For two days, Steve walks around sure everyone can see the weight of his shame, how dirty his thoughts are when he watches people run or eat or shower or
you know, anything.
They can’t, apparently. If they can, they’re keeping it quiet.
Two nights later Steve has to slip back to the bathroom, because he can’t stop imagining that they can see, that the next time they’ll all be showering his cock will swell up before he can stop it, he’ll be standing there tiny and slender and delicate and trying to shower as though his cock isn’t throbbing and they’ll all know.
And someone will suddenly come over and slap it, hard, call him such an eager little slut, and someone else will reach over and slap it too, and that’ll only make him harder, because they’re touching him and he’s so desperate for that, and someone else will take his cock in their hand, so much bigger than any part of him, and lead him along like it’s a fucking leash, he’ll follow absolutely helplessly, whining and moaning at the tugging awful pressure, and then they’ll let go and arms will hold him from behind, around his waist, slippery and wet and so big around his tiny frame, they’ll call him a tiny little girl and then
Steve doesn’t really know how it would work, but he knows they’d bend him over, he knows that the cock suddenly inside would stuff him so full, would probably hurt, and they’d laugh because no matter how much it hurt he’d still be tiny and helpless, skewered there, gasping and groaning and trying to wriggle and someone would grab his arms and say now now princess and someone else would say he was tight as a girl, tight as a tiny cunt, and they’d laugh and he’d be bent there and they’d take their time, take turns, use him like a whore, like a living doll, all the while laughing at his arousal, making him suck their cocks till he choked and laughing at the airless little noises he’d make, helpless, say look how desperate he is to be filled up, look how desperate pretty little Rogers is for cock.
The real Steve comes, hard, all over his own hand, when the image of Shoulders Guy stretched languidly on his back floats to his head, watching Steve ride him just like a girl, laughing even harder at the noises Steve makes and calling him such a pretty little slut, so desperate.
The next day, in the showers, Steve is sure they can tell. He’s scared they’ll know. They’ll—do that. They’ll laugh.
He isn’t. He should be. Instead he’s mostly scared imagining it is going to get him hard again.
Hell. That is where he’s going. He’s very sure, now.
Re: FILL: Skinny Steve jerks it to nasty shit, 2/2
you know, anything.
They can’t, apparently. If they can, they’re keeping it quiet.
Two nights later Steve has to slip back to the bathroom, because he can’t stop imagining that they can see, that the next time they’ll all be showering his cock will swell up before he can stop it, he’ll be standing there tiny and slender and delicate and trying to shower as though his cock isn’t throbbing and they’ll all know.
And someone will suddenly come over and slap it, hard, call him such an eager little slut, and someone else will reach over and slap it too, and that’ll only make him harder, because they’re touching him and he’s so desperate for that, and someone else will take his cock in their hand, so much bigger than any part of him, and lead him along like it’s a fucking leash, he’ll follow absolutely helplessly, whining and moaning at the tugging awful pressure, and then they’ll let go and arms will hold him from behind, around his waist, slippery and wet and so big around his tiny frame, they’ll call him a tiny little girl and then
Steve doesn’t really know how it would work, but he knows they’d bend him over, he knows that the cock suddenly inside would stuff him so full, would probably hurt, and they’d laugh because no matter how much it hurt he’d still be tiny and helpless, skewered there, gasping and groaning and trying to wriggle and someone would grab his arms and say now now princess and someone else would say he was tight as a girl, tight as a tiny cunt, and they’d laugh and he’d be bent there and they’d take their time, take turns, use him like a whore, like a living doll, all the while laughing at his arousal, making him suck their cocks till he choked and laughing at the airless little noises he’d make, helpless, say look how desperate he is to be filled up, look how desperate pretty little Rogers is for cock.
The real Steve comes, hard, all over his own hand, when the image of Shoulders Guy stretched languidly on his back floats to his head, watching Steve ride him just like a girl, laughing even harder at the noises Steve makes and calling him such a pretty little slut, so desperate.
The next day, in the showers, Steve is sure they can tell. He’s scared they’ll know. They’ll—do that. They’ll laugh.
He isn’t. He should be. Instead he’s mostly scared imagining it is going to get him hard again.
Hell. That is where he’s going. He’s very sure, now.