The red bench was still warm from his body when Dániel Kovács finally stood. He rolled the second crimson sock up his calf with that same deliberate flick of the wrist he used on the pitch—thumb hooking the elastic, smoothing it flat just below the knee so the DVTK logo sat perfect. The fabric whispered against his skin. His red training shirt clung to the sweat still drying on his chest, the 1910 shield rising and falling with every slow breath. The bird tattoo on his left bicep flexed as he checked the time on his phone. Girlfriend waiting. Victory still buzzing in his veins. Life was exactly as it should be.
He needed more ankle tape. The good roll was in the back storage room. No one else lingered after a win like this; the squad had scattered fast. He liked it that way—king of the empty cathedral, just him and the echo of his own greatness.
The storage room smelled of old rubber and disinfectant. One bare bulb. Shelves sagging with forgotten kits. He spotted the tape on the middle shelf, reached—
The arm that slammed around his chest was not the arm of a footballer. It was older, thicker through the forearm, corded from decades of hauling crates and broken dreams. A rough palm crushed a thick strip of cloth across his mouth before he could even draw breath. The knot was yanked viciously tight behind his head, the fabric biting into the corners of his lips, forcing them back in a silent snarl.
Dániel exploded. Elite reflexes, 24-year-old power, pure fury. He drove an elbow backward, felt it sink into soft gut, heard the old man grunt, but the grip never loosened. The attacker used the surprise like a blade—knee behind Dániel’s, weight shifting, forcing the star down onto the cold concrete in one brutal drop. Another savage tug on the gag. The cloth was already soaked with Dániel’s spit.
The voice was calm. Korean accent worn smooth by twenty-five years in Hungary. Mr. Park. The equipment manager. The ghost who handed out boots and collected piss-stained jockstraps without ever meeting anyone’s eyes.
Dániel’s blue eyes went wide, then narrowed into murder. He thrashed, powerful thighs bunching, trying to rise. The older man simply rode the motion, one hand locked on the gag, the other already producing heavy scissors from his pocket.
The cold metal slid under the hem of Dániel’s red tank top and sliced straight up the center. The fabric parted with a sound like tearing flesh. Another cut across the shoulder and the ruined shirt fell away in tatters, the DVTK crest splitting in half, exposing the sweat-glazed torso, the deep-cut abs, the nipples gone tight in the chill.
“You picked the wrong lion to cage, you old fuck,” Dániel snarled into the gag. It came out wet and garbled, but the venom was unmistakable. He bucked again, shoulders rolling, trying to headbutt backward. Park simply pressed closer, chest hair scratching the smooth skin of Dániel’s back, the solid, lived-in weight of a man who had never needed mirrors to feel strong.
Park’s free hand slid down, hooked the waistband of the red briefs, and ripped them down to the knees in one motion. The star’s thick cock and heavy balls swung free. The older man’s palm settled on the jut of Dániel’s hip like he was claiming territory.
“You don’t even remember my name, do you?” Park’s voice stayed soft, almost fond. “But you remember Ji-min. My boy. The quiet one with the quick feet. You took his academy spot the summer you turned eighteen. Looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Better luck next season, little man.’ Then your father made one phone call. Ji-min never played again. Something broke in him that day. He never came back from it.”
The name hit Dániel like a boot to the ribs.
The memory flashed—cocky 18-year-old Dániel, still buzzing from the winner he’d scored, smirking at the smaller kid whose dream he’d just stolen with a single conversation and his father’s influence. He hadn’t thought about it in years. Winners win. That was the game.
Now the game was being played on him.
His eyes went huge with horrified recognition. He fought like a trapped animal, muscles corded, sweat pouring, the gag turning every curse into a wet, furious animal sound. Park simply unzipped, freed his own cock—thick, veined, already leaking—and spat into his palm. He mixed it with the sweat running down Dániel’s spine and pressed the blunt head against the clenched, untouched ring.
Dániel’s whole body locked in pure rejection.
“No— no no no— you sick bastard— mmmph!!”
Slow. Inexorable. The stretch burned like fire. Dániel’s powerful ass fought every millimeter, the tight muscle clenching in desperate refusal, but the older man had the angle, the leverage, the years of quiet hatred. The head popped past the ring. Inch after thick inch sank into the star’s body until Park’s hips were flush against the smooth, sweat-slick cheeks.
Dániel’s scream tore through the gag—raw, broken, the sound of a man who had never imagined this could happen to him.
Park didn’t move at first. He simply stayed buried to the balls, one hand still locked on the gag, the other stroking slowly up the ridged abs like he was petting a prize stallion. “That’s it… feel every inch. This is what happens when you break someone else’s future. Now I break yours.”
Long, deliberate strokes—almost all the way out until only the head remained inside, then a slow, grinding push that forced the thick shaft across Dániel’s prostate with ruthless precision. The rhythm was nothing like the frantic pounding of a young man. It was patient. Sadistic. Designed to make every second last forever. The wet sound of it filled the storage room, skin on skin, the slap of heavy balls against the jock’s taint.
Dániel’s cock—traitor—began to swell. He felt it happening and thrashed harder than ever, fresh tears of pure self-loathing burning in his eyes.
“Don’t— don’t fucking touch it— I hate this— I hate you— mmmph!”
Park reached around anyway. Callused fingers wrapped around the now-rigid length and stroked in perfect counterpoint to the deep, punishing thrusts. Fast for ten strokes, then slow, twisting at the head, milking pre-cum from the slit until it dripped in long strings to the filthy floor.
“Your body knows, Dani. It always did. Just like Ji-min knew he was finished the day you smiled at him.”
The name hit again. The memory of that smirk, that easy cruelty, mixed with the current reality of being split open on an old man’s cock in the dirt of his own kingdom. Something inside Dániel cracked.
Park changed the pace again—sharp, brutal thrusts that made the star’s powerful frame jolt forward with every impact. Then slow once more, almost tender, leaning over the broad back, lips brushing the sweat-slick ear.
“You were sitting on the red bench twenty minutes ago, weren’t you? Pulling on these pretty socks like a king. Thinking about the match. Thinking about pussy. Now look at you—on your knees, taking cock like you were made for it.”
