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The door clicked shut behind him, a dull, final sound.
Ethan turned, pressed his palm against the cold metal panel, and pushed twice. The door didn't budge.
The room wasn't large. An overhead light cast harsh white illumination. The walls were painted a sterile white, and at the corners, sheets of gray-black sound-absorbing foam, riddled with tiny pores, had been affixed. No windows. The air was dry, carrying the smell of disinfectant, like a hospital corridor or some kind of laboratory. In the center of the room stood a bed large enough for the purpose. A metal frame. White sheets stretched tight, no pillow, no blanket. On the floor at the foot of the bed sat an open cardboard box, inside which were piled several tubes of lubricant and a black blindfold.
There were four people in the room. To be precise, four versions of Leon S. Kennedy, each at a different age.
They stood in different positions around the room, each with a distinct posture. That uncanny familiarity made Ethan's stomach clench. The 21-year-old Leon was in his police uniform, leaning against a corner, arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair caught the soft gleam of the overhead light. The lines of his face were still rounded, his eyes clean and clear like freshly polished glass. The 27-year-old Leon sat on the edge of the bed, his dark jacket hanging open, elbows resting on his knees, long fingers interlaced. His chin was slightly raised, the corner of his mouth holding a faint, almost-smiling curve. The 36-year-old Leon stood in the darkest corner of the room, shoulder against the wall. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled to mid-forearm, revealing several old scars. His eyelids were half-lowered, bloodshot eyes fixed on the floor. The 49-year-old Leon sat on the only chair at the far end of the room. His graying blond hair fell loose across his forehead, his temples streaked with white. The lines from his cheekbones to his jaw were as sharp as if carved with a knife. The creases at the corners of his eyes were deep, etched into the skin. Resting across his right knee was a silver pistol.
Ethan's breath stopped for two seconds. His lips moved. A syllable formed in his throat, then was swallowed back down.
"Fuck."
The 27-year-old spoke first, his voice carrying an easy, teasing tone. He stood up, the leather of his dark jacket creaking softly, and walked over to Ethan. They were about the same height. The build honed by years of field work gave him an oppressive presence up close. "It's too complicated to explain. The short version is, you came into this room, and now you have to stay with us for a while."
Ethan took half a step back, his back hitting the door. The coolness seeped through his shirt into his skin.
"Don't be nervous." The young man in the blue police uniform walked over from the corner, his voice clear, carrying a cautious gentleness that surprised Ethan. "We're all stuck here. The door won't open until we do what we're supposed to do." He paused, his blue eyes flicking to the 36-year-old version of himself in the corner, then to the middle-aged man in the chair, and finally back to Ethan. "My name is Leon. Leon S. Kennedy."
"I think I know who you are." Ethan's voice was dry. His fingers clenched at his trouser seams, knuckles white. Beneath his white shirt, the rise and fall of his chest grew more pronounced. "The problem is, all four of you are him."
"Different points in time of the same person." The 49-year-old finally spoke. His voice was low, like sandpaper scraping wood, each word dragging a rough tail. "I'm not going to explain time paradoxes. The door is locked. The rules are clear. Nobody leaves until it's done." He raised his left hand, tilting his thumb toward the electronic screen glowing on the wall behind him.
Ethan looked over. The screen displayed only two lines of green text: Rule One: Complete all designated actions. Rule Two: Target is Ethan Winters.
The blood rushed to Ethan's head, his temples throbbing. He thought of Mia. Of Rose. Of the last memory before being pulled into this room: he was in a supermarket parking lot, pushing a shopping cart. Mia's strawberry-flavored cereal was on top. Then everything went black, and when he opened his eyes, he was here.
"This has to be a fucking joke," Ethan said.
"I wish it were." The 36-year-old stepped out of the corner. The light's shadow slid from his brow bone, across his nose bridge, to his jaw. The smell of alcohol was heavy on him, mixed with gunpowder and the smell of a leather holster. He seemed drained of all excess expression, only a thin layer of weariness clinging to his bones. "You have a family. I can feel it. I also have a job to do. The faster we get this done, the sooner we all get out."
Ethan stared at him. "What exactly is 'this' supposed to be?"
The room went silent for three seconds.
The 27-year-old licked his lower lip, tilted his head, and exchanged a look with the young man in the blue uniform. The younger version blushed. The tips of his ears turned a noticeable red, like a small patch of blood seeping under punctured skin. He lowered his gaze, his right hand unconsciously fiddling with the button on his uniform cuff.
Ethan understood.
The blood drained from his head to his feet in one rush. His fingers went cold.
"No." Ethan's voice rose. "I'm married. I have a daughter."
"We want out too." The 36-year-old's tone was flat, carrying no excess emotion, like a mission report. "The rules specify the target. There's no other option."
"Four of you against one of me?" Ethan's throat tightened. Each word seemed scraped from his throat.
"Five." The 49-year-old stood up, the chair legs scraping the floor with a short, sharp screech. He placed his pistol on the seat, moving slowly, as if every joint carried the stiffness of old injuries. "To be precise, four Leons and one you. Five people. At the same time." He walked over at an unhurried pace, the sound of his leather soles striking the floor even and steady. He stopped in front of Ethan, his gray-blue eyes like frozen lake water, scanning from Ethan's forehead to his chin, then back to his eyes. "I have no interest in torturing you. Rules have to be followed. I'm not the kind of person who likes to waste time."
Ethan's jaw muscles tightened. He looked at the man in front of him, older than himself by nearly a dozen years. At the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the white at his temples, the expression that had been weathered into coldness by too many years. The fear in him slowly settled,沉淀 into a numb, grim acceptance.
"Fuck," Ethan muttered under his breath.
"Very soon." The 27-year-old clapped him on the shoulder. The warmth of his hand penetrated the fabric of Ethan's shirt. "Let's start with something simple."
He paused, his fingers lingering on Ethan's shoulder for an extra two seconds, then withdrew. The young man in the blue uniform had already walked to the cardboard box, bent down, and picked up the black blindfold. He turned it over in his hands. The fabric was soft. The folded edges had a few loose threads, as if it had just been taken out of a package. He walked back and stopped in front of Ethan.
"Put it on." His voice trembled a little, but his movements were steady. He held the blindfold up in front of Ethan's eyes. The elastic band made a faint, taut sound.
Ethan raised a hand and took the blindfold. His fingers brushed the young man's fingertips. The other's hand was very warm. The pads of his fingers had the thin calluses of someone who had been practicing with a gun. Ethan closed his eyes and slipped the blindfold over his head. The elastic band tightened around the back of his skull, flattening a few strands of hair. The black fabric blocked out all light. The world became pure darkness.
"Okay." The voice of the 27-year-old came from directly in front of him. "You have to guess which one of us is fucking you. If you guess wrong, we'll go harder. If you guess right, that person's turn is over."
"How the fuck am I supposed to figure that out?" Ethan said into the darkness.
"You can." The voice in the blue uniform came from the left, very close. Ethan could feel the warmth of the other's breath brushing his ear. "We're different ages. Different strength. Different rhythm. Even the size and hardness of our cocks are different. You just have to feel carefully, and you'll be able to tell."
Ethan's cock twitched in his pants. Pure physiological reaction, completely unrelated to his will. With vision taken away by the darkness, his hearing and touch had become unnaturally acute. He could hear the breathing of four people in the room. He could distinguish the faint rustle of fabric rubbing together. He could feel the blood inside his body pooling downward in entirely the wrong direction.
Several hands reached for his belt at the same time.
After the crisp sound of the metal buckle snapping open, his zipper was pulled down. The 27-year-old in the dark jacket crouched in front of him. Fingers hooked the waistband of his trousers and pulled them down. Jeans and underwear slid to his knees, then to his calves, then bunched around his ankles. Ethan felt the air hit his bare skin. The hairs on his inner thighs stood up. His scrotum contracted from the temperature change. His cock was already half-hard, exposed to the cold air. The glans peeked out from the foreskin. A small drop of clear fluid seeped from the urethral opening, gleaming with wetness under the light.
"Already hard."
The voice of the 36-year-old came from behind him, cold and dispassionate, as if stating an irrelevant fact. His callused hands reached around from behind, gripped Ethan's waist, thumbs hooking into the hollow between his ribs and hipbones, and pulled upward with force, dragging Ethan off the door and staggering him toward the bed.
Ethan's knees hit the metal edge of the bed frame. His body pitched forward, hands catching himself on the mattress. The white sheets crumpled under his palms. His cock, now dangling in the air, became fully erect. The glans swelled to a deep pink. The pale blue veins on the shaft stood out slightly. Prostatic fluid stretched from the urethral opening into a clear thread, dripping onto the sheet, leaving a small dark spot.
