It wasn't even about the faces anymore.
It was about the rush.
The moment when Quinn felt a stranger's eyes drag over his body like they already owned him. The second before hands pushed him down, shoved him against a wall, bent him over something cold and dirty and real.
He stopped pretending it was a "one-off."
He stopped pretending it mattered who they were.
Night One was at a gym.
Quinn hit the punching bag hard, sweat dripping, body tight, focused.
Then he walked in- tall, bald, arms like fucking tree trunks, covered in sweat and tattoos. Their eyes locked once in the mirror.
An hour later. Quinn was in the shower, back pressed to cold tile, biting his fist while a thick cock split him open in silence.
Grunting. Breathing. Hands bruising his hips. Water washing away the evidence too fast for Quinn's body to forget.
The guy didn't even kiss him.
Just pulled out, finished on Quinn's back and left.
Quinn stayed on his knees.
Fucked. Shaking. Hard again.
Night Three. Bathroom stall. Club. No names.
Just a stranger dragging him in, unzipping growling in his ear.
"Hands on the wall. Don't move."
Quinn obeyed instantly.
Pants yanked down. Cock shoved in raw no prep except spit. The sting made him cry out.
But he loved it.
Loved the way his body betrayed him- clenching, twitching, coming all over the stall door without a single touch.
Night Six. A couple invited him in.
Quinn said yes before they finished the sentence.
They blindfolded him. Gagged him. Bent him over a couch he couldn't see.
Two sets of hands.
Two sets of teeth.
Two cocks.
No safeword. No names.
Just sounds. Pain. Praise.
> "Taking it so well."
"Such a good little mess.
"You like this, don't you? You like being passed around."
He came three times.
Didn't even remember if he spoke.
By Week Two, he stopped going home.
He lived on the edge- grinding on dancefloors, kneeling in alleys, on his back in stranger's cars, cheeks burning, hole aching, body owned.
His pride?
Gone.
All that swagger he used to wear like armor?
Shattered.
Quinn had a new identity now.
A hungry, desperate little thing which chased the next rough hand, the next stranger with a cock and no patience.
He used to be the one who fucked and walked.
Now?
He waited to be used.
Beqged for it.
Searched for it.
And when he finally laid back on a filthy motel bed, three shadows standing over jim- one zipping down, one pulling his legs apart, one tying his wrists- Quinn just smiled.
"Don't hold back," he whispered, eyes glassy. "Wreck me."
The first one grabbed his ankles- yanked them wide and rough, like he didn't care if Quinn bruised.
The second one climbed onto the bed.thick thighs straddling Quinn's chest, his cock already dripping.
The third... oh, the third was behind him.
Quiet. Dangerous.
The one who tied Quinn's wrists above his head with a belt and whispered low,
> "You ready to be passed around like a toy?"
Quinn's mouth parted. He nodded, breath shaking. "Please."
The guy at his chest fed him cock slow- shushing him, teasing his lips. Quinn opened obediently, moaning around the head as it pushed deep, throat twitching.
The one between his legs? Slid in without warning.
No prep.
No kindness.
Just spit, a groan, and then pressure- a thick stretch that made Quinn's toes curl and his eyes roll.
"Fuck, he's tight," one of them growled. "This hole's been used but still clings like it's new."
Quinn whimpered around the cock in his throat, drool running down his chin, his hips rocking helplessly into the rough thrusts behind him.
They took turns.
One finished in his mouth, pulled out, let it drip down his cheek.
The second fucked him until he was sobbing, cock twitching, the slap of hips only sound in the tiny room.
The third? Sat back and watched for a while, stroking himself lazily.
> "He really begged us for this?"
"Mm-hmm. Said, 'wreck me."
"Fucking whore."
Quinn didn't even deny it.
He was leaking all over the sheets. Used. Fucked open. His hole red and pulsing, still twitching for more.
Then the third man finally moved.
Grabbed his hips. Pulled him up into his lap, cock pressing back in like the others hadn't even been there.
Quinn screamed. Loud. Hoarse.
The third man groaned, fangs at his throat.
> "I'm not gonna be gentle, baby."
And he wasn't.
It went on for hours.
Hands everywhere. Slaps. Teeth. Praise and filth in equal measure.
Quinn got flipped, folded, lifted, filled.
One held his chin, kissed him soft while the others used his body like it was theirs.
By the time the belt came off his wrists Quinn didn't even have the strength to move.
Just lay there shaking, filled, dripping.