Dániel’s muffled reply was pure broken rage and shame. His body was shaking, every muscle screaming, but the constant pressure on his prostate and the expert hand stroking his cock in time with the thrusts was too much. The intensity crested like a wave he couldn’t stop.
His cock jerked violently in Park’s fist. Thick ropes of cum splattered across the concrete in humiliating pulses, his ass clenching rhythmically around the invading shaft, milking it against his will. The orgasm was ripped from him—unwanted, hated, the ultimate betrayal of everything he had ever been.
Park groaned, low and satisfied, and buried himself to the root one final time. Hot spurts flooded deep inside the star’s body, marking him, claiming him, filling him until it leaked out around the thick shaft and ran down his trembling thighs.
For a long moment the only sounds were Dániel’s ragged breathing through the soaked gag and the wet drip of cum hitting the floor.
Park pulled out slowly, deliberately, watching the puffy, used hole flutter and leak. He wiped his cock on the torn remains of the red shirt, then stood, tucking himself away with calm efficiency.
“Clean yourself up, star boy. Game’s over.”
He walked out without another word, leaving the door ajar. Distant stadium cheers still floated through the building—fans chanting the name of the hero who was now kneeling broken and leaking in the dark.
Dániel tore the gag off with shaking hands the second he could move. Spit and tears soaked his chin. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, shattered, but still burning.
“You… you fucking dead man. I’ll find you. I’ll end you.”
He stayed on his knees a long time after that, the torn red fabric around him, the cum cooling on his skin, the taste of the gag still thick in his mouth. The memory of the red bench and the careful way he’d pulled on his lucky socks felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
But the fire in his eyes had not gone out.
The storage room door clicked shut again. Park had stepped out for only a minute, just long enough to slide the heavy bolt across from the inside. When he returned, Dániel was still on his knees, chest heaving, cum and sweat streaking his powerful thighs, the torn red shirt hanging off one shoulder like a defeated flag. The jock’s blue eyes burned with pure murder as he tried to push himself up, but his arms shook too hard.
Park smiled slowly, the kind of smile that had waited six long years.
“Not done with you yet, Dani-boy.”
He moved with that same unhurried confidence, older but solid, belly soft against the jock’s back as he knelt behind him again. One thick arm wrapped around Dániel’s throat from behind, not choking, just holding him in place while the other hand reached down to guide his still-hard cock back against the slick, cum-leaking hole.
Dániel bucked wildly. “Get the fuck off me! I’ll kill you, you sick piece of shit—”
The head pushed back in, slower this time, savoring the way the tight ring resisted even after the first violation. Park groaned deep in his chest as he sank every inch back inside the warm, clenching heat. “Still so tight… even after I filled you. Good boy.”
He didn’t thrust hard. He rocked. Deep, lazy circles of his hips that stirred his cum inside Dániel’s guts, pressing and grinding against that sensitive spot with every slow rotation. The jock’s powerful body shuddered involuntarily, abs tightening, thighs flexing as he tried to crawl forward. Park simply followed, keeping them locked together, chest hair dragging across the smooth, sweat-slick back.
Minutes passed like that. Just grinding. Deep. Possessive. Park’s free hand roamed—tracing the bird tattoo, pinching a nipple, sliding down to wrap loosely around Dániel’s traitor cock without stroking it. Just holding. Teasing.
“Feel that?” Park whispered against his ear, accent thick with satisfaction. “That’s Ji-min’s revenge. Every time you score in front of thousands, every time you kiss your pretty girlfriend, every time you pull those red socks up like you own the world… you’ll remember this. My cock owning you right here where you change.”
Dániel’s reply was a string of choked, furious curses, voice cracking as another slow grind forced a unwilling twitch from his cock. Park finally started stroking him then—long, loose pulls timed perfectly with the deep rolls of his hips. Never fast enough to finish. Always just enough to keep the jock on the edge.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. Dániel’s resistance never stopped. He thrashed, cursed, tried to slam his head back. Park took every blow and gave back with another lazy thrust, another twist of his wrist. The wet, filthy sounds of cum being churned inside the euro jock’s ass filled the small room.
Eventually Park pulled out completely. Dániel gasped in momentary relief—only for the older man to flip him onto his back on the cold floor, shoving those strong legs wide apart. The red socks were still on, one pulled halfway up, the other bunched at the ankle. Park hooked the jock’s knees over his shoulders and sank back in with one smooth thrust, folding the muscular body nearly in half.
Now he could watch Dániel’s face.
Every expression. Every flash of shame and rage as the star felt every inch sliding in and out. Park fucked him like that for a long time—deep, steady strokes that made the heavy balls slap against Dániel’s ass with rhythmic wet sounds. He leaned down, almost kissing distance, breathing in the jock’s sweat and fear.
“Look at me while I fuck you, champion.”
Dániel tried to turn his head away. Park grabbed his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “Your father took my son’s future. Now I take yours. Every. Single. Inch.”
The pace finally quickened. Harder. Faster. The slap of skin grew louder. Dániel’s cock bounced against his own abs, leaking steadily, hated and ignored for long stretches while Park focused on wrecking his hole. When the jock got too close, Park would stop moving entirely, buried to the hilt, simply flexing his cock inside him until the edge faded.
By the third edge, Dániel’s voice had changed. Still furious, still straight, still hating it—but cracked with exhaustion and overwhelming sensation.
“Stop… fuck— just stop, you bastard… I can’t—”
“You can,” Park murmured, rolling his hips in that cruel, grinding way again. “And you will. Beg me nicely and maybe I’ll let you cum.”
“I’m not begging you for shit!”
Another twenty minutes of slow, torturous fucking. Park changed angles, found the exact spot that made Dániel’s thighs tremble and his abs clench. He stroked the jock’s cock again—tight, fast, then feather-light. The euro stud was shaking, sweat pouring off him, tears of rage and unwanted pleasure mixing at the corners of his eyes.
Park leaned in closer, voice low and intimate. “Say it. Say ‘please let me cum, Mr. Park.’ Say it and I’ll drain those straight balls again.”