Someone grabbed his buttocks and pulled them apart forcefully. Ethan felt his entrance exposed to the air, the sphincter clenching involuntarily from the tension. The cool lubricant was squeezed directly from the tube, icy cold. His entire body shook violently. The hole clamped down hard, squeezing out excess clear mucus that ran down his perineum, through the folds of his scrotum, and wet his inner thighs.
"Relax." The young, still-raw voice of the blue uniform was in his ear, the breath hot. A well-lubricated finger pressed against his entrance. The fingertip circled, spreading the gel evenly over the folds. The young man's movements were careful. The thin calluses on his fingertip scraped against the sensitive edge of the mucosa. The pressure was so light it felt like he was afraid of breaking something. Under the persistent stimulation, the sphincter slowly loosened. The finger slipped in.
Ethan gritted his teeth, his forehead pressed against the sheet. The sensation of a foreign object entering spread clearly from the inner wall of his rectum—full, distended. That finger bent inside him, turned, pulled out, then pushed back in. Then came a second finger, a third. The young man's knobby fingers, every time they bent, scraped against some spot on the inner wall, making Ethan's cock jump upward. The lubricant made a wet, sticky sound with each piston motion.
"It's ready." The voice of the 27-year-old. The fingers pulled out, bringing with them a trail of translucent mucus, which stretched into a line from the entrance.
Ethan heard the rustle of clothing being shed behind him. The sound of a belt buckle. A zipper. Fabric falling. Then a burning hot cylindrical object pressed against his entrance. The temperature of the glans was so high it almost burned. Precum mixed with lubricant smeared the entry. That cock pushed in. Not fast. Very steady. The glans spread the sphincter open with a faint *pfft* sound, like breaking through a film of water.
Ethan's jaw snapped upward. His mouth fell open. A long, muffled groan rolled from his throat. Every inch of space inside his body was being measured anew by that cock. The folds of his inner wall were flattened by the glans. The deep part of his rectum was filled to a pointed fullness. The other pushed all the way to the base, until their scrotums touched with a soft *pat*, then stopped.
"First one." A voice spoke near Ethan's ear. All four Leons spoke at the same time, from different directions, their voices slightly different in pitch, saying the same words. "Guess who I am."
Ethan gasped for air. The darkness under the blindfold had amplified every sensation to its limit. He could feel the angle of the erection inside him. The glans tilted slightly to the right. The shaft was straight. The rhythm of the thrusts was even and restrained, like a precisely calculated mechanical motion. No impatience. No fancy techniques. Just the most basic in-and-out. Every time it pulled out until only the glans remained caught at the sphincter, then pushed all the way back in.
This rhythm. This restraint and deliberate precision.
"21," Ethan's voice squeezed out from his throat. He heard his own voice, unfamiliar, carrying the sound of panting and moisture.
The person behind him stopped. The cock was still buried inside him. The glans twitched twice.
"Wrong." The voice of the 27-year-old came from the left, carrying a laugh. "It's me."
The cock inside him suddenly began to thrust violently, at least twice as fast. The glans slammed continuously against the deepest part of his rectum. The force was so great that Ethan's entire body slid back and forth on the mattress. His palms couldn't grip the sheets. His nails scraped against the white fabric with a *shh shh* sound. The slap of scrotum against buttocks became a rapid, wet cascade of flesh against flesh. Ethan couldn't form a complete sentence. His mouth hung open, his breath broken into short, gasping sounds.
"Fuck... fuck you..."
Ethan's teeth clenched together, then loosened, then clenched again. Too deep. Every thrust hit that deepest point inside him. The glans ground over it, pulled back, ground over it again. The repeated impact on that one spot twisted into a distorted pleasure. Prostatic fluid leaked from his urethra like a leaky faucet, dripping onto the sheet, accumulating, the color changing from clear to pale white.
"Feeling good?"
The 27-year-old's hand reached around from behind and gripped Ethan's cock. Fingers tightened. Thumb pressed against the frenulum beneath the glans, rubbing back and forth. The stimulation from both ends stacked together. Ethan's back arched upward. His knees slid on the sheet. His entire body bent into a trembling arc.
"I'm going to cum..."
His voice was shattered, broken in his throat. The hand gripping his cock suddenly tightened, the thumb pressing hard against the urethral opening. The urge to climax was forced back. Semen burned in his urethra like a searing pain, mixed with pleasure, scrambling Ethan's mind into a blank. His entire body convulsed violently. His testicles tightened upward, only to be blocked. The feeling of having his orgasm forcefully interrupted made everything go dark before his eyes.
"What's the hurry?" The 27-year-old's voice was still light, though his breathing had noticeably roughened. His cock was still hard, buried in Ethan's body, the glans pulsing deep in his rectum. "It's only just my turn."
He began thrusting again. This time he didn't speed up. Instead, he slowed down. Each stroke went to the deepest point. The glans pressed against that spot at the end of the rectum, deliberately grinding and rotating. Ethan could feel the ridge of the glans' corona scraping against his inner wall. Every subtle bump was magnified ten times. His cock twitched in the other's hand. The urethral opening was blocked. He couldn't cum. Pain and pleasure mixed together, becoming a maddening compound.
"Next."
The 27-year-old suddenly pulled out. The cock made a wet, sticky sound as it left, like pulling out a stopper. He released his grip. Ethan's body suddenly lost its support, collapsing onto the bed. His legs were spread wide. The pink mucosa of his entrance had turned outward, unable to close from being stretched open for so long. Semen leaked from his slit, mixed with prostatic fluid, coating the entire glans.
They gave him no time to catch his breath. A second cock pushed straight in.
This one was thicker than the last. The diameter of the glans stretched the sphincter open so wide that Ethan felt a clear tearing sensation. The skin at the entrance was stretched to its limit, turning into a ring of translucent white. The other didn't pause. He pushed all the way to the base in one go, his pubic bone slamming into Ethan's ass with a dull thud heavier than any before. Ethan let out a short, shrill cry. The sound broke, the latter half crushed into a whimper in his throat.
"Guess." The voice behind him was concise. The tone was cold. The breathing was steady. No extra words.
Ethan could feel the shape of this cock inside him. The glans was wider than the shaft. The curve of the corona was very pronounced. Every time it went in and out, it caught at the sphincter for a moment before forcing its way through. The rhythm of the thrusts was uneven: fast a few times, then slow one time. When it was fast, it was brutal. When it was slow, it seemed deliberately torturous, sliding past the most sensitive spot inside him without giving it direct stimulation.
This way of fucking carried a suppressed rage. A rage directed at the world, at all the shitty things in the past. The cock was just a redirected outlet, swapping the gun for a sex organ.
"36," Ethan said.
The person behind him paused for a moment. The cock pulled out. In the last moment before the glans left his entrance, it deliberately ground hard against the protruding mucosa, making Ethan's whole body convulse.
"Correct." The voice of the 36-year-old had no inflection. He stepped back and sat back down in his corner.
Ethan lay on the bed, breathing heavily. His body was trembling. His entrance was wide open, the pink mucosa turned outward. The sphincter, overstretched, had temporarily lost its ability to contract, leaving a thumb-sized hole through which the moist inner wall of the rectum could be seen—pale pink, glistening with fluid. A mixture of semen and lubricant slowly trickled from the opening, flowing down the crack of his ass.
A pair of hands gripped his waist and turned him over, face up. Ethan's back touched the cold, wet sheet. Sweat, semen, and lubricant had soaked through the white fabric. The cold crept up his spine. The black blindfold was soaked through, clinging to his eye sockets, its shape now conforming to his face.
The young man bent down, his lips nearly touching Ethan's ear. Ethan could smell the clean scent of soap on him, mixed with the faint chemical smell of newly issued police uniform fabric.
"My turn." The young man's voice was low and clear. "They taught me just now. I'll do it right."
Ethan's legs were lifted and pressed toward his chest. His knees hooked over the young man's shoulders. The muscles on the back of his thighs stretched taut. Young Leon's cock pressed against his entrance. The glans rubbed twice around the still-open hole, spreading the mixture of lube and semen, then pushed in hard.
That thrust was ferocious. Ethan's body bounced off the mattress. The back of his head hit the bed frame. The blindfold slipped a little, revealing half an eye. Through that slit, he saw the young man's shoulders rising and falling between his spread legs. Fine beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. His blond hair was plastered to his temples. His blue eyes were wide open. His lips were pressed tight. That expression was pure focus mixed with barely concealed, raw arousal.
