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The living room was clouded with a strong scent of cigarette smoke and the faint smell of sweat. Thick blackout curtains blocked out the afternoon sun, leaving the space lit only by the cold circle of the ring light and the slight reflection of the tripod camera settled in front of the worn down bed.
Byron perched on the corner of the mattress, thumb swiping through messages on his phone. Three new requests from his regulars had come in, each one more demanding than the last—enough to keep the routine going. He didn’t smile, but the tightness in his shoulders loosened just a bit.
Edgar waited quietly in the middle of the bed, dressed only in black thigh highs that hugged his pale legs and a slim silver chain locked snugly around his neck. At sixteen, his soft cheekbones and tangled black hair falling into his eyes still gave him a vulnerable look under the harsh lights that exaggerated his eye bags, as if the realization of their situation hadn’t fully settled into his mind yet.
His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy and unfocused from the small dose of ketamine Byron had given him twenty minutes earlier. Usually, it helped calm the boy’s stage fright and temporarily eased the pain. The drug pulsed through his veins, dulling the sharp edges of everything that came with their little routine. The shame, the guilt, the constant ache in his chest that usually screamed that this was wrong, and the intense pain whenever Byron would mistreat him for pleasure. It made the world feel softer, distant, like he was watching himself from somewhere far away.
Jagged, dark scars traced the surface of Edgar’s wrists and the tops of his thighs, memories from months before Byron took control of his life, deep marks from nights he spent alone with a blade to satisfy his self hatred. A fresh web of old welts and a thin pink scar curved across his ribs from last week’s session layered over his delicate skin. His face stayed lowered, fingers twitching once at his sides before stilling completely.
Byron set his phone down. His voice was low, the same tone he used when he was selling his concoctions to people in the park. “We’re going to be filming soon, as you know. We have some special requests today, and they're quite… harsh. Do you remember the safeword?”
Edgar swallowed hard, the words coming out slow and slightly slurred from the high. “Yes.”
Byron looked unamused. He reached out and gripped Edgar’s thigh, making him wince. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, Master,” the boy forced past his lips, a lazy, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth even as his eyes stayed distant.
A long silence hung in the air for a moment. Byron stood, his tall frame filling Edgar’s vision effortlessly. He caught Edgar’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting the boy’s face upward. Their eyes met, firm as it sent a shiver down his spine. It was a silent warning for what was about to come.
Byron’s thumb brushed against Edgar’s lower lip before he dropped away. He reached out and gently tapped the record button on the main tripod camera positioned directly in front of the bed. The red light flashed.
“You know what this is. You know what you are. Say it for the camera,” Byron stepped out of frame to give Edgar the spotlight.
Edgar’s body trembled, warmth spreading over his neck. The drug made the weight of his words feel muffled, like they weren't coming out of his mouth. “I’m your worthless little whore, Master.”
Byron smiled. His praise went unspoken as to not displease the consumers. They specially requested that Edgar be treated like nothing more than a burden. “Hands and knees on the mattress. Ass out.”
Edgar turned, palms sliding across the worn fabric, arching his spine like he’d learned their consumers wanted. As he was turning over, the thigh highs shifted just enough to reveal the worst of the old scars high on his thighs, thick, enlarged welts stretching across his skin.
When Edgar was in position, Byron shifted back into frame and lifted a black leather flogger with metal studs from the table beside the bed, dragging its tails slowly down Edgar’s back. Goosebumps rose in its wake. He paused, then spoke clearly for the microphone.
“Tell them why you’re getting whipped.”
Edgar's voice wavered, slow and dreamy but still with a hint of resistance. He spoke as if they rehearsed this for years, “Because I’m a greedy, disgusting slut who needs his Master’s cock to violate him.”
Suddenly, the flogger cracked across both of his ass cheeks. Edgar flinched, the bright red stripe blooming fast and burning the flesh, but the pain felt distant, buffered by the substance coursing through him. Byron kept the tempo steady, each stroke harsh, metal tips nicking until thin beads of blood formed and slid down his body.
By the fourth lash, the boy shook uncontrollably, his knees locked, silent tears dropping to darken the fabric beneath his face. His cock hung heavy between his fragile, trembled legs, flushed red and slick at the tip. Even as the pain of the whip throbbed, something twisted inside of him, an unmistakable pleasure taking over his vulnerable body. The ache inside and outside only made his cock harder, pushing him to want more from his Master.
