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Marko doesn’t fight and thrash the second time he finds himself handcuffed to a chair. He doesn’t try to yell at Dax and Cash, just goes lax when Tully sets up a camcorder and exits again. Dax circles around the back of the chair, tips it back so Marko is staring, upside-down, at his rival’s smug grin. “You know,” he says, “you’re not a handsome boy, but you’d make a pretty girl.” Marko goes pink at that, eyes widening with surprise, and then Cash is over top of him again, opening his jeans and dragging them down his thighs.
Dax keeps talking while Marko is stripped from the waist down, soft cock exposed to their prying eyes. “Yeah, you’d make a pretty woman, Marko. Cash, isn’t she so pretty?” he asks, and Cash smirks, mean, before nodding. Marko squirms, arching his back and shifting his hips, attempting to cover himself when the two start touching him. “Stop, please,” he whimpers, tries to close his legs, but Cash is still caught between them, and a large hand wraps around his cock and gives it a few rough tugs, dry and painful. “Get her clit hard, make her feel good,” Dax says, keeping his own fingers tangled in Marko’s curls.
His wrists hurt from the handcuffs digging into them, but it’s easy to forget that when Cash Wheeler is shoving his thighs even further apart and pushing his legs back, back, until Marko’s knees touch his shoulders. “Not wet yet?” Dax asks, and Cash shakes his head, makes a tsk-ing noise as he rubs his thumb over the younger man’s asshole. The sensation makes Marko flinch and hiss, but then the tip of Cash’s middle finger presses inside him, unlubed and uncaring.
“Aw, c’mon, Cash, gotta get her cunt wet,” someone says- maybe Dax, maybe Tully- but Marko grits his teeth against the unpleasant feeling, tears starting to well in his eyes. He wants to leave, wants to be anywhere but here. Lips touch the side of his neck, almost kind, and Marko sobs, shoulders shaking with the force of it as Cash adds another finger, pumping them back and forth, curling them and brushing against the shorter man’s prostate. It sends horrible bursts of pleasure up Marko’s spine, and his dick starts getting hard, leaking precum on his belly. More open-mouthed, dirty kisses are lavished on his throat- hot and wet and so awful- Cash’s fingers stilling to simply rub against the sensitive bundle of nerves, massaging it and getting choked gasps and high, breathy moans from Marko.
The lips on his neck leave, and Dax croons in his ear, “is Cash hittin’ your g-spot, baby girl? Does it feel good?” Marko shudders, head pounding from his tears, and suddenly Cash does something, something that jabs his fingers harder against his prostate, and god, he shrieks as he orgasms, cum splattering his stomach and chest, sticky and warm and shameful, then Dax reaches between his legs and begins stroking his cock, paying no mind to the younger man’s weak protests. Marko’s nerves are absolutely shot, so overstimulated by Dax’s hand pumping his cock and Cash’s fingers pressing insistently on his prostate, and he starts crying again, trembling through a second orgasm- more cum spurting onto his body, adding to the mess- but the two men don’t stop.
Marko is sure he passes out at some point, because he comes to and his wrists are uncuffed and his pants and underwear are still around his ankles. His cum is tacky on his feverish skin, and he feels rubbed raw all over- he shifts and winces at the realization that the sensation also extends to inside himself- but he just sighs, closes his eyes and tries to take deep, slow breaths. Moving at a snail’s pace, Marko starts pulling up his pants, his cock twitching as the fabric brushes his oversensitized skin. Pushing up and out of the chair, he manages to zip up his fly, and gently adjusts himself through his jeans, shuddering out a soft moan as his dick starts getting hard again. Opening his eyes once more, he stumbles to the doorway, past the camcorder, still there.
Wobbling down the hallway, Marko keeps one hand on the wall as he walks toward the locker rooms, so exhausted his eyelids keep slipping closed, unable to keep open for more than a few seconds at a time. “Jack?” he calls, voice breaking like glass, leaving shards stuck in his throat, and it hurts, hurts to talk, which makes Marko want to curl up and fall asleep forever. A familiar head of curly hair peeks around the locker room door, and he picks up the pace, limping faster to reach his tag partner. “Dude, what-? Oh, Marko,” Jack breathes, like he’s devastated, and it takes away any words Marko wants to say. Instead, he just falls into strong, kind arms, ones that support him, even as he goes dead on his feet.