"Too fast! Slow—"
Ethan's voice was cut off by the thrusts. The young man didn't respond. He focused on fucking, his hips and abdomen moving with increasing intensity. The sound of pubic bone hitting ass grew louder. His cock was charging blindly inside Ethan's body. No technique whatsoever. Only pure brute force and a half-learned rhythm he'd just been taught by the older versions. That rawness was the most lethal thing. The glas would hit unpredictable spots without warning: sometimes crushing the prostate, sometimes slamming deep into the rectum. Completely without pattern.
Under the barrage of irregular impacts, Ethan came. This time, no one blocked his urethra. Semen shot out in thick spurts, white and sticky, splashing onto his own chest, his shirt, his chin. A few drops even flew into his half-open mouth. The salty, fishy smell filled his nostrils. The ejaculation lasted seven or eight seconds. His entire body convulsed. The sphincter contracted violently, squeezing the young man's cock even tighter. The 21-year-old let out a muffled grunt. His cock jumped inside Ethan. The glans pressed deep into the rectum, and he shot his load, one spurt after another. The impact of the hot semen against the inner wall was clear and intense.
When the young man pulled out, a thick stream of white liquid gushed from Ethan's entrance, flowing down the crack of his ass onto the sheet, forming a puddle. The inside of his thighs were slick with a mixture of lubricant and cum, glistening wetly.
Rough hands dragged Ethan off the bed and repositioned him, bent over the edge. His upper body hung down, his fingertips barely touching the floor. His ass was lifted high. His entrance pointed upward, the semen still leaking out.
The 49-year-old walked around to the other side of the bed and crouched in front of Ethan. He reached out a hand, cupped Ethan's chin, and lifted his face, the blindfold covering most of it, toward his own direction. Ethan could feel his breath: dry, steady, carrying a very faint scent of tobacco and an even fainter trace of whiskey.
"Not done yet." That low voice was very close. "That was just the warm-up."
Ethan felt a fourth cock push into him from behind. This one was different from the first three. The glans had a slight upward curve. A prominent vein ran diagonally along the shaft, bulging noticeably. The moment it entered, Ethan felt that vein. It was like a thick cable, scraping from the sphincter all the way to the deepest part of the rectum, plowing through every single fold on the inner wall.
"Guess." The 49-year-old's voice was in his ear. The hand still holding his chin didn't let go. The thumb pressed against the corner of his mouth, pushing slightly, opening his half-closed lips wider.
Ethan gasped in the darkness. The rhythm of this cock's thrusts was neither fast nor slow. Each thrust was incredibly powerful. The glans pulled back to the entrance, the shaft completely withdrawn except for the tip, then the hips slammed forward with explosive force, driving the whole thing in deep, like driving a stake into the ground. The sound of pubic bone hitting ass was dull and solid. The thud of a fist hitting a sandbag.
The rhythm was the most mature of all. Not the impatience of the young one. Not the technical showing-off of the 27-year-old. Not the suppressed anger of the 36-year-old. This rhythm was precise to the millisecond, constantly probing the line between what Ethan could handle and what would break him. Just enough to let him endure. Just enough to drive him to the edge.
"49," Ethan said, his voice muffled by the thumb pressing on his lips.
The person behind him paused for a moment. The cock pulled out.
"Correct."
As the cock withdrew, the ridge of the glans deliberately scraped around the protruding mucosa at the entrance. Ethan's body convulsed violently. Another stream of thick fluid seeped out. But he didn't sense the man leaving. Two seconds later, a cock pressed against his entrance again. The glans was hard and hot. The upward curve at the tip was familiar.
"Guess." Another voice sounded from Ethan's left. At the same time, the cock behind him drove in hard, all the way to the base in one thrust.
Ethan's brain short-circuited. His entrance was still leaking semen. The mucosa on the inner wall, swollen and congested after being fucked continuously for hours, had become incredibly sensitive. The pink flesh was so tender that any slight friction triggered an excessive nerve response. When this cock pushed in, his sphincter offered no resistance. It just welcomed it limply. The mucosa clung obediently around it, as if actively sucking.
Who? The rhythm was so fast. From the very start, a full sprint. Pubic bone slamming into ass. The man's testicles slapping against Ethan's scrotum with a wet *pat pat pat*. This rhythm, this reckless brute force...
"Twen—"
Ethan had barely started when his voice was cut off by another cock. A second cock shoved up from beneath his perineum. The glans forced its way into the already stuffed entrance, squeezing in. Ethan's body had only one physiological response in that moment: a scream. The sound surged from deep in his throat, sharp and piercing, bouncing off the soundproofed walls, filling the entire room.
The sphincter was stretched beyond its limit—a limit that had already been reached. The small entrance, already completely filled by one cock, now had a second forcing its way in. The skin at the opening stretched to the point of transparency. Through it, one could see tiny broken capillaries leaving dark red specks like ink splattered on skin. Two cocks lay side by side in his rectum. Their glans squeezed against each other. The veins on their shafts rubbed against different areas of the inner wall. Every simultaneous withdrawal and thrust felt like his insides were being churned.
"Guess!" The 27-year-old's voice shouted into his right ear, his breath hot, carrying laughter.
"Guess!" The 21-year-old's voice shouted into his left ear, also hot, more urgent, his breath ragged.
Ethan's mouth hung open. His chin trembled. His tongue moved uselessly in his mouth. The blindfold was soaked with sweat and tears, clinging to his face like a second skin. He could feel every detail of the two cocks inside him. One on the left, the glans pointing slightly upward, liked to burrow deep when thrusting. One on the right, the glans pointing slightly downward, deliberately rubbed against the direction of the prostate when thrusting. The two cocks pulsed side by side deep in his rectum. Semen flowed down from all sides of the inner wall, filling his entire bowel.
"21 and 27." Ethan's voice was broken.
The two cocks stopped.
"Wrong." Both men said at the same time.
The punishment that followed was more brutal than anything before. The two cocks started thrusting at completely different rhythms. When the left was fast, the right was slow. When the right was deep, the left was shallow. Alternating impacts. No chance to catch his breath. The inner wall of his rectum was covered in swollen bumps—congested mucosal folds—being crushed repeatedly by the glans of two cocks. His prostate, hammered continuously, had swollen to one and a half times its normal size. Every touch made his cock jump, releasing from the opening not semen anymore, but a thin, clear liquid mixed with the pale yellow of urine.
"Let me guess again. Fuck. Thir—thirty—" Ethan's voice was muffled against the mattress, indistinct.
"Thirty what?" The 27-year-old's voice was right next to his ear. His tongue slid out, the tip tracing the curve of Ethan's earlobe from bottom to top, then he took the lobe into his mouth and bit down gently.
"36?" Ethan said.
"Wrong. 36's turn ended a long time ago." Another voice said.
Both cocks pulled out at the same time, bringing with them a large gush of thick semen and intestinal fluid. It splashed onto the sheet, which was now completely soaked, turned a pale gray. Ethan's entrance was now unable to close. Completely unable to close. The opening stretched into a deep red hole, through which a ring of swollen rectal mucosa protruded, covered in tiny red spots from the friction.
Ethan lay on the bed, his body completely limp. His knees couldn't hold him. He was like a wet rag spread across the mattress. The black blindfold had been pushed up onto his forehead, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes. The whites were filled with red veins. Tears and sweat mixed together, covering his face. A string of snot hung from his nose. His lips were cracked, the tip of his tongue showing traces of blood.
"I can't take it anymore." Ethan's voice was hoarse, as if his vocal cords had been sanded down. "Let me rest... give me one minute..."
"No." The 49-year-old's voice came from across the room. A chair leg scraped across the floor. Footsteps approached. The sound of leather soles on the ground was heavier than before.
Rough hands turned Ethan over. He lay on his back, his back touching the cold, wet sheet. The shirt on his chest was soaked through with sweat and semen, becoming translucent, clinging to his skin, showing the outline of his ribs and his nipples. Ethan turned his head and saw the 36-year-old Leon sitting quietly in the corner, holding a flat metal flask to his lips. His Adam's apple moved up and down. Over the rim of the flask, his bloodshot eyes stared straight at Ethan. His expression was blank, but the bulge in his crotch had returned.
"Two left." The 49-year-old leaned down, his palm pressing against Ethan's sweaty forehead. His thumb wiped away a bead of sweat on Ethan's brow. "36 and I aren't done yet." He turned his head and gave a nod to the version of himself in the corner. "Come here."
The 36-year-old screwed the cap back on the flask and tucked it into his jacket's inner pocket. He stood up and walked over. Each step carried the slight tilt of a drunk man. His face wasn't red. His eyes were still cold. His pupils were darker than before. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Ethan.
"You guessed wrong earlier," he said.