Dániel’s head thrashed side to side. His hole clenched hard around the invading cock. The words were torn out of him between broken gasps, voice hoarse and humiliated:
“…Please… fuck— please let me cum, you fucking monster…”
Park’s smile widened. He slammed in hard now, pounding that prostate without mercy while his fist flew over the jock’s aching cock. Dániel came with a guttural, defeated shout—thick ropes shooting across his own chest and abs, some even hitting his chin. His ass spasmed violently around Park’s shaft, milking it.
The older man didn’t stop. He kept fucking through the orgasm, drawing it out until Dániel was whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push him away with weak hands.
“Not finished,” Park growled, voice thick with lust. He pulled out, flipped the exhausted jock onto all fours again, and mounted him like an animal—hard, fast, chasing his own pleasure now while the broken star trembled beneath him.
Dániel’s voice was barely a whisper now, cracked and raw:
“Please… no more… I’m begging you… just stop…”
Park rode him through it anyway, savoring every desperate plea, every twitch of that once-proud body, until he finally buried himself deep and unloaded again with a long, satisfied groan—pumping fresh cum into the thoroughly used jock.
He stayed inside for a long time afterward, stroking Dániel’s back almost tenderly, listening to the broken, ragged breathing of the euro golden boy who would never look at those red socks the same way again.
Park didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried deep, his thick cock twitching inside the cum-filled heat of Dániel’s ass, one hand lazily groping the firm, sweat-slick globe of the jock’s ass cheek, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints on that pale euro skin. The star’s body was still trembling from the second forced orgasm, his powerful thighs quivering, red socks bunched and stained.
“You think that’s enough?” Park murmured, voice low and hungry, accent curling around the words like smoke. “No, champion. I’m going to use every inch of this pretty body tonight.”
He finally withdrew with a wet, obscene sound, a thick glob of his cum leaking from Dániel’s puffy hole and sliding down the jock’s taint. Before Dániel could even catch his breath or push himself up, Park grabbed a fistful of that sweaty blond hair and yanked his head back sharply. The jock’s blue eyes flashed with fresh fury.
“Get your fucking hands off— mmph!”
The older man shoved his still-hard, cum-smeared cock straight past those full lips and deep into Dániel’s mouth. No warning. No mercy. He hit the back of the throat immediately, forcing a violent gag from the straight stud. Park groaned in pure bliss, hips rolling forward to bury more of his thick shaft between those reluctant lips.
“That’s it… taste yourself on me, Dani-boy. Taste what your tight hole did to my cock.”
Dániel retched, eyes watering, powerful hands shoving at Park’s thighs, trying to push him away. His muscular arms flexed, veins standing out, but Park simply gripped his head with both hands and started fucking his face in long, deliberate strokes—pulling back until only the fat head rested on his tongue, then sliding back in until the jock’s nose pressed into his coarse pubic hair.
The sounds were filthy: wet gagging, choking, drool spilling down Dániel’s chin and onto his heaving chest. Park took his time, savoring every thrust, every desperate swallow around his cock. While he face-fucked the euro jock, his hands roamed greedily—molesting the body he’d dreamed of ruining for years.
He groped the broad, sweat-glistened chest, thick fingers pinching and twisting both nipples until they were raw and peaked. Down to the ridged abs, tracing every deep cut with callused palms, slapping the hard muscle just to watch it flex. He reached lower, wrapping a hand around Dániel’s half-hard cock again, stroking it roughly while his hips kept pumping into that hot, unwilling mouth.
“Such a beautiful fucking body,” Park growled, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy. “All this muscle… all this strength… and right now it’s mine.” His free hand slid back up, groping the jock’s thick pecs, squeezing the firm flesh, then moving to his biceps, kneading the bird tattoo like he owned it. He slapped the inside of Dániel’s thighs, spread them wider, fingers digging into the powerful quads that had carried him across so many pitches.
Dániel’s muffled curses vibrated around the invading cock—raw, furious, broken sounds that only made Park thrust harder. Tears streamed down the jock’s flushed face as he gagged again and again, drool pouring freely now, coating Park’s balls.
After several long minutes of face-fucking, Park pulled out, strings of spit connecting his cock to Dániel’s swollen lips. The jock gasped for air, coughing, voice hoarse and venomous: “You disgusting old fuck… I’ll fucking end you for this—”
Park cut him off by shoving him onto his back again, climbing over him. He straddled Dániel’s chest, pinning those strong arms under his knees, and slapped his heavy, spit-slick cock against the jock’s cheeks and lips. More groping—hands everywhere, molesting the euro stud’s torso like a piece of meat. He squeezed the firm pecs together, sliding his cock between them in slow tit-fucks, then moved down to grind against the hard abs, leaving wet trails of pre-cum and spit across the defined ridges.
“Look at you,” Park breathed, voice thick with lust. “Lying here like a used whore while I play with every part of you.” He reached back, fingers probing Dániel’s leaking hole again, pushing two thick digits inside alongside the cum already there, scissoring and stretching while his other hand kept molesting the jock’s cock and balls—tugging, stroking, slapping lightly.
Dániel bucked and thrashed beneath him, muscles straining, but the older man’s weight and grip kept him trapped. “Get off me! Stop touching me like that, you perverted piece of shit— I’m not your fucking toy!”
But Park only smiled wider, savoring the resistance. He shifted again, feeding his cock back into Dániel’s mouth for another deep round of face-fucking, this time reaching behind to grope and spread the jock’s ass cheeks at the same time. His hips rocked forward in a steady rhythm, balls slapping against the blond’s chin, while his hands never stopped exploring—squeezing thighs, slapping ass, pinching nipples, stroking that unwilling cock back to full hardness.
He edged the jock like that for what felt like an eternity—face-fucked, molested, groped, and fingered—bringing him right to the brink with rough strokes before pulling his hand away and focusing on using his mouth and throat instead.
Dániel’s body was a wreck of sweat, drool, and cum. His voice, when he could pull off the cock for a second, was cracking, raw, humiliated:
“Please… fuck… I can’t take any more of this… you’re breaking me…”
Park leaned down, cock still buried halfway in the jock’s mouth, and whispered against his ear while his hands continued their relentless molestation of that perfect athletic body.
