behind his back with my leather belt. That perfect, slender body still trembling from the club, the red stripes across his shoulders and ass fresh and burning. I grabbed him by the hair, tilting his head back to force him to look at me while I traced every welt he’d earned tonight. My fingers dug in until he hissed, until the pain made his spent cock twitch back to life against his thigh.

“You let them see you like this?” I whispered, my voice low and cruel in my own head. “Letting him hurt you, letting him own you... leaking for him. No, that’s not what you really want, Sig. You spent the whole day trying to destroy me, to humiliate me, just to go confess it all to some random asshole who doesn’t know a damn thing about you. About your desire. Your pain. You're not his puppet, Sig. You're mine.”

The vision of Sig was completely raw. His breath hitched, his cheeks flushing dark. He tried to look away, but I wouldn't let him. I gripped his jaw tight, just enough to make those golden eyes water. “You are mine. No crappy club master owns you. Me. I own you.” Then I shoved my cock between his lips, not gentle, not patient. I fucked his throat until he gagged and drooled, until tears ran down his face and mixed with the spit dripping off his chin.

My real hand sped up, my fist pumping furiously over my shaft, my thumb smearing the steady leak from my slit. The bathroom light buzzed overhead like white noise. I braced my other hand on the mirror, my forehead pressed to the cool glass, my hips jerking forward in the empty air.

I wanted to ruin him.

I wanted to bend him over this sink, spread those striped cheeks, and bury myself balls-deep while he begged. Not for mercy, but for more. I’d make him say my name when he came. I’d make him admit that no one else could ever break him the way I would. I’d edge him for hours until he was sobbing and dripping and completely mine. Then I’d fill him up, mark him from the inside, and leave him leaking my cum while he thanked me for it.

My balls drew up tight, my thighs shaking. A raw, guttural groan tore out of me as I came, thick ropes splattering the sink and the mirror, some of it hitting my reflection. I kept stroking through it, wringing every last pulse, imagining it was Sig’s wrecked heat clenching around me instead.

When it finally ebbed, I was breathing like I’d run sprints. Cum dripped down the glass in slow, obscene trails. I stared at the mess, my chest heaving, and felt the obsession settle darker and hotter, impossible to ignore.

Sig had tried ruining my life. Now I was going to ruin his body... and make him love every second of it.

I wiped the mirror with a towel, but I didn’t clean the sink right away. I wanted the evidence there a little longer. Proof of what he’d done to me.

I grabbed my phone from the counter, the screen illuminating my face in the dark room. I opened the app and brought up Sig’s chat. My fingers didn't shake this time.

George: I saw you. I know your secret.

I waited, watching the screen. After a few agonizing seconds, the typing bubbles finally formed.

Sig: Nice try, George. Try harder.

I smirked, staring at his text. He thought I was fishing; just a desperate, meathead football player trying to guess his secrets to buy my career back. He had no idea I’d been standing right there in the shadows of the mezzanine, watching him bleed.

I hovered my thumb over the video file. One tap, and I could send a screenshot that would destroy his smug composure. But no. Not yet. I wanted to see the look on his face in person when he realized I owned him.