Ethan's vision was blurry. He could only see a shape. Those callused hands gripped his ankles and pushed his legs apart and upward. The 36-year-old didn't enter immediately. His hand slid up the inside of Ethan's thigh. The calluses on his fingertips scraped against the wet skin. The rough sensation made the muscles in Ethan's leg twitch involuntarily. His fingers found Ethan's cock, wrapped around it, and stroked upward from the base. The pressure was not strong. Very slow. So slow that every inch of skin was made to tremble by the touch of those calluses. The transparent fluid at the glans was squeezed out, stretching into a thread, dripping onto the heel of the hand.
"You're married." The 36-year-old's voice didn't have the intonation of a question. It was a statement. "You have a child."
Ethan's body froze. His pupils suddenly contracted. His breath caught in his throat. His chest heaved once, violently.
"Don't touch them."
Ethan's voice had completely changed. The pleading and collapse from before were gone. What replaced it was a low, teeth-gritted warning. The voice of a husband. The voice of a father.
"I won't." The 36-year-old pressed his cock against Ethan's entrance. The glans was hotter than before. Alcohol had accelerated his blood circulation, raising the hardness of his erection to a new level. "But you have to cooperate. This is the fastest way out."
He pushed in. There was no resistance left in Ethan's entrance. The cock slid straight into the depths of his rectum. Smooth. Only the ridge of the glans scraping against the swollen inner wall made Ethan's body jerk violently. The 36-year-old's thrusts had no pause. From the very start, full speed. Every time his pubic bone slammed into Ethan's ass, it carried a grim determination, as if he wanted to crush all excess emotion into that point of impact. The glans kept hitting the end of the rectum, which had already been numbed and swollen by the four before him. Now, under the assault, pleasure had turned into a dull ache, and the ache, in its numbness, twisted back into a strange kind of pleasure.
Ethan's cock, beyond his control, got hard again. Hard to the point of pain. The glans turned purple-red. The opening was wide, but nothing came out. Just a constant seepage of clear fluid. His prostate was so swollen it could be felt through the abdominal wall. A small hard lump bulged at his perineum.
"My turn."
The 49-year-old walked around to the other side of the bed. He reached out, pressed down on Ethan's shoulder, and pulled him off the 36-year-old's cock, turning him in midair and pushing him down. Ethan's entrance aligned with another cock. That one, with the obvious bulging vein, drove in to the base.
The 49-year-old didn't start thrusting right away. He stayed at the deepest point. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. The glans pulsed slightly at the end of the rectum. The bulging vein on the shaft slowly beat against the spot where Ethan's prostate was. Each heartbeat transmitted through the vein to the swollen gland, turning into a slow, maddening torture. Then he began to move. Slowly. With immense force. Every withdrawal brought him back until the glans was caught at the entrance. Every insertion drove the entire length to the deepest point, as if he wanted to nail Ethan to the bed with his cock.
The 36-year-old moved to the front. His knees pressed into the mattress. His cock was right in front of Ethan's face. The glans was coated in a mixture of cum and intestinal fluid, glistening wet. He reached out, threaded his fingers into Ethan's sweat-damp hair, and pulled Ethan's face toward his crotch.
"Open your mouth."
Ethan's mouth was forced open. The glans shoved in, hitting the back of his throat, pressing his tongue down. His mouth was filled. His tongue lay against the frenulum of the cock. The salty, fishy taste flooded his entire mouth. He couldn't make any sound. Only a muffled rumble rolled in his throat, like bubbles from a drowning man underwater.
The 49-year-old fucked him from behind. The 36-year-old fucked his mouth from the front. Two cocks, separated by the wall of the rectum and the soft palate of the roof of the mouth, thrust inside the same body at the same time. Ethan's body became a buffer sandwiched between two directions of impact, his lungs squeezed empty with each blow. Every breath had to be snatched in the brief moment when both cocks withdrew simultaneously.
The 36-year-old came first. His cock twitched twice in Ethan's mouth. The glans pressed against the deep part of his throat. A hot gush of semen poured directly into his esophagus. Ethan was forced to swallow. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down underneath the cock. The semen flooded into his stomach. His stomach cramped. When the 36-year-old pulled out, half a spurt of cum sprayed onto Ethan's face, from his eyebrows to his nose, then into the corner of his mouth.
Then the 49-year-old reached his peak. His hands clamped down on Ethan's hip bones, his nails digging into the skin, leaving ten crescent-shaped white marks. The cock inside Ethan suddenly swelled, increasing in girth. The glans drove to the deepest point. Semen shot in gush after gush, flooding the deepest part of the rectum. The amount was more than all the others combined. Ethan could feel the liquid spreading in the deep cavity of his abdomen, rising up along the bends of his intestines. It was so hot it felt like a bag of freshly heated fluid had been poured inside.
When the 49-year-old pulled out, the sound was wet beyond description. Then a huge gush of white, thick almost like paste, poured from Ethan's entrance. It flowed for three seconds without stopping. It ran down the crack of his ass and pooled on the sheet into a puddle the size of a palm.
Ethan's body was completely limp. He lay on the bed, trembling all over. The muscles on the inside of his thighs twitched uncontrollably. His toes curled and uncurled, like a mild version of a seizure. His consciousness flickered between clarity and blur. His eyes rolled back. His mouth hung open. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His tongue lolled out, still carrying strands of unshed cum. Then he started coughing. His entire body curled up as he coughed. Semen mixed with stomach acid burned his esophagus. He turned to the side and spat out a mouthful of white liquid, dirtying the sheet.
"Is it over?" His voice was nothing but air. His vocal cords were completely shot.
The room was quiet.
The 27-year-old let out a soft laugh. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the headboard. "Over?" His voice was still light, but the warmth in his eyes had turned very cold. "What do you think, old man?"
The 49-year-old stood beside the bed, cleaning his pistol. His gray-blue eyes looked up from the sight of the gun. The lines at the corners of his mouth deepened, as if carved lines had been traced once more.
"No," he said.
Ethan's blindfold was pulled back down, covering his eyes. Darkness descended once again.
He lay on the soaked sheet. The muscles between his legs were still twitching. Semen kept seeping from his entrance, soaking the sheet beneath his ass. The rustle of fabric. Footsteps. The soft clink of a metal flask. The remaining four Leons were moving. The darkness cut off his vision, making every sound piercing.
Someone crouched beside him. Fingers pinched the left nipple on his chest. The fingertips were rough. The nails were cut short. The calluses on the pads scraped across his areola, and the sensitive skin immediately puckered. The nub hardened between the fingers. It was pinched, twisted, pulled outward. Ethan's back arched. The base of the nipple was stretched to its limit, the skin pulling into a white cone. The pull didn't bring pain. It brought a stimulation like an electric shock, shooting from his chest to his lower abdomen. His already-spent cock twitched and jumped. A clear drop oozed from the slit.
"Very sensitive nipples." The voice of the 49-year-old. Low. Carrying the faint smell of smoke.
Another hand reached around from behind. Fingers pushed directly into his entrance. Two fingers spread the sphincter, scraped a circle around the inner wall of the rectum, scraping out the residual semen, and smeared it over his perineum. The liquid flowed down the folds of his perineum, onto his scrotum. The coolness crept slowly over every pore of his skin.
Ethan gritted his teeth. A muffled whimper rolled from his throat. The blindfold was soaked again.
The 21-year-old was still kneeling at the edge of the bed, his breathing not yet settled from his climax. Two buttons of his uniform collar were open. His collarbone glistened with sweat. His cock was hard again. The young body recovered too quickly.
The 27-year-old walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. The palm was warm, pressing against the young man's shoulder blade through the fabric of his uniform.
"Easy." His voice was low and steady, carrying a tone of step-by-step instruction. "You've fucked once already. It was all over the place. You didn't even aim properly."
The 21-year-old turned his head. His blue eyes held a mix of lingering desire and a hint of stubborn defiance. "I came," he said.
"Coming doesn't mean you fucked well." The 27-year-old let go of his shoulder and walked around to the other side of the bed. He crouched between Ethan's spread legs. He pushed two fingers into the still-open entrance. Gently, he spread the red, swollen mucosa, revealing the deep red inner wall. A mixture of lube and semen stretched in strings between his fingers.
"Look," the 27-year-old said to his younger self. "This spot." His fingers bent. The pads found a slightly raised area on the inner wall. He pressed gently. Ethan's body jerked violently. His cock jumped upward, shooting out a small gush of clear fluid. A hoarse scream squeezed from his throat.
"This is the prostate." The 27-year-old's voice sounded like he was giving an anatomy lesson. Flat. Precise. "If you go in from here, aim forward and up, about the second knuckle in. Feel it? It's firmer than the surrounding tissue. Slightly springy."
