Nothing about this has ever been a good idea.
Everything about it is inherently wrong, and every time John even thinks about it, he thinks of something else that's problematic. This is, however, the worst idea of them all.
Because now they're on a fucking balcony, and John thinks no one can see, but there's no guarantee of that at all. If they can, they're getting quite the show; Caldwell has him pinned, one arm wrenched up behind his back, and he's driving in and out of John's ass over and over and over again. John's face is pressed against the floor, and it's starting to hurt, the grit of thousands of years of half-assed sweeping grinding into his cheek.
Caldwell's hand is around his dick, jacking him hard, but Caldwell's just doing it to fuck with him; John knows he won't be allowed to come. This almost isn't even sexual, more about proving that he's Caldwell's plaything than anything else.
He's getting close, John can tell, grunting as he slams in harder. John hasn't been told not to talk, and he's already anticipating what Caldwell will want to hear; maybe if he takes the initiative, Caldwell will show a little mercy. "Please," he says, breathlessly, brokenly.
"Please what?" Caldwell snaps.
"Please fuck me harder," he says, and it's so much easier when he doesn't have to look Caldwell in the eye. "God, I'm a slut, I'm such a slut, I'm not good for anything else." He pushes back the little he can, urging him on. "Hurt me, please hurt me."
He's panting now, and saying all this is making it so much harder not to come, even though he knows one orgasm won't come anywhere close to being worth all the punishment that'll come after it.
"And what do you want, boy?" he says, through gritted teeth, and John knows this is the only choice he gets; he only gets to decide between two choices that are more or less equally humiliating.
"Please come inside me," he begs, shutting his eyes. "Fill me up, please, I want to take it for you, please-"
Caldwell's grip goes tight around his wrist; he makes a feral noise and thrusts in hard, erratically, spilling deep in John's ass. And John, god help him, loves it, lives for it, wants it almost more than he wants to come himself.
Caldwell lets him go, abruptly, pulling out of him, standing up; John feels sore all over, his face and his shoulder and his ass and his knees, but none of that compares to the thought of what he must look like right now. "Get up, boy," Caldwell says. "Don't embarrass me by letting somebody see you laying there like that, looking like a cheap whore after a long day."
With that, he turns and walks away, and John can't do anything but stay there for a moment, caught between hating it and reveling in it.
If only it didn't feel so good.