“Good. Beg some more, star boy. I’m nowhere near finished using you.”
Park kept the jock pinned on his back, straddling that sweat-drenched chest, his thick, spit-shiny cock slapping wetly across Dániel’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The euro stud’s blue eyes blazed with raw hatred even as fresh tears carved tracks through the mess on his face. Drool and pre-cum coated his chin, dripping down onto his heaving pecs.
“You’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined every part of you,” Park growled, voice thick with years of pent-up hunger. He grabbed Dániel’s wrists and forced them up over his head, pinning them to the cold floor with one strong hand while his other roamed freely, molesting the helpless athletic body like it was his personal fucktoy.
He started with the chest—thick fingers digging hard into the firm, sweat-slick pecs, squeezing and kneading the muscle, pinching the sensitive nipples until Dániel hissed and bucked beneath him. Park leaned down and dragged his tongue across one nipple, sucking it into his mouth, biting just enough to make the jock jolt. “These tits… so fucking perfect. Made for this.”
“Get your dirty mouth off me, you disgusting— mmphh!”
Park shoved his cock back down the jock’s throat in one brutal thrust, burying it to the hilt until Dániel’s nose was mashed into his pubes. He face-fucked him with deep, possessive strokes—pulling out slow so the jock could gasp for air around the fat head, then slamming back in until his balls rested on Dániel’s chin. All while his free hand never stopped groping: slapping the ridged abs, tracing the V-lines, wrapping around that thick euro cock and stroking it with rough, twisting pulls.
He edged him mercilessly. Brought him right to the edge with fast, slick strokes, then stopped completely, just squeezing the base while continuing to pump into his throat. Dániel’s muffled screams vibrated beautifully around his shaft.
After pulling out again, strings of thick throat slime connecting them, Park shifted lower. He forced Dániel’s powerful legs wide apart, red socks still clinging to his calves, and buried his face between those muscular thighs. His tongue lapped greedily at the cum-leaking hole, pushing inside, eating his own load out of the jock while one hand jerked Dániel’s cock and the other groped his heavy balls, tugging and rolling them.
Dániel thrashed like a wild animal. “Stop— fuck, don’t lick there you sick fuck! I’m not— I’m straight— I hate this!”
But his cock stayed rock hard, throbbing in Park’s fist, leaking constantly.
Park flipped him onto all fours again, mounting him like a bitch. He fucked his ass in long, punishing strokes while reaching around to molest every inch: one hand wrapped around the jock’s cock, pumping it, the other sliding up to grope his chest, twist his nipples, slap his abs. He leaned over the broad back and bit down on the bird tattoo, sucking a dark hickey into the skin while his hips slammed forward.
Hours seemed to pass in that filthy storage room. Park used him in every position he could imagine. He made Dániel ride him—forced the jock to bounce on his cock while Park lounged back against the bench, hands everywhere: groping the flexing thighs, slapping the ass, stroking the bouncing cock. When Dániel tried to resist, Park simply grabbed his hips and fucked up into him harder.
He pressed the jock against the shelves, fucking him standing up, one leg hooked over his arm so he could grind deep and watch that handsome face contort in shame and unwanted pleasure. He made him suck his own cock clean after pulling out—face-fucking him while fingering his wrecked hole with three thick digits.
The breaking came in layers.
First the forced orgasms. Park wrung three more from him—two from his ass alone, prostate pounded mercilessly while a rough hand flew over his cock, and one while Dániel was gagging on his shaft, throat bulging. Each time the jock came he screamed in pure humiliated rage, his body betraying him completely as his hole clenched and milked Park’s cock.
Then the psychological torment.
Every time Dániel came, Park would whisper against his ear: “That’s it, whore. Your straight cock loves this. Look how hard you shoot when I’m balls-deep in your guts.” He’d force the jock to look at himself in a cracked mirror on the wall—face covered in spit and cum, body marked with hickeys and handprints, red socks stained, cock dripping.
By the fifth hour, Dániel’s resistance had turned hoarse and broken. His voice cracked as Park edged him for the tenth time, cock buried deep, hand barely moving on his aching, oversensitive shaft.
“Please… Mr. Park… I can’t cum again… it hurts… just let me go…”
Park smiled darkly, grinding slow and deep. “Beg like a proper toy. Tell me you need my cock. Tell me you’re my whore now.”
Dániel’s head hung low, blond hair matted with sweat, body shaking. Fresh tears fell. But the constant stimulation, the relentless molestation, the way Park kept his body on fire… something deep inside him was fracturing. His hips started moving back weakly against the thrusts, chasing the sensation even as he hated himself for it.
“I… fuck… I need it… please make me cum again… I’m your… your fucking toy…”
Park rewarded him by pounding him brutally, one hand choking his throat lightly, the other jerking his cock until Dániel exploded again—shooting weakly across the floor, ass spasming wildly, a broken moan tearing from his throat.
The older man finally unloaded deep inside him one last time, flooding his guts until cum squirted out around his cock with every thrust. Then he collapsed on top of the ruined jock, still inside him, hands lazily groping the trembling body.
Dániel lay there, destroyed, leaking, marked, his once-proud body now a sweaty, cum-covered wreck. His mind still fought—still screamed that he was straight, that he hated this—but his cock twitched at every touch, his hole fluttered around the softening shaft, already craving the next violation even as tears rolled down his face.
Park kissed the back of his neck almost tenderly. “Good boy. We’re just getting started. Tomorrow after training… you’ll come find me. You’ll beg for it. My perfect little euro whore toy.”
The jock didn’t answer. He just shivered, broken and addicted against his will, the fire in his eyes dimmed but not extinguished… yet.
Park sat on the red bench, legs spread, pulling the exhausted jock between them so Dániel knelt facing him, still leaking, still trembling. The storage room felt smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sweat and spent lust. But Park wasn’t reaching for another round of raw fucking. Not yet. His thick fingers rested lightly on the back of Dániel’s neck, not forcing, just anchoring.