The 21-year-old walked over and bent down, staring at the spread-open entrance. His breathing grew heavier. His nostrils flared. The light in his blue eyes gathered around his pupils. He swallowed. His Adam's apple moved once.
"How did you know?" he asked.
"I've fucked more people than you've ever seen." The 27-year-old withdrew his fingers and wiped them on the sheet. He stood up and patted his younger self on the back, his palm resting between his shoulder blades for two seconds. "Now it's your turn. Don't rush. Don't just stab blindly. Once you're in, find that spot. Rub it with the head. Don't pound. Pounding hurts. Rubbing feels good. Listen to the pitch of his voice. If it gets higher, you've found it. If it gets lower, you're off."
The 21-year-old bit his lip and knelt back between Ethan's legs. His cock was fully erect again, a deeper shade than before, from pink to a light red. The opening on the glans was open, a drop of clear fluid beading at the tip. He gripped his cock, pressed the glans against the entrance, and pushed in.
This time he didn't go all the way in immediately. He stopped halfway. The glans scraped across the inner wall of the rectum, searching for that spot. Ethan's gluteal muscles contracted. The entrance clamped around the shaft. The pink mucosa turned outward and inward with the movement of the cock. The glans finally touched a spot that was hard yet pliant. Ethan's legs suddenly clamped around the young man's waist. His heels hooked over his back. A high-pitched moan rose from his throat.
"There." The 27-year-old stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching like a supervisor overseeing a tactical drill. "Right there. Now turn in a circle. Use the ridge of the glans to rub that spot."
The 21-year-old did as instructed. The raised ridge of the corona scraped across the swollen prostate. Ethan's cry turned into almost a scream. His cock came without being touched. Thin liquid shot up in spurts, hitting his stomach, splashing onto his chest and his chin. The entire orgasm lasted nearly ten seconds. Finally, only clear mucus came out, pooling in a small puddle on his navel.
"Don't stop. Keep going." The 27-year-old's tone was still calm. "What he's ejaculating now is the residue in his urethra. The prostate orgasm comes later."
The 21-year-old's cock was still hard. The stamina of youth was astonishing. He began to thrust according to the instructions. Each time, the glans precisely crushed that raised spot. The force was moderate. The rhythm was extremely steady. Ethan's cries broke into beats. Each thrust corresponded to a hoarse, short scream. The rhythm was so precise it seemed controlled by a metronome.
"Nice sound." The 36-year-old's voice came from the corner of the room. He had finished his flask. He stood up, his steps a bit steadier than before. He walked to the bed, looking down at Ethan, who was being fucked by his 21-year-old self.
The 49-year-old approached from the other side. His belt was completely undone. His trousers hung open. His cock extended from the open zipper. The glans was a deep purple. The tip curved slightly upward. The bulging vein on the shaft stood out like a hardened line on a gun barrel. He reached out and grabbed Ethan's right nipple. His index finger and thumb tightened and pulled outward. The nipple stretched into a long, thin shape. The ring of skin at the base pulled white. At the same time, the 36-year-old reached out and grabbed the left nipple.
Both pulled outward at the same time. Ethan's chest lifted off the bed. A tearing sensation came from the base of his nipples. That feeling, at the nerve endings, transformed into a lava-like heat flowing outward along his ribs in all directions. He couldn't scream anymore. His mouth opened to its widest. His tongue vibrated. What came from his throat was only a hissing sound of air scraping through the spaces between his vocal cords.
The 49-year-old's thumb rubbed the tip of the nipple. His nail scraped across the opening. The 36-year-old's method was more extreme. He curled his entire finger, using the knuckle to clamp the nipple and rubbed it in a grinding motion. Their rhythms were not synchronized. Fast and slow alternated. Left and right were out of sync. Ethan's brain had no way to predict which side the next stimulation would come from. His chest deformed under the pull from two directions. Red fingerprints remained on his skin.
"A nipple ring would make it better." The 49-year-old's voice. He let go. The stretched nipple snapped back, leaving a deep red mark on the skin. He walked around the foot of the bed, coming to a stop behind Ethan.
The 21-year-old was still fucking him, his rhythm as regular as a wound-up mechanical device. His breathing grew heavier. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, but he didn't blink. He stared at the stretched entrance and his cock going in and out. He was close.
"Don't come inside." The 49-year-old pressed down on his shoulder. The 21-year-old stopped. His cock was still buried, pulsing. "Pull out. Come on his back."
The 21-year-old pulled out abruptly. The glans made a wet, sticky sound as it left the entrance. He gripped his cock and stroked twice. Semen shot from the slit. The first spurt hit the middle of Ethan's spine. The second spurt landed in the hollow between his shoulder blades. The third spurt was weaker, running down from his waist. White semen traced three parallel lines across his sweat-sheened back.
The 21-year-old collapsed onto the edge of the bed, panting heavily. His cock finally softened, hanging between his legs. A clear fluid still seeped from the glans. His blue eyes were half-closed. Sweatdrops clung to his eyelashes.
Ethan was still convulsing in the aftermath. His body was prone. The semen on his back had not yet cooled. New hands gripped his waist again. Those rough hands turned him over, face down, burrowing into the soaked sheet.
"Not time for you to rest yet." The 49-year-old's voice came from above his head.
Someone spread his legs, one hand on each knee, pushing outward to the limit. His hip joints made a faint *click*. The tendons on the inside of his thighs stretched to their maximum. His ass was raised to its highest point. His entrance pointed upward, still leaking fluid.
Another cock pushed in. The size of the glans immediately told him who it was. The 36-year-old's cock. The glans was thicker than the shaft. The corona scraped against the inner wall. That coarse friction belonged to no one else. The arousal enhanced by alcohol made the erection extremely hard. The whole cock felt like a rubber-coated steel pipe. It drove straight to the deepest part and began hammering.
No transition. No foreplay. From the very start, top speed. The sound of pubic bone hitting ass became a continuous slap. Fifty to sixty thrusts in one breath. Ethan's face was buried in the sheet. He couldn't scream. His throat was compressed. The sound that came out was like a trapped animal's whimper. The cock inside him withdrew almost completely each time, then slammed back in with full force. The glans crushed the prostate, hit the end of the rectum. The force was so great that his entire body slid back and forth on the mattress.
The 49-year-old walked around to the head of the bed. He crouched down, grabbed Ethan's hair, and pulled his face out of the sheet. The black blindfold was crooked, revealing one eye. The white of the eye had turned completely red. The pupil was dilated to almost fill the entire iris. Tears, sweat, and semen smeared his whole face. His gaze was scattered, focus coming and going like a broken display.
"Hang in there." The 49-year-old's voice was close to his ear, his lips brushing his earlobe. "Three more left."
Ethan's lips moved. Air leaked from the gap between them, carrying an almost inaudible sound.
The 36-year-old continued to fuck him. Suddenly, he changed his angle. His cock thrust upward. The glans crushed the prostate with precision. That single impact made Ethan completely lose control. His abdominal muscles contracted violently. His buttocks trembled. His cock bounced, squeezing out another puddle of fluid. He lost control of his bladder. What came from his slit was not semen. It was clear urine mixed with a tiny amount of white. It flowed down his cock shaft, dripping onto the sheet, creating a rapidly spreading dark patch.
The urine reached the 36-year-old's cock, still buried inside him. The warm liquid slid down the shaft, entering the rhythm of the thrusts. The 36-year-old didn't stop. He reached out, his five fingers spread and pressed against Ethan's lower back, pushing his lumbar spine down, making his ass stick up higher, at a better angle. He sped up.
"Tighten." His voice was cold, like a command.
Ethan's sphincter had no strength left. Under continuous stimulation, his body began to go into spontaneous spasms. The muscles of the inner wall of his rectum contracted violently every few seconds, clenching around the foreign object inside him. That unpredictable spasm was more stimulating than any intentional tightening. The 36-year-old's breathing finally broke. A low, rough gasp escaped from deep in his throat. He drove in all the way, the glans pressing into the deepest part. Semen shot from his slit, directly hitting the inner wall of the rectum. The hot stream surged upward along the intestine in gush after gush, filling every space.
When the 36-year-old pulled out, his cock was coated in a layer of white. A ring of deep red mucosa followed, turning outward from Ethan's entrance. Then a gush of white semen, as much as if a jar of paste had been knocked over. The 36-year-old stepped back. After three deep breaths, his breathing steadied. He turned and walked to the wall, pulling out his flask and taking another sip.
Ethan lay on the bed. His lower body was completely limp. His legs were open. The unclosable hole between his buttocks kept spilling semen, flowing down the base of his thighs, dripping onto the sheet with a soft *pat pat* sound. He could only hear his own heartbeat. The sound of blood hitting his eardrums. And, somewhere in the room, the tight sound of elastic from the 27-year-old Leon pulling off his gloves.
