The interrogation chamber’s sterile lights expose every twitch, every blush, every weakness. Colton Fox—all lean limbs and nervous energy—jumps when the door hisses open. Felix Kamp fills the frame, crisp white suit hugging his bearish frame like a threat. He doesn’t sit. He looms.
“Tell me,” Kamp purrs, knuckles grazing Fox’s throat, “why should we invest in… you?” His hand slips lower, popping buttons on the boy’s shirt with clinical precision. Fox stammers, torn between protocol and the heat pooling low in his gut. Kamp’s smile sharpens. “Ah. There it is.”
The suit hits the floor first. Then the briefs. Fox stands bare under fluorescent glare, cock half-hard and betraying him. Kamp circles like a predator, calloused palms skimming ribs, ass, inner thighs—everywhere but where the boy burns for touch. “Still pure?” Kamp murmurs, binding Fox’s wrists behind the chair with silk ties. “We’ll fix that.”
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The spit lands cold on Fox’s hole. He jerks, but Kamp’s fingers are relentless, stretching him open before sliding in the clear dildo. “Breathe,” Kamp orders, and Fox obeys, shuddering as fullness wars with shame. Worse—better—is the slick grip closing around his cock, Kamp’s thumb smearing oil over the tip. “Stroke,” he commands.
Fox hesitates.
Kamp’s free hand fists his hair. “Now.”
The boy’s hand flies to his shaft, pumping with frantic rhythm as Kamp’s fingers twist inside him. Pleasure detonates—a wildfire Fox can’t control. His hips buck, desperate, as Kamp growls approval. “That’s it. Ruin yourself.”
Fox’s vision whites out. Thick ropes shoot across his stomach, hips stuttering as Kamp milks him through the aftershocks. The master leans close, lips brushing Fox’s ear: “Lesson one—you belong to me now.”
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