“You hate me,” Park said quietly, almost conversationally, his voice low and steady like a coach reviewing game tape. “That’s good. Hate keeps you awake. Keeps you feeling every second of this. But hate is also a door, Dani. I’m going to walk through it.”
Dániel’s blue eyes lifted, raw and defiant even through the haze. “Fuck you. I’m not broken. This changes nothing.”
Park smiled, slow and knowing. He didn’t argue. Instead he began talking while his hand stroked the jock’s hair almost gently — a contrast that made Dániel’s skin crawl.
“Every time you scored this season, every time the crowd screamed your name, every time your girlfriend wrapped her legs around you after a win… I was watching. I saw the way you carried yourself. Untouchable. You stole my son’s dream with a smirk and your father’s money. Now I’m stealing something deeper. Not just your body. Your mind.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a intimate murmur. “Repeat after me, star boy. Say it out loud: ‘My straight cock belongs to Mr. Park now.’”
Dániel’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “No.”
Park waited. Ten seconds. Thirty. The silence stretched, heavy. Then he reached down and gave Dániel’s spent cock one single, slow stroke — feather-light, perfectly timed with the memory of the last shattering orgasm. The jock twitched hard despite himself.
“…My straight cock… belongs to Mr. Park now.” The words came out choked, venomous, but they came.
Park rewarded him with another slow stroke, then stopped. “Good. Again. Mean it this time.”
The conditioning began in earnest. Not brute force. Repetition laced with calculated mercy. Every time Dániel repeated the degrading phrases Park fed him — “I’m a locker room whore for old men,” “My hole exists to serve better than I served Ji-min,” “My arrogance got me fucked like a toy” — the older man would edge him again. Never enough to cum immediately. Just enough to flood the jock’s brain with dopamine right as the humiliating words left his mouth.
Between rounds, Park talked. He dug into the memories he’d studied for years.
“Remember the academy showcase? You were eighteen. You looked Ji-min dead in the eye after beating him for the last spot and said, ‘Some guys are just built for the bench.’ Say that back to me now, but change it. Say ‘I was built for the bench… and for cock.’”
Dániel fought it. He cursed, he spat, he tried to pull away. But Park kept the edge alive — slow strokes, a thumb circling the sensitive head, a finger lazily pressing against his prostate from behind — until the words tumbled out again, cracked and shaking.
Each confession linked the jock’s proudest moments to this degradation. Park replayed Dániel’s own voice in his mind against him: the post-match interviews, the cocky laughter in the locker room, the way he’d dismissed lesser talents. Now those memories were being rewired. Every time Dániel felt shame spike, Park would push pleasure through his body, training the straight stud’s nervous system to associate the burn of humiliation with release.
Hours blurred. Park made him describe his girlfriend in explicit detail while being slowly fucked — then made him compare her touch to this. Made him admit, word by filthy word, how much deeper this violation reached. When Dániel broke down and cried real tears of self-loathing, Park didn’t mock him. He praised him.
“That’s it. Let it crack. The old Dani is dying in here tonight. The new one is learning he needs this. Needs to be used. Needs to kneel after training and wait for me like a good toy.”
The psychological hooks went deeper with intermittent reinforcement. Sometimes Park would deny orgasm for what felt like forever, forcing Dániel to beg in increasingly broken language: “Please abuse your whore… please wreck my straight pride…” Only then would he allow release — explosive, humiliating, addictive.
By the time the first hints of morning light might have been creeping under the door, Dániel was no longer just resisting. He was caught in the loop. His body craved the next edge even as his mind screamed. Park noticed the subtle shift — the way the jock’s hips now rolled weakly toward his hand, chasing the touch even while fresh tears fell.
“Look at you,” Park whispered, cupping the jock’s tear-streaked face. “Still telling yourself you’re straight. Still fighting. But your cock knows. Your hole knows. Soon your pride will too. Tomorrow you’ll find reasons to stay late. You’ll make excuses to your girlfriend. You’ll come looking for me because the silence after this will feel worse than the shame.”
Dániel’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse, fractured, yet still laced with that stubborn euro fire: “I… I fucking hate you… I’ll never—”
But even as he said it, his body leaned in, seeking the next degrading command, the next twisted reward. Park smiled, patient as erosion.
“The breaking isn’t loud, Dani. It’s quiet. It’s you choosing to come back. Over and over. Until being my abused little whore toy feels like the only thing that still makes sense.”
He pulled the jock’s head down gently this time, not forcing, but guiding — letting Dániel make the final choice to wrap his lips around the cock again while Park stroked his hair and fed him more conditioning whispers.
The real violation had moved behind the eyes now. And it was only beginning.
The next morning tasted like metal and chlorine.
Dániel stood under the scalding shower spray in the main locker room, forehead pressed to the cold tile, letting the water hammer his shoulders. His body felt borrowed — every muscle heavy, every breath too loud in the empty space. He had scrubbed until his skin burned, but the ache between his legs, the faint throb deep inside, refused to wash away. He told himself it was just soreness from extra drills. Lies felt necessary now.
He dressed slowly. The red training top slid over his chest like it always had, the DVTK crest settling exactly where it belonged. He pulled the socks up with the same ritual precision — right foot first, smoothing the fabric, making the logo sit perfect. King resuming his throne. The mirror showed the same golden boy: sharp jaw, blue eyes, the faint shadow of exhaustion easily blamed on celebration. No one would know. No one could know.
He stepped out into the corridor and the world tried to snap back into place.
Park was there by the kit room door, clipboard in hand, looking exactly like the invisible old man who had always been part of the furniture. Grey tracksuit, slight paunch, quiet Korean face that betrayed nothing. He didn’t leer. He didn’t even smile. Just met Dániel’s eyes for half a second and murmured, low enough that only the two of them could hear:
“Left sock’s a little crooked today, champion.”
Dániel’s stomach lurched. His hand twitched toward his calf before he could stop it. The small, casual observation hit harder than any thrust the night before. It was intimate in a way that made his skin crawl — this man noticing details about his body that even his girlfriend missed. A private language had already been born between them.