Subtly, a change came in the air. A faint white light flickered. The figure in blue on the edge of the bed became pale. The clothes lost their color first. The blond hair turned translucent. The outline of the young face was gradually eroded by the glow. Then the whole person faded, like oil on water being washed away by a wave. The 21-year-old Leon was gone.
Ethan didn't see it. The air stirred beside him, carrying the last remnant of the young man's clean soap smell. The spot on the sheet where the young body had sat still held a shallow indentation, slowly springing back.
"Three left." The 49-year-old's voice sounded.
The indentation on the sheet where the young man had sat had already completely rebounded. The smell of soap in the air dissipated quickly, overwhelmed by the stronger, fishy scent of semen and sweat. Ethan lay on the bed, his face buried in the wet fabric, breathing in and out, pulling the sheet into his mouth and blowing it out. His thighs were still shaking. Muscles twitched intermittently, like an overloaded circuit.
A hand grabbed the back of his neck and lifted him off the soaked sheet. The fingers were rough. The force was precise. Just enough to raise his head without actually injuring his cervical spine. The 36-year-old turned him over and dropped him onto his back on the mattress. The wet sheet slapped against his shoulder blades. The cold ran down his spine.
Everything was still dark before Ethan's eyes. The blindfold was crookedly hanging on his forehead. One eye was covered. The other was exposed. In that exposed eye, the pupil was hugely dilated. Only a narrow ring of gray-blue iris remained. Tears and sweat mixed together at the corner of his eye, flowing into his ear, making him tilt his head slightly from the tickling.
The 36-year-old stood at the bedside, looking down at him. Those bloodshot eyes were like two shards of cracked ice: cold and opaque. He reached out, pulled the crooked blindfold off Ethan's forehead, and put it back into position, covering both eyes.
"Don't be in a hurry to open your eyes," his voice was dry, like a rusty hinge. "Two more left."
Ethan's lips moved. A sound of air came from his throat. The vibration frequency of his vocal cords was too low to be heard clearly. He swallowed. His Adam's apple moved with difficulty. Saliva mixed with the still-unshed fishy taste of semen.
"I said," his voice finally squeezed out, hoarse as if scraped out by sandpaper, "let me have some water."
The 36-year-old looked at him for two seconds. He turned around, walked to the corner, and picked up an unopened bottle of water. The *crack* of the plastic cap being twisted off was crisp. He brought the bottle opening to Ethan's mouth and tilted it. Water poured into Ethan's mouth. Most of it went in. A small part spilled from the corner of his mouth, ran down his jawline to his neck, and collected in a small puddle in the hollow of his collarbone.
Ethan drank in large gulps. His Adam's apple moved continuously. The water flowed from his esophagus into his stomach. A coolness spread from inside his chest outward.
On the third gulp, two fingers suddenly pushed into his entrance.
Water went down the wrong pipe. Ethan coughed violently. Mineral water sprayed out, splashing his face. The two fingers turned in his rectum. They bent. The pads pressed precisely against the position of the prostate. The body that had just barely begun to recover from the afterglow was dragged back to the edge of the abyss in an instant. His cock jumped. Clear fluid oozed from the slit.
"Done coughing?" The 36-year-old's voice was next to his ear. The fingers didn't pull out. They kept circling that swollen gland. "Good. The rules say everything must be completed. You're wasting everyone's time."
"Fuck you," Ethan said through gritted teeth. His teeth clicked together. Blood seeped from his gums. The taste of rust dissolved on his tongue.
"You won't get the chance."
The 36-year-old's fingers pulled out. The sphincter made a wet, sucking sound. He wiped the mucus from his fingers onto the inside of Ethan's thigh. He stood up and unbuckled his belt. The hem of his black shirt came out from his trousers. He unbuttoned three buttons, revealing the old scars on his chest. The scar that ran horizontally below his collarbone was left by a mission. A bullet grazed by. Three centimeters to the left would have hit his carotid artery.
He climbed onto the bed. His knees pressed against Ethan's body on either side. His cock pressed against the entrance. He didn't push in directly. The glans rubbed around the opening twice, spreading the mucus, then slowly pushed in. The speed was so slow it was torturous.
Ethan could feel every detail of that cock inside him. The glans tilted to the right. A vein ran diagonally around the shaft. The hardness was even higher than before. The alcohol in the 36-year-old's bloodstream was still working, keeping the state of congestion at an extreme level. The cock pushed in inch by inch. Ethan's body was filled inch by inch.
"You're tighter than before," the 36-year-old said. His tone was cold. Restrained. Precise. He gripped Ethan's knees, pushed them outward, folding Ethan into a more open position. His hips began to move. The rhythm was not fast. The range was large. Each time, he pulled out until the glans just barely caught at the entrance, then drove all the way to the base. When his pubic bone hit Ethan's ass, he would pause for half a second, grinding the glans at the deepest part of the rectum before pulling back.
The blindfold was completely soaked. The cotton had absorbed so many tears that it had molded itself into a perfect concave shape against the curve of his eye sockets. His breathing was broken into staccato by the thrusts. Each impact corresponded to a forced exhalation. The sound of air being forced from his lungs became short, muffled grunts, perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of the thrusting inside him.
The 36-year-old fucked in silence. He was not like the 27-year-old who talked. He was not like the 21-year-old who gasped. His breathing was very low. Only when the glans crushed the prostate and Ethan's inner wall convulsed violently would a very faint grunt escape from his nose. The mixture of semen and intestinal fluid, under repeated thrusts, was beaten into a fine white foam, collecting around the folds of the entrance. A ring of milky foam was repeatedly carried in and out with the movement of the cock.
He fucked for a long time. Time lost all reference in this windowless room. Ethan didn't know whether ten minutes or thirty minutes had passed. The cock inside him maintained the same rhythm the entire time. Not fast, not slow. Not hard, not soft. Like some kind of perpetual mechanical program installed inside him, it consumed every inch of his nerves with precision and cruelty. Ethan came twice during this period. The first time, there was still thin semen. The second time, only clear fluid. The fluid from his slit was no longer clearly distinguishable from urine.
Then, suddenly, the 36-year-old straightened up and thrust his hips forward with force. That thrust was deeper than anything before. The glans nearly hit the entrance to the colon. Ethan let out a broken scream. The 36-year-old came inside him. Semen shot into the deepest part of his intestines, spurt after spurt. Each spurt was thick and hot. The impact pressure was so great that Ethan could feel the rhythm of each spurt with his own body. The 36-year-old's breathing finally broke. He panted heavily twice. He pulled out, stood up, pulled up his trousers, and walked to the wall.
A flash of light. Same as before. Transparent, blinding white light. The 36-year-old's body began to dissipate. First, his fingertips faded. Then his forearms. Shoulders. Torso. Just before disappearing, he tilted his head, his eyes looking at Ethan, who was lying limp on the bed. That look was the only recognition he could give to another person trapped in the same fucking world as himself. He disappeared.
An empty flask remained in the corner. Metal body. Its surface worn shiny.
The 27-year-old stood up from the other side of the bed. The zipper of his dark jacket had been pulled open at some point, revealing a dark gray T-shirt beneath. The collar was darkened with sweat. He rolled his neck. The cervical vertebrae made a faint crack. He walked to the bed and looked down at Ethan.
"Two left," he said. The almost-smile was still at the corner of his mouth. The warmth in his eyes had narrowed.
The 49-year-old was still sitting in his chair. He hadn't moved throughout. His pistol lay on the seat. His fingers were interlaced on his knees. His gray-blue eyes were like two nails, nailed into Ethan. He didn't speak. He just watched. That gaze was close to calculation.
Ethan lay on the bed. His entrance was now completely unable to close. The hole was open. Bright red inner wall turned outward, the swollen mucosa covered in fine red veins. Semen flowed from the opening, slow, like a faucet that wasn't fully tightened. His body was a spread of limpness. His muscles had lost all tension. His limbs lay scattered. His fingers curled on the sheet, the fingertips white. The black blindfold was still on. The cotton had absorbed all kinds of fluids. A drop of sweat seeped from the edge, dripping onto the sheet.
"Let me rest for—"
"One minute," the 27-year-old said. He sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed and looked at his watch. The second hand made one full circle. He slapped Ethan's ass. "Time's up."
Ethan's body was turned over again, face down. His ass was lifted. The entrance was spread open by two fingers. The tip of a lubricant tube was inserted directly into his entrance. Cold gel was squeezed in, filling his rectum. The coolness spread from the inner wall, temporarily numbing the burning swelling.