Byron set the flogger down on the table and picked up the second handheld camera from its stand to the left of the bed. He gripped a handful of Edgar’s hair and pulled his head back. The handheld camera captured everything close up. The needy shine in his eyes, his trembling mouth holding back a sob, and his dark pupils still massively dilated.
“Look at you,” Byron murmured into the microphone attached to his neck.
“Just a teenager and still crying like a bitch while your cock leaks all over yourself because you get off on being watched. Pathetic,” he spat harshly.
“Those ugly little scars from when you used to cut yourself like the worthless pet you are, fuck, they’re absolutely hideous. You're lucky enough that I cover them with my own marks. They look better on you anyway. That’s what the people pay for. The parts that I get to ruin myself. Only I get the privilege to access the pretty parts of my little slave, only for me to destroy.”
Byron released his grip on the kid’s hair. Edgar’s forehead hit the mattress as he choked out a muted sob. The words landed like a lash through his heart, but he knew it was just an act. At least, he hoped it was. He couldn't comprehend or process anything in this state, his mind foggy and his cock impossibly hard, twitching at every word.
“Thank you, Master,” Edgar whispered, his voice hoarse and slightly dry. The bitterness of the words stayed pressed against his mind, but still they felt warm in his chest. That was the worst part. The way his body responded even as his mind tried to drift away from it all.
Byron set the handheld camera back on its stand to the left, then moved off to the side and lit a cigarette, snapping the zippo shut quietly. Smoke curled from his nose as he studied the fresh damage across Edgar’s body, his eyes travelling to the lines on the boy’s ass. He drew a long drag, then another.
“Get on your knees on the floor, slave. Face the front camera.”
Edgar sank to the hardwood, bruised knees pressing down, his movements lazy and clumsy. Raised cuts across his thighs and body burned, the painful slashes on his ass still bleeding. Under the harsh light, the old scars stood out against his flushed skin.
Byron returned to the camera’s view and dropped his pants with one hand, cigarette in the other, freeing his thick, pulsing cock. He played with it as he pressed the burning cherry of his cigarette just below Edgar’s left collarbone.
The scream tore out of Edgar’s throat raw and high, but it felt almost muted to himself. His body jerked, but he held his position, thighs shaking as fresh tears tracked down his quivering face.
The burn flared up as a blister began to form, but the emotional pressure was almost featherlight, letting the physical pain bleed into a sick pleasure. Fear tried to push past all of the pain searing his skin, but it came useless and distant, pressing behind his eyes and making his head feel dizzy.
Byron watched the blister shine bright and pink under the light, then moved the cigarette to his right nipple. He pressed down harder than before. Another broken cry left the kid’s mouth, Byron cracking a smile at his reaction. The third burn landed on the soft inside of Edgar’s thigh, close to a deep scar, close enough to make his breath stutter with a whimper.
“Does it hurt?” Byron asked, almost casual.
Edgar’s voice was shaky and desperate. “Yes, Master! It hurts so fucking much!”
Byron exhaled smoke across the kid’s face. “Good. Look at the lens and tell them how much you love being your Master’s ashtray.”
Edgar lifted his wet eyes to the camera, clearly unfocused, though he hoped no one would care much about it. His lips trembled. “I love being my Master’s ashtray,” he managed, his voice breaking slightly. “I love when he burns me because it reminds me that I’m nothing but a dirty slut for him to use.”
Byron’s free hand rose, thumb brushing a tear away with a softness that lasted only a heartbeat before he caught himself. He trailed his thumb towards Edgar’s mouth, coaxing him to open his mouth.
He pulled his thumb back suddenly and pressed the glowing cigarette against Edgar’s tongue. The boy gagged and retracted his tongue, his eyes fluttering shut, but he stayed put. The heat scorched the sensitive muscle, the mark sizzling as he tasted ash.
Byron felt the quick, desperate puffs of breath against his knuckles and something low and tight coil in his chest. Not tenderness, just the knowledge that the right buyers would pay extra for this even if it hurt the kid in the long run.
He dropped the cigarette into a nearby ashtray and strapped on a chest mounted point of view rig. The camera settled against his sternum, lens angled downward.
“Get back on the bed and show me your hole now.”
Edgar crawled onto the bed, folding forward, cheek pressed to the mattress, ass still oozing slow, bloody trails. He reached back to spread one of his cheeks to the side, gagging at the slick collecting on his fingers from the wounds. The thigh highs he wore were littered with ash but they still tightly hugged his legs. Byron spat on Edgar’s ass hole once, gripped his hips, slapped his cock against the puckered heat and drove in all the way with a harsh thrust.