He kept walking. Fast. Down the hallway, out into the training pitch where the squad was already warming up. The grass felt wrong under his cleats. Too bright. Too loud. Every laugh from his teammates scraped against something raw behind his ribs.
Midway through passing drills, it started.
A phantom pressure. Low in his gut. The exact rhythm of Park’s slow, grinding hips from hours earlier. Dániel miscontrolled the ball, cursing under his breath. When he bent to retrieve it, the stretch pulled at his sore hole and a hot flush crawled up his neck. His cock twitched traitorously inside his shorts — not hard, not yet, but interested. The memory of Park’s voice whispering degradations while stroking him edged him again in real time.
He straightened too fast. The coach noticed. “Head in the game, Kovács!”
Dániel forced a cocky grin that felt like cracking porcelain. “Always, boss.”
But inside, another piece of the old armor flaked away. The arrogance that once felt bulletproof now had a hairline fracture running straight through it. He kept catching himself scanning the sidelines. Looking for the grey tracksuit. Hating himself for looking.
Lunch in the canteen was worse.
He sat with the usual crew, laughing at the same dirty jokes, flexing when someone ribbed him about last night’s winner. Normal. Perfect. Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown number. One message.
You tasted better than I imagined. Eat slowly today. You’ll need your strength for later.
Dániel’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. He deleted it instantly, but the words were already burned behind his eyes. Across the room, near the staff table, Park sat alone with his rice and soup, eating peacefully, never once glancing over. The denial of eye contact was its own violation — like the man was so sure of his ownership that he didn’t even need to look.
That night Dániel tried to fuck his girlfriend. Needed to.
She was beautiful, willing, familiar. He buried himself in her with desperate intensity, chasing the old feeling of conquest. But halfway through, his mind supplied a different rhythm. Deeper. Slower. Patient. His thrusts faltered. When she moaned his name and clenched around him, his body remembered Park’s hand doing the same thing to his cock while forcing humiliating confessions. He came too fast, shame flooding him hotter than the orgasm. She kissed his shoulder, murmuring how amazing he was. He smiled against her hair and felt like vomiting.
Later, alone in his apartment, he stood at the window staring at the city lights. His hand drifted down almost without permission, pressing lightly against the front of his sweatpants. Not stroking. Just… feeling. The ache. The memory of being full. The way his own voice had cracked saying I’m your whore while Park praised him like a good dog.
The worst part wasn’t the arousal. It was the quiet, creeping thought that the shower this morning had felt lonelier than the storage room floor.
Door’s unlocked. Red bench is waiting.
Dániel stared at the message for a long time. His thumb hovered over delete. Instead, he grabbed his keys.
Not because he wanted to. Because the silence in his own skin had become unbearable — and only one person in the world now knew exactly how to fill it.
The fracture deepened, quiet and luxurious, like expensive cologne poured over rot. He was still the star. Still untouchable to everyone else.
But not to the ghost who now lived behind his eyes.
The training complex after midnight carried a different kind of silence — the kind that pressed against your eardrums and made every footstep feel like confession.
Dániel told himself he was only going back to prove something. To walk into that storage room, look Park in the eye, and spit in his face. Reclaim the space. Burn the ghost out. Instead his hand was already turning the unlocked door before his mind finished the lie.
Park was waiting exactly as promised, sitting on the red bench like a patient king on a modest throne. No lights beyond the single bulb. Same grey tracksuit. Same quiet, devastating calm.
“You came,” Park said softly. Not triumphant. Just factual. Like noting the weather.
Dániel’s voice came out rough. “I came to end this.”
But his body was already betraying the script. The faint tremor in his thighs. The way his red training shirt suddenly felt too tight across his chest. Park didn’t rise. He simply patted the bench beside him.
And Dániel sat. The fracture from the night before had widened into something he couldn’t name — a sick gravitational pull. When Park’s hand settled on his knee, heavy and familiar, the jock didn’t flinch away. He stared at it like it belonged to someone else.
“You’re starting to understand,” Park murmured, fingers tracing the seam of those lucky red socks. “The world still sees the golden boy. But in here… you’re already becoming something else. My secret.”
The conditioning resumed like breathing.
Park didn’t fuck him immediately. He talked. Slow, intimate, weaving new threads into the rot. He made Dániel describe, in explicit detail, how it had felt trying to fuck his girlfriend — how his cock had softened at the wrong moment, how her body suddenly felt wrong compared to the deep, violating fullness he now craved against his will. Every humiliating admission earned a reward: Park’s hand slipping inside his shorts, stroking him lazily, edging him while forcing eye contact.
“You’re not just my whore yet,” Park whispered against his ear. “But you’re learning to need it. Say it.”
“I… I need it.” The words tasted like rust and pre-cum.
Hours later, when Dániel was naked except for the red socks, bent over the bench with Park buried deep inside him again, the older man dropped the next hook.
“You’re not the only pretty straight boy on this team.”
Dániel’s head snapped up, a fresh spike of horror cutting through the haze. “Don’t—”
Park thrust slow and deep, grinding against his prostate until the protest melted into a broken moan. “Not yet. But soon. You’re going to help me, Dani. You’re going to bring them. Not all at once. One at a time. The cocky ones. The ones who remind you of who you used to be.”
The idea should have made him sick. Instead, as Park fucked him through another shattering orgasm, Dániel’s mind twisted around it — shame and power braiding together in ways that terrified him. A dark new hunger stirring beneath the self-loathing. If he had to be broken, maybe others deserved it too. Maybe sharing the rot would make his own lighter.
Two weeks later the erosion had taken on a new texture.
Dániel was late to team dinners now. Made excuses. Stayed behind for “extra recovery.” In public he was still the arrogant star — laughing loudest, slapping asses in the locker room, posting shirtless training videos that made girls lose their minds. But every night he returned to the storage room like a junkie.
Park had refined the art.
Some nights it was pure psychological violation: making Dániel kneel and recite every arrogant thing he’d ever said to lesser players while Park slowly fucked his throat. Other nights it was the opposite — almost tender. Park would lounge on the bench while Dániel rode him desperately, chasing his own unwanted pleasure, whispering degradations to himself because the older man demanded it.