"I'll teach you something." The 27-year-old's voice came from behind. His belt buckle came undone. His zipper came down. His cock sprang out. The glans pressed against the entrance. "There's a spot in your body called the prostate. The kid at 21 took a long time to find it. Your own reaction gave you away."
He pushed in. All the way to the base in one go. The glans crushed that spot with precision. The force, angle, and speed were all perfectly controlled. Ethan's back arched involuntarily. His mouth opened wide. A deformed groan escaped his throat.
"Right here." The 27-year-old's hands gripped Ethan's hipbones. His thumbs hooked into the hollows of his waist. He began to thrust. Each stroke was extremely short. The glans only rubbed back and forth on that raised spot, never going deeper. Under the continuous grinding of the glans, the prostate turned from a swollen, hard lump into a soft, trembling state. The surface was congested to its limit. The glandular tissue had become extremely sensitive.
"Did you feel it? Those four Kennedys, each had a different glans shape." He changed the angle again. The glans pulled back slightly and pushed forward again. "The 21-year-old's was round. Mine is slightly pointed. The 36-year-old's glans was a whole size wider than his shaft. The 49-year-old's has a vein on it."
As he fucked, he talked. His tone was calm. His voice steady. Like he was giving a biology lesson. His cock inside Ethan was getting faster and faster. Short-distance continuous impacts subjected the prostate to hundreds of strikes within a minute. During this process, Ethan's cock remained in a critical state between erection and the inability to ejaculate. The glans turned deep purple. The slit was open, but no fluid came out. He was completely empty. His body was still trying to cum, but the seminal vesicles and prostate had nothing left to expel.
"You've been guessing wrong since the beginning," the 27-year-old's voice was finally showing signs of breathlessness. "Do you know why? Because you've only been paying attention to the sensation, not noticing how we fuck. A 21-year-old fucks without rhythm. A 36-year-old's rhythm is too heavy. When I fuck you, I count your breaths. On your third exhale, I drive in. The old man at 49 doesn't give a fuck about rhythm. He fucks however he wants."
Ethan's face was buried in the sheet. His mouth was open. His teeth bit into the fabric. Behind the blindfold, his eyes were open, but he saw nothing. He needed to use his body to distinguish. The 27-year-old's words entered through his ears and assembled into fragments in his mind. He tried to concentrate. The cock inside him, with rapid, short-range, high-speed impacts, was grinding his concentration into powder.
Breath. He thought. Third time. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out... Impact. He remembered. Exhale. Third time.
The method of fucking suddenly changed. The 27-year-old pulled out. Paused for two seconds. A new cock pushed in. This one was hotter. Extremely hard. The glans was slightly pointed. Once inside, it immediately found the prostate and began hammering it continuously. The rhythm had changed. It wasn't following his breathing. One thrust for every three heartbeats.
"Guess." The 49-year-old's voice came from the left.
At the same time, that cock was still fucking him. Fast. Brutal. Precise. The glans crushed the prostate without hesitation. Each impact produced a short, wet sound. The 49-year-old's cock had a vein. This one didn't. This one was very hot. The glans was slightly pointed. The rhythm counted heartbeats.
"27," Ethan said.
The person behind him stopped. The cock pulled out.
"Correct." The 27-year-old's voice came from the right, with a hint of surprise. "You fucking guessed it."
A white light flared. From the edge of the blindfold, Ethan saw a sliver of light leak through. On the sheet, the figure in the dark jacket became thinner. The sharp facial lines dissolved into the white light. Just before the 27-year-old disappeared, Ethan heard one last sound. A soft laugh. A low, slightly hoarse chuckle from deep in his throat. Then the soft sound of leather gloves landing on the sheet.
Now only two people were left in the room.
Ethan lay on the bed. He heard the sound of leather soles striking the floor. From the chair, walking over step by step. The rhythm was unhurried. Each step carried the faint creak of leather and the crisp tap of a heel. Each step was like a ticking hand on a timer.
The mattress dipped on one side. A rough hand reached out. Fingers hooked the edge of the black blindfold and slowly pushed it upward. The fabric slid across his eyelids. The wet cotton pulled his eyelashes, creating a sticky resistance. The blindfold was removed.
Light stabbed in. Ethan blinked rapidly. Tears welled up. In that blurred vision, he saw the 49-year-old. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over, looking at him. A few strands of graying blond hair had fallen across his forehead. The lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper up close, radiating outward like engraved marks. His eyes weren't old. The gray-blue irises were unnaturally clear, like a frozen surface under ice.
"It's just me left."
The 49-year-old's voice was low. He reached out, his thumb pressing against Ethan's lips, pushing down, indenting the lower lip. The callused fingerprint rubbed horizontally across the lips, from the left corner to the right. The movement was so slow it seemed like wiping away an invisible stain.
"Do you know why I'm the last one?" he said. His thumb continued downward, from his chin to his Adam's apple, pausing for a second on the protruding cartilage. The Adam's apple bobbed once under his thumb. "I have more patience than all of them combined. Forty-nine years worth of patience. Not the kind of patience young people have, where they hold it together for a while. I mean real patience. I can sit here, watch you breathe, watch you recover, wait for you to think that I'm old, that maybe I can't go as hard as those younger ones. And then..." He paused. His finger left Ethan's throat. "I'll show you what 'old and experienced' means."
He stood up and began to unbutton his shirt. One button at a time. Slowly. The shirt came off, revealing the body underneath. The 49-year-old's body was covered in old scars. Each scar was shrunken white tissue, the surrounding skin tighter than elsewhere. The outline of his abdominal muscles was still there, covered by a thin layer of fat, softening the lines of the muscles. The hair on his chest was a gray-blond, the same color as the hair on his head, extending from his collarbone down to his navel.
He pulled out his cock from his waistband. The size was the same as before. The glans had a slight upward curve. The thick, bulging vein on the side of the shaft was a purplish blue. The blood vessel wall bulged under the skin, pulsating with each heartbeat. The glans was fully engorged, deep purple, glistening with moisture.
Ethan looked at him. Without the blindfold, he was no longer seeing only darkness, touch, and sound. He was seeing a real person. A man carrying nearly fifty years of weight on his shoulders. Those scars. The white at his temples. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The calluses on his fingertips. All of it was laid out plainly before him.
"I thought as they left, the ones who stayed would get younger," Ethan said. His voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable. Every word scraped his vocal cords. "How come the oldest one is the last one left?"
"They haven't lived to my age yet."
The 49-year-old climbed onto the bed. His movements were a little slower than thirty years ago. When his knees hit the mattress, he held his breath for a moment before exhaling. He spread Ethan's legs. He didn't rush to enter. He leaned down and looked at Ethan's face. His fingers slid into Ethan's entrance again. One index finger. The second knuckle bent. The pad pressed slowly into the swollen, burning inner wall. He found the prostate. That gland, which had been crushed and abused for two or three hours, was now very swollen. It was firm yet soft. Its elasticity was poor. When pressed, it released a small amount of prostatic fluid, which flowed from the urethral opening. The 49-year-old's fingertip traced a gentle circle on it. The pressure was so light it was almost nonexistent. Still, Ethan's body jerked violently. That area of extreme sensitivity could no longer distinguish between pain and pleasure. All nerve signals were mixed together.
"It's this swollen," the 49-year-old murmured to himself. He pulled his finger out and smeared the fluid on his own glans. He pressed the glans against the entrance.
He entered. Extremely slow. Slower than the slow pace of the 36-year-old earlier. As the glans spread the sphincter, every fold of the mucosa was perceived by Ethan in excruciating detail. That vein entered first. The raised curve scraped through the tightest ring of the sphincter. The glans followed. The protruding part of the corona slowly crushed through that ring of clamped muscle. Inch by inch, the cock pushed deeper. With every inch, Ethan's back arched a little higher. By the time the entire length was fully inside, Ethan's back had almost completely lifted off the bed. From his shoulders to his ass, he formed a suspended arch.
The 49-year-old didn't start fucking immediately. He stayed at the deepest point. Motionless. Both hands held Ethan's waist. His thumbs were hooked into the hollows on each side. His palms were wide. His knuckles were thick, somewhat deformed from wear, but still strong. He just stayed there. The glans pressed against the end of the rectum. He let that thick vein rest against the swollen prostate and pulse slowly. Every heartbeat transmitted through the blood vessel wall to the surface of the gland. That slow, rhythmic beat was like an internal massager. The speed was his heart rate. The pressure was just right.