Edgar’s muffled scream vibrated against the fabric. His fingers looked for leverage against the bed as pain swelled in his rectum. Byron gave no pause—just fucked hard and deep, the spit clearly not enough to make way for his size. The rough drag of his cock felt dry and uncomfortable for both parties, but someone had paid extra to watch the blood pool around Edgar’s rim and drip down his ass cheeks, coating Byron’s cock.
Each slap of Byron's balls against Edgar’s echoed, reverberating across the thin walls. Every stroke of Byron’s cock skimmed raw nerves inside of the kid. Each push and pull dragged another broken sound from Edgar's throat. Pain and pleasure spiked together, strong and unwanted, and Edgar bit down hard on his own arm to keep from moaning loudly.
The ketamine kept the extreme pain at a distance, letting him float through the sensations. He knew he shouldn’t want this—not like this, with the cameras watching the twisted version Byron had made him into—but the high made everything feel unreal. He was almost free of the physical and emotional pain, drowning in the pleasure.
“Still so fucking tight,” Byron growled for the camera, slowly so every word hit home. “Just a few months of living with your Master and you're already a ruined little slave. Your ass is twitching around me,” He gave a rough slap to Edgar's ass, drawing a high pitched moan from him. “I can't believe I turned my innocent little stepson into a broken, cock hungry slut who leaks the second I touch him. You used to be so pure. Now you’re just a hole for me to use for the camera, and those fucked up marks only prove how badly you needed to be treated like you meant something.”
He wrapped a rough hand tight around Edgar’s leaking cock, stroking perfectly in time with his thrusts. The boy keened, bloody hips twitching helplessly between the stretch and the fist pulling him close to the edge.
“You don’t come until I say.”
Edgar nodded frantically, tears soaking below him, his reactions slowly becoming more desperate. “Yes, Master, please!”
The blood that dripped inside of Edgar’s torn ass eased the slide of Byron’s cock as he continued to fuck into him, ripping little whimpers from the kid. Byron drove harder, angling each thrust to hit the spot inside that made Edgar’s legs shake and his voice crack.
The boy was unraveling—sobbing, bleeding, drooling, his cock dripping and twitching urgently in Byron’s palm. Each time Edgar neared an orgasm, Byron stopped stroking and slapped his balls sharply. The cries that followed would make the consumers lose their minds.
“Bitch,” Byron muttered, pressing down until his chest was against Edgar’s sweaty, bloody back. Sweat stung the open cuts on his ass, making Edgar sob harder. “Crying for your Master’s dick while you get fucked on film for the men paying to watch me finish what I started. You wanna be a good boy for them, baby?”
Edgar barely managed to speak. “No, Master… Only good for you…”
Byron’s mouth found the curve where neck met shoulder, biting hard enough to taste blood before plunging his cock impossibly deeper. Heat pulsed thick inside of the boy as Byron shoved himself just short of his prostate. Edgar came nearly seconds later, his body seizing, staining the bed in messy streaks while his hole clenched tight like it never wanted to let go.
The orgasm hit strong enough to whiten his vision, but as it faded, his emotions tried to rush back in before he abruptly stopped then. He’d let Byron take the last clean parts of him, turn them filthy—and worse, he’d come harder for it, his body on full display for strangers.
Byron kept thrusting through the aftershocks, his hips snapping harshly, animalistic, fresh tears spilling as Edgar’s body twitched from his oversensitive nerves being abused over and over. Every push inside of his ass drew out a broken whimper.
Then, in a sudden brutal thrust that punched the air out of his lungs and slammed his bruised prostate, Edgar gasped the agreed safeword in raw desperation.
“Red, Master, red!”
Byron didn’t slow. His grip on Edgar’s hips instead tightened, fingers digging deep enough for fresh bruises as he pounded harder, forcing the small boy to take every violent inch. “Shut the fuck up,” he snarled. “You don’t get to use an excuse now. Not when your greedy hole still sucks me in like it owns me.”
Panic exploded in Edgar’s eyes. Byron never ignored his safeword, even when they filmed the harshest kinks. Edgar’s adrenaline surged. He thrashed wildly, legs kicking, heels digging into the mattress, trying to throw Byron off.