“You’re getting good at this,” Park told him one night, watching the powerful euro body move, sweat dripping down the bird tattoo. “Starting to fuck like you were built for it.”
Dániel hated how the praise made his cock throb harder.
The first time he brought someone else, it wasn’t planned. Not really.
Lukas — young German winger, 21, loud, built like a tank, even cockier than Dániel had been at that age. They’d been drinking after a win. Dániel fed him shots, laughed at his jokes, then mentioned “this hidden sauna in the back” that the staff never used. Lukas followed, bragging the whole way about the pussy he was getting that weekend.
Park was already waiting.
What happened next was slower, crueler, more intimate than Dániel expected. He didn’t participate at first — just watched from the shadows as Park dismantled the younger jock with the same terrifying patience. Lukas fought harder than he had. Cursed louder. But when Dániel finally stepped forward on Park’s quiet command, pressing a hand over Lukas’s mouth while the older man took him, something inside Dániel cracked open wider.
The sight of another straight stud breaking — powerful thighs shaking, blue eyes wide with betrayal, cock hard against his will — did things to him. Sick things. Addictive things.
Afterward, while Lukas lay curled and leaking and sobbing quietly, Park pulled Dániel close, kissing his neck almost lovingly.
“You see? You’re not alone anymore. You’re helping build my collection.”
Dániel’s voice was hoarse, broken, but there was a new undercurrent — something darker than shame. “He… he deserved it. The way he talks…”
Park smiled against his skin. “Good boy. My perfect little recruiter. My favorite whore.”
Dániel came untouched just from the words and the slow grind of Park’s cock still inside him.
The golden boy was gone. In his place was something new — still beautiful, still arrogant on the surface, still wearing the red socks like a crown.
But underneath, he was learning to crave the rot. Learning to spread it. Park’s quiet ownership had become the only truth that still felt real.
And the storage room waited, patient as ever, for the next straight jock who thought he was untouchable.
Park stood in the corner like a director in his own private theater, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with that same patient hunger. The storage room had been rearranged slightly — the red bench pushed to the side, a single harsh bulb casting long shadows across the mats. Lukas was already there, stripped down to his white compression shorts, wrists bound behind his back with athletic tape, gagged with one of Dániel’s own dirty red socks. The young German winger’s eyes were wild with fury and confusion, muscles straining as he knelt on the floor.
Dániel stood naked except for his red socks, cock half-hard despite the sickness twisting in his gut. Park’s voice cut through the heavy air, soft but absolute.
“You’re going to fuck him, Dani. Right now. In front of me. Show me how well my favorite whore has learned.”
Dániel’s jaw locked. “No. Fuck you. I’m not doing this.”
But Park simply stepped behind him, one hand wrapping around Dániel’s throat from behind, the other guiding his traitor cock forward until the head nudged against Lukas’s exposed, clenched ass. Lukas thrashed violently, muffled curses vibrating around the gag, powerful legs kicking uselessly.
“You will,” Park whispered into Dániel’s ear, stroking his shaft slowly, coaxing it to full, aching hardness. “Because if you don’t, I’ll send the videos I have of you begging to the entire team. Your girlfriend. Your father. And then I’ll take Lukas anyway — but you won’t get to cum for a month. Choose.”
The conflict tore through Dániel like barbed wire. Shame. Rage. That sick, conditioned hunger. His cock throbbed in Park’s hand as memories of his own violations flooded him — the pleasure he’d been forced to feel, the confessions, the addiction creeping in like rot. He hated Lukas for being so much like his old self. Cocky. Untouchable. Deserving, some dark part of him whispered.
With a broken sound — half sob, half growl — Dániel pushed forward.
Lukas screamed into the gag as Dániel’s thick cock breached him, stretching the tight, virgin-straight hole in one relentless thrust. Dániel’s hips moved like they belonged to someone else, driven by Park’s hand on his ass, pushing him deeper. The sensation was overwhelming — hot, clenching resistance, the way Lukas’s powerful body fought every inch. It felt wrong. Filthy. Addictively good.
“Harder,” Park commanded quietly, circling them like a shark. “Fuck him like I fuck you. Make him feel what you feel every night.”
Dániel’s thrusts deepened, conflicted and brutal. Tears burned in his eyes as he gripped Lukas’s hips, pounding into the younger jock with a rhythm that mirrored everything Park had done to him. Every slap of skin sent fresh waves of self-loathing through him. This was rape. He was raping his own teammate. A straight brother. And yet his cock was leaking inside that resisting heat, prostate-hitting strokes making Lukas’s own unwilling erection strain against the floor.
Lukas bucked and thrashed, eyes blazing with betrayal as he stared back at Dániel — the golden boy, the captain, now reduced to this. Muffled screams of “You fucking traitor!” translated through the gag. Dániel wanted to stop. Wanted to kill Park. Wanted to apologize. Instead he kept fucking, hips snapping harder, chasing the twisted pleasure that Park had wired into him.
Park stepped closer, one hand stroking Dániel’s back, the other reaching down to grope Lukas’s cock, stroking it in time with Dániel’s thrusts. “Look at him, Dani. Look how hard he is. Just like you were. Tell him what you are now.”
Dániel’s voice cracked as he slammed in deep, grinding, hating every word forced from his throat. “I’m… I’m Park’s whore. His broken toy. And now… fuck… you’re mine too.”
The conflicting show dragged on. Dániel fucked Lukas in waves — slow and deep when Park wanted to savor the humiliation, then fast and punishing when the older man demanded noise. He was forced to lean over the younger stud’s back, biting his shoulder, whispering Park’s conditioning phrases into his ear while pounding him: “You’ll crave it too… you’ll come back begging…”
Lukas came first — violently, shamefully, shooting across the floor while Dániel railed his prostate without mercy. The sight broke something new in Dániel. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding Lukas’s guts with thick, unwanted cum, his own moan raw and defeated.
Park watched every second, savoring the pornographic wreckage: two perfect straight jocks, sweating, broken, one forced to rape the other under his quiet command. He finally pulled Dániel off, cum leaking from Lukas’s ruined hole, and kissed the side of Dániel’s neck almost tenderly.
