The Training of Dylan, Day Three

Dylan spits on the floor. Naked, knees grinding into the concrete, his black hair matted with sweat. The man he calls Sir stands over him, belt doubled in one hand, cock already heavy against the front of his jeans. Dylan's pulse slams in his throat. He knows what that belt feels like by now. A thumb shoves between his teeth, forcing his jaw wide. The room is all cold light and metal, no place to hide. Sir lines up behind him and pushes two slick fingers straight past the ring of muscle like it's nothing. Dylan jerks, ass clenching, but the strap catches the back of his thigh and he holds still. The stretch burns and he breathes through it, wants it, hates that he wants it. The fingers curl, press, and Dylan lets out a low sound, half groan, half plea. His own cock swings heavy between his spread legs, thick and dark, untouched. Sir works him open with the kind of patience that comes from practice and a hard-on that never backs down. Third day, and Dylan already knows his place. He rocks back into the pressure anyway, black hair falling over his eyes, every muscle flexed like a spring ready to snap.