“Red! Please, I can’t, red!” His voice screamed with a high, desperate sob. He twisted violently, elbows slamming into the mattress, one arm flailing back to shove at Byron’s thigh while the other clawed the sheets for leverage. His whole body convulsed, his ass stretching painfully now as the drug began to wear off, his muscles burning as he fought as if to escape.
Hot tears streamed messily down his face, chest heaving gasps between sobs. The pain began to spread through him as the ketamine slowly wore off. “Stop, red, please, it hurts too much! You're going to kill me!”
Byron groaned and slammed a hand hard between Edgar’s shoulder blades, pinning him down, crushing his chest into the bed so his struggles became frantic, limiting him to weak bucks and twists. Byron didn’t miss a beat, pounding into the resisting body with ruthless force, his hips constantly burning the cuts on Edgar’s ass.
“Try harder, you little bitch. Makes it better for them—watching a pretty little boy cry, beg, and fight while I finish ruining what’s left of his innocent hole.” One hand tangled roughly in Edgar’s messy hair, yanking his head back sharply so the camera caught the raw terror in his eyes and the tears streaming down his flushed, wrecked face.
Edgar fought on, sobbing openly now, snot running down his chin, his legs kicking uselessly, his body arching and twitching beneath the heavier man. His cock stayed hard despite his efforts and the overstimulation, leaking steadily against his belly amongst his panic, the guilt now crashing like waves.
Even now—screaming their safeword in a desperate, pleading voice—his body betrayed him, clenching and fluttering around Byron’s cock like it craved the violation.
Byron leaned close, breath hot and wet by Edgar’s ear. His voice dropped to a whisper so low the microphone couldn't catch it, soft and almost tender. “You’re doing so good for me, my sweet baby boy… so perfect. I'm so sorry,” Byron practically sobbed in his ear like he’d regretted everything before then. Edgar’s heart nearly skipped at the implication.
Byron’s free hand caressed Edgar’s side gently, thumb stroking over the marked skin with surprising care. He pressed slow, open mouthed kisses along the kid’s neck, sucking lightly to leave fresh, loving marks that wouldn’t show too much on the camera. They were for his eyes only, Edgar realized through tears.
“My beautiful boy… I’ve got you.”
The gentle words and touches lasted only a few heartbeats before Byron pulled back, voice returning to its harsh, deep growl as he slammed his cock deep over and over.
The relentless pace pushed Edgar over the edge again. He came a second time, body convulsing violently through his crying, his hole spasming uncontrollably as snot, tears, and drool pooled on the bed. Only then did Byron bury himself to the hilt, flooding him with another hot load, groaning low as he held him pinned through the final tremors.
Byron finally stilled, breathing uneven. He pulled out and killed both cameras. The red lights stopped blinking. The tripods were taken back to the closet. Silence filled the room except for Edgar’s small, hiccupping breaths.
He stayed curled as he was, ass still up, face hidden in the crook of his arm, shoulders still trembling faintly. His thigh highs, which he actually thought he looked good in, were torn and bloody. The drug still buzzed very faintly in his veins, keeping the worst of his emotions at bay for now.
Byron eventually grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wiped himself clean, then crouched beside Edgar. He didn’t touch the kid’s face, not once the recording stopped.
“You did good,” he said, voice soft now. Edgar knew it wouldn't last long. “The people who asked for this will be happy. Very happy.”
Edgar made a small sound, a mix of a laugh and being hurt. He turned his head, just enough for one eye to meet Byron’s. For a moment Byron stared back, his eyes looking sad and guilty, before he blinked and looked down again.
Pain started to surface across the lashes on his ass and the ripped skin around his rim, mixing with the lingering pulse of pleasure inside of him that he wished he could hate. “I know,” he whispered.
Byron nodded once. His hand rose as he leaned over the bed, Edgar flinching as he expected to be hit. Instead, Byron brushed a few strands of hair from the kid’s forehead. The touch stayed a bit longer than it should have. Then he pulled back, stood, and dropped the towel across Edgar’s hips like it was nothing.
“Shower’s yours first. I’ll distribute the file tonight. We can go out tomorrow, if you'd like,” he said with no emotion.
Byeon turned toward the door, lighting another cigarette, the flame burning bright in the dark room. Behind him, Edgar stayed on the bed, the chain collar tangled and slick with mixed fluids now, his skin marked and used, yet still aching for whatever came next.
He curled up into a ball, wrapping the towel around his shivering body and crying harder than he ever has.
He briefly wonders to himself why he ended up this way.
He probably deserved it, anyways.