Kota stretched his back against the equipment case he'd been leaning on for the last twenty minutes.
The backstage area was stifling, the kind of oppressive heat that came from too many bodies crammed into a venue with questionable air conditioning. Sweat beaded along his hairline and trickled down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his rumpled black shirt.
The muffled thump of Pure Despair's set vibrated through the concrete walls, Mort's guitar wailing something aggressive, Toby's drums surprisingly steady despite his earlier panic.
It was madddd hot. The kind of hot that made clothes feel like punishment.
Mort had told him to stay put. Specifically, the angry little gremlin had jabbed a finger at his chest and said, "Wait backstage. Don't wander off. Don't cause any problems." But why the fuck would he follow those instructions? He was his own man.
He didn't take orders from five foot five femboys with attitude problems, no matter how sharp their death stares were. The band was going to be playing for another forty minutes at least. That was plenty of time to explore.
Kota pushed off the equipment case and walked down the narrow hallway that connected the various backstage areas. The venue was a labyrinth of concrete corridors, flickering fluorescent lights, and doors leading to smaller showrooms that had already finished their sets. He passed one empty stage, its floor littered with crushed cups and a single abandoned tambourine. Another room was completely dark, the chairs stacked on tables, the bar closed. The whole wing of the venue felt hollow and abandoned, like a school after hours.
Then he heard it. Moaning. Wet, rhythmic slaps of skin on skin echoing from somewhere further down the hall.
Kota stopped walking. The sounds were unmistakable. PLAP. PLAP. PLAP. PLAP.Each impact was followed by a high, breathy cry that bounced off the concrete walls. He knew those sounds intimately by now. He'd caused those sounds more times than he could count in the last few weeks.
"Ahhh—ahhh—Dillyn—your cock—it's so big—it's splitting me open—ahhh—I can feel it in my stomach—fuck—fuck—harder—please—!"
Kota's cock twitched hard in his slacks. The familiar, insistent throb of his hyperspermia made itself known, that constant fullness in his balls reminding him that he had only cum four times today. The doctor had been very clear.
Five times a day, minimum. If he didn't release at least once more, the pressure would build into something dangerous. Testicular rupture. Internal bleeding. Permanent damage. The words echoed in his head like a warning bell.
That was a big enough excuse to follow the noise.
He walked down the hallway, the plaps growing louder with every step. PLAP. PLAP. PLAP. PLAP.
The wet, meaty sound of flesh meeting flesh was accompanied by Freddy's desperate, broken moans and a lower, rougher voice that could only belong to Dillyn. The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, a thin strip of warm light spilling out onto the concrete floor. Kota approached quietly, his curiosity getting the better of him.
He peered through the crack.
The room was a small, cluttered dressing room, mirrors lining one wall, a ratty couch pushed against the other. Clothes were scattered everywhere. And in the center of it all, two naked femboys were going at it with frantic, animalistic energy.
Freddy was bent over the arm of the couch, his slim, pale body trembling with every powerful thrust from behind. His massive, heart shaped ass was on full display, the cheeks jiggling and rippling with each wet PLAP of Dillyn's hips slamming into him.
His tiny cocklet swung between his legs, leaking steadily onto the floor below. His face was pressed into the couch cushions, mouth open in a constant stream of high pitched moans.
Dillyn was behind him, gripping Freddy's slim hips with both hands, his lean, sweat slicked body moving with brutal, punishing rhythm.
From the sounds alone, Kota assumed Dillyn must be packing at least six inches. The wet, obscene squelching, the way Freddy's eyes rolled back with every thrust, the sheer volume of those desperate moans, it all suggested a cock of significant size.
Which was a dumb assumption.
Kota knew that. Nobody in this world cracked over three inches anymore. He was the only exception, the immune one, the anomaly.
But the sounds were so convincing, so visceral, that his brain had jumped to the wrong conclusion anyway.
He looked closer.
The light caught something around Dillyn's hips. Straps. Black leather straps wrapped around his narrow waist, digging into his pale skin. And between his legs, bobbing and glistening with lube and precum, was a dildo. A realistic, flesh colored dildo that didn't quite match the color of his actual cock, which was visible, tiny and hard and leaking, trapped against his own stomach by the harness.
Kota blinked. A strap on. Dillyn was wearing a strap on.
Honestly, he didn't really care about that part.
Whatever got the job done. Plenty of guys used toys to compensate for what the Vanishing had taken from them.
If a strap on made Dillyn feel more confident, more dominant, more like the rock star persona he projected to his screaming fans, then good for him. No shame in that game.
But then Dillyn started talking.
"How does it feel, you little slut?" Dillyn growled, slamming forward with another brutal thrust that made Freddy scream.
"How does it feel to get fucked by my big cock? My massive, throbbing cock that's splitting you open right now? You've never been stretched like this before, have you?"
Freddy moaned something incoherent, his fingers clawing at the couch cushions.
"That's right," Dillyn continued, his voice dropping into that same low, dominant purr he used on stage.
"My big cock is ruining you. You'll never find another man who can fill you up like I can. This is the best fuck of your pathetic little life, isn't it? Say it. Say my big cock is the best you've ever had."
"Your big cock—ahhh—your big cock is the best I've ever had—fuck—Dillyn—please—!"
Kota pressed his hand over his mouth. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, hot and uncontrollable. He tried to hold it in.
He really did. But the sight of Dillyn, this pretentious, egotistical rock star, wearing a strap on and pretending it was his real dick, delivering degrading dirty talk like he was some kind of alpha dom, was the funniest fucking thing he had ever seen.
"My big cock," Dillyn growled again, sweat dripping down his bare chest, the harness straps creaking with every thrust.
"You'll never be able to take a cock like a real man, will you, slut? You'll always be chasing this. My big, thick, perfect co—"
Kota LOST IT.
The laugh exploded out of him like a dam breaking. The door burst open as he stumbled through it, one hand braced on the frame, the other clutching his stomach. He was doubled over, tears streaming down his face, absolutely howling with laughter. The sound echoed through the small dressing room, bouncing off the mirrors, drowning out the wet plaps of the strap on.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH MY GOD—AHAHAHAHAHAHA! M-M-MY BIG COCK—HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Freddy screamed and scrambled off the couch, grabbing a discarded shirt to cover himself. Dillyn froze mid thrust, the strap on still jutting obscenely from his hips, his face cycling through shock, confusion, and then dawning horror as he realized who had just burst through the door.
Kota couldn't stop. Every time he tried to get ahold of himself, he looked at Dillyn's face, the sheer indignation mixed with the ridiculous harness, and dissolved into fresh peals of laughter. He was crying now, actual tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks, his stomach aching from the force of it.
"MY BIG COCK—AHAHAHAHAHAHA—YOU REALLY SAID THAT—WITH A STRAIGHT FACE—AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"