"Do you know what I was thinking while they were fucking you?" the 49-year-old spoke. His voice was very low, as if speaking only to the two of them. "I was thinking that being young is fucking great. The 21-year-old version of myself, his first time ever fucking someone, and it's you. And he could get hard again right after. The 27-year-old, that's when I honed all my technique. He tried seven or eight different angles on you. The 36-year-old, he poured all the shit he'd been holding in his whole life into your body."
He began to move. Extremely slow. Pulling out took five seconds. Pushing in took five seconds. The glans would retreat to the sphincter ring at the entrance. The corona would catch at the opening. Then slowly push back in. That vein scraped back and forth along the inner wall. Each time it passed the prostate precisely. No pause. Just passing by. He only did ten of these slow thrusts. Each one made Ethan feel like he was being disassembled into parts, piece by piece. Too slow. So slow that every nerve ending had enough time to transmit the tactile signal completely to his brain. Signal upon signal, layering up, with no outlet for release.
"As for me?" the 49-year-old continued. His voice began to carry a faint trace of breathlessness. His breathing deepened. "At my age, I don't have the strength of youth. I don't have the recovery speed. I don't have the impulse. But there's one thing I have that they don't."
Suddenly, he accelerated. The power that exploded from his hips and abdomen was completely unlike a man approaching fifty. The sound of pubic bone hitting ass was so loud it was like slapping a table. Ethan was slammed so hard he slid three or four centimeters across the mattress before being dragged back by both hands. The high-frequency assault lasted ten seconds. Then it stopped abruptly, returning to a slow pace. The switching between fast and slow had no warning. No rhythm to follow. Completely random.
"I don't need a rhythm." The 49-year-old's voice was right next to Ethan's ear. "I go fast when I want. I go slow when I want. You can't guess what I'll do next. You can't guess what's going through the mind of a man who has lived for forty-nine years."
Ethan's mouth opened to its widest. Disjointed sounds came from his throat. A sound between a scream and crying. A失控的 vocalization. His cock was hard again. The veins bulged. The glans had turned from dark purple to an almost black deep red. No fluid came out. The seminal vesicles were empty. The prostate had been completely wrung dry. Only the slit was still oozing a transparent fluid. Wave after wave of dry orgasmic convulsions attacked his body. His abdominal muscles twitched. The muscle bundles on the inside of his thighs jumped like insects crawling under his skin. His sphincter contracted violently in an unconscious spasm, squeezing so hard that the 49-year-old let out a muffled grunt.
"Fuck," the 49-year-old muttered under his breath. He stopped controlling his rhythm. He began to sprint at full speed. That rhythm had no technique in it. It was pure, naked fucking driven by physical strength. The sound of pubic bone hitting ass became so dense it melded into one continuous sound. That vein plowed back and forth against the inner wall of the rectum. The glans repeatedly slammed into the same deepest point. Ethan's body was completely out of control. His fingers were clenched into the sheet, all knuckles white. His toes curled. The muscles of his calves were hard as stone. His mouth was open. His tongue hung out. Saliva flowed from the base of his tongue, down the corner of his mouth.
"Scream," the 49-year-old's voice was above him. "Say my name."
"Li—" Ethan's voice was broken by a deep thrust. The glans crushed the prostate. The syllable shattered in his throat.
"Wrong." A faster, harder thrust.
"Leon!" Ethan screamed.
"Wrong." The 49-year-old slowed down. The glans retreated to the entrance and stopped there, only the front tip of the glans caught in the sphincter ring. That vein pulsed slightly at the entrance. "I'm the oldest of the four. What should you call me?"
Ethan's brain short-circuited in that instant. His mouth hung open. His lips trembled. His tongue moved aimlessly in his mouth. Pleasure shot up from the base of his spine like an electric current. It spread from his perineum to his entire pelvis, then from his pelvis to his limbs. He heard himself speaking. The voice didn't sound like his own.
"I don't—"
The glans thrust in hard. All the way to the base. Pubic bone slammed into ass. Ethan's back bounced up, then crashed back down.
"Say it." The 49-year-old's hands clamped down on Ethan's nipples. The thumb and index finger of both hands simultaneously pinched the nubs and pulled outward. The force was precisely controlled to the limit just before tearing the skin. The nipples were stretched into long, thin flesh columns. The areolae shrank. The surrounding skin was pulled tight into white radial streaks. In that moment, Ethan's entire spine lifted off the bed. The sound coming from his throat was no longer human language.
"Daddy!" he screamed.
The 49-year-old stopped. His cock was still buried deep, the glans pressing against the end of the rectum. He leaned down. His lips pressed against Ethan's forehead. He placed a kiss. That kiss carried no lust. It was a dry warmth that had been weathered by nearly fifty years. The lips lingered on the skin for two seconds, then withdrew.
"Good boy," he said. And began the final sprint.
Every thrust was with full force. The glans hit the same spot, over and over and over. That thick vein scraped a continuous friction against the inner wall. The prostate had been crushed to its limit. Every contraction of the glandular tissue instantly converted into an electric shock of dry orgasm. Under him, Ethan was completely dissociated. His body had become a pure receiver. No more active reactions. Only passive trembling and convulsions. His eyes rolled back. His pupils disappeared behind his upper eyelids, revealing the bloodshot whites. His mouth was wide open. His lips were cracked. Strings of saliva hung from the corners. His arms were spread out at his sides. His fingers were slightly bent. The tips were pale from lack of blood.
The 49-year-old came. Semen surged up from deep inside his body, passed through the seminal ducts, and shot from his slit directly onto the inner wall of Ethan's rectum. He let out a grunt. That grunt squeezed out from the deepest part of his throat, suppressed, like some kind of instinctive restraint. The amount was astonishing. As if it had been stored for a long time. Spurt after spurt, for seven or eight seconds. Ethan's body felt so full it was distended. His intestines were filled with hot liquid. Some of it squeezed out from the tiny gap between the glans and the sphincter, flowing down the crack of his ass.
After ejaculating, the 49-year-old didn't pull out immediately. He stayed deep inside. His cock slowly softened. The glans slid down from above the prostate. He lowered his head, his forehead resting against Ethan's collarbone. His breathing was heavy. Sweat dripped from his gray-blond hair onto Ethan's chest. His palms were still pressed against Ethan's ribs on both sides. He could feel the frantic beating of Ethan's heart beneath his chest wall. Banging like it was trying to break out from between the bones.
After a long time, he slowly straightened up and withdrew his softened cock from Ethan's body. During the withdrawal, the heavily relaxed entrance made a long, wet, gurgling sound, like pulling a plug from a bathtub. Semen gushed from the opening. White, thick liquid mixed with fine bubbles, flowing down the crack of his ass. The flow was fast and heavy. Within three seconds, it had collected into a puddle on the sheet.
The 49-year-old's body began to glow. White light spread from his fingertips, gradually consuming his skin, muscles, and bones. He looked down at his hands. The calluses on his palms gradually faded, becoming translucent, then disappearing. His gray-blue eyes lifted and looked at Ethan, who was lying limp on the bed.
"I'm nearly done," he said. His voice was growing more distant, as if coming from the other end of a tunnel. "You can still get out. The door is open."
Ethan lay on the bed, his face turned to the side. One eye was pressed against the sheet. The other was half-open. From the edge of that eye's vision, he saw the white light spreading, illuminating the entire room. On the wall, a rapidly melting shadow was cast. The light reached its peak. Then, in an instant, it disappeared completely.
The room was empty except for him.
Ethan lay there for a long time. Long enough for his breathing to gradually settle, for his heartbeat to slow from a sprint to a jog. His entrance was still seeping semen. The flow had slowed. The white mucus collected in a large puddle under the crack of his ass. He propped himself up on his elbows. He tried three times before he managed to sit up. His arms were shaking. His abdominal muscles ached. His lower back felt like it had been dismantled and reassembled. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed. When his feet touched the floor, his knees nearly buckled.
He looked down at his own body. His chest, stomach, thighs, groin—everywhere was covered with dried white streaks of semen. There was a deep red fingerprint beside his left nipple. A shallow scratch from a fingernail above his right nipple. His perineum and the entire area around his entrance were completely numb. The sphincter had temporarily lost its normal contractile function. His entrance still held the shape it had been stretched into, slightly open. His cock hung limp, the glans covered in dried mucus. The urethral opening was red and swollen.
He stood up. His legs were shaking. He walked to the other end of the room, leaning against the wall. He reached out and pushed the door. The door opened. The metal panel swung outward. A gust of circulating air rushed in, carrying the white light from the corridor lighting. Outside the door was a normal corridor. White walls. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead.
Ethan held onto the door frame for a while. He thought about turning back to look at that room. In the end, he didn't.
He walked out barefoot. Behind him, the door slowly swung shut. The lock clicked into place.