“Good boy. You’re becoming exactly what I need. My recruiter. My star performer.”
Dániel collapsed to his knees beside Lukas, both of them breathing hard, eyes avoiding each other in the aftermath. The golden boy’s world had sunk deeper into the rot — no longer just a victim, but an unwilling participant in the spreading corruption. His cock still twitched at the sight of what he’d done.
And somewhere in the shame, the conditioning whispered that next time… it might feel less like force.
The showers were still steaming from evening training when Park led them there after midnight, the tiled space echoing with dripping water and the low hum of the ventilation. Lukas had been dragged from the storage room half-conscious, cum still leaking down his thighs, his once-cocky German frame now stumbling and broken. His wrists were still taped, mouth stuffed with the spit-soaked red sock. Dániel followed like a man walking through fog — naked, red socks soaked and clinging to his feet, his own body marked with fresh handprints and shame.
Park leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed, watching with that quiet, savoring intensity. “Clean him up, Dani. Then mark him properly. Show him what you’ve become.”
Dániel’s stomach twisted. “I… I can’t. Not like this. He’s one of us—”
But Park’s eyes narrowed, and the threat hung unspoken: videos. Exposure. The slow death of everything Dániel still pretended to be. The conditioning kicked in like muscle memory. Dániel grabbed Lukas by the hair and shoved him under the hot spray, pressing the younger jock’s chest against the cold tiles. Lukas growled into the gag, muscles flexing in useless resistance, blue eyes burning with pure hatred as he glared back over his shoulder.
Water cascaded over both of them, turning their skin slick and shining under the harsh fluorescent lights. Dániel’s cock was already hardening again — traitorous, aching from hours of edging and use. He pressed against Lukas’s back, grinding slowly, one hand reaching around to stroke the German’s spent dick back to reluctant life.
“You hate this as much as I did,” Dániel whispered, voice cracking with conflict. “But it doesn’t matter. He owns us now.”
He fucked him again under the water — slower this time, almost intimate in its cruelty. Deep, rolling thrusts that made Lukas’s powerful legs shake. The sound of wet skin slapping mixed with the shower spray. Park watched silently, occasionally murmuring instructions: “Slower… make him feel every inch… tell him how good it feels to break someone like you.”
Dániel’s hips snapped harder despite himself. The heat, the steam, the way Lukas’s hole clenched around him in humiliated resistance — it all fed the rot. His mind screamed that this was wrong, that he was raping a brother, that he was still straight, still the captain. But his body chased the pleasure Park had wired into him. He reached around and jerked Lukas roughly, forcing the younger stud closer to the edge even as fresh tears mixed with the shower water on both their faces.
When Lukas came again — shamefully, cock pulsing in Dániel’s fist — Dániel followed right behind. He pulled out at the last second, spinning Lukas around to face him. The German’s eyes widened in fresh horror as Dániel stroked himself through the final throes.
Thick ropes of cum splattered across Lukas’s chest and abs, painting the defined muscle white under the running water. Dániel groaned, low and broken, hips jerking as he milked every drop onto the younger jock’s body — marking him, claiming him in Park’s name.
But Park wasn’t satisfied yet.
“More,” the older man said softly. “Mark him completely. Piss on your new toy, Dani. Show him how low you’ve fallen.”
Dániel froze, cock still twitching in his hand. Fresh waves of self-loathing crashed over him. “No… fuck, please not that—”
Park simply stepped closer, one hand resting on Dániel’s shoulder, the other guiding his still-hard cock downward. “You will. Because good whores obey. Because this is what you are now.”
The pressure built. Dániel tried to fight it, but the conditioning, the exhaustion, the sick thrill of total degradation won out. With a humiliated sob, he let go.
Hot piss streamed from his cock, splashing across Lukas’s cum-covered chest, running down his abs, over his spent dick, and between his trembling thighs. It mixed with the shower water, pooling at their feet in a filthy puddle. Lukas thrashed and screamed into the gag, eyes blazing with absolute betrayal and disgust as the warm liquid soaked him, marking him in the most degrading way possible.
Dániel couldn’t look away. His hand stayed on his cock, directing the stream across Lukas’s face, forcing the younger jock to close his eyes and turn away. The act felt worse than any fucking — intimate, animal, irreversible. Another piece of his old self dissolved in the steam.
When the flow finally stopped, Dániel collapsed to his knees under the spray, head bowed, breathing ragged. Park knelt beside him, stroking his wet hair almost tenderly.
“Look at what you did to him,” Park murmured. “My perfect broken star. You’re not just taking it anymore. You’re giving it. You’re spreading it.”
Lukas slid down the wall, curled in on himself, piss and cum washing slowly off his body. Dániel stared at him through the water, the conflict tearing him apart — horror at what he’d done, and a dark, conditioned whisper that it felt… right. Necessary. Addictive in its ugliness.
The golden boy was gone. Only Park’s whore remained, kneeling in the filth he’d helped create, red socks heavy and stained, waiting for the next command.
Park didn’t rush the next phase. He let the rot simmer for days, letting Dániel stew in the aftertaste of what he’d done to Lukas in the shower — the memory of hot piss mixing with cum on another straight jock’s body becoming a private cancer that ate at him during training, during dinners with his mother, during stolen moments when he tried to pretend he was still the untouchable golden boy.
One night in the storage room, after Park had spent two slow hours edging Dániel on the red bench while forcing him to recount every degrading detail of the shower, the older man finally planted the seed.
“Your stepfather,” Park murmured, fingers lazily circling the head of Dániel’s aching cock. “The rich one. The homophobe who parades other women in front of you and your mother like you’re both disposable. You hate him more than you hate me. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dániel’s breath hitched, hips twitching involuntarily into the touch. “…I fucking despise him. He’s not even blood. Just some sleazy businessman who bought my mom with money and treats us like accessories. Flirts with waitresses right in front of me on ‘family’ outings. Laughs about it later like it’s a joke.”
Park smiled against his neck. “Then we take everything from him. His fortune. His reputation. His precious straight pride. And you’re going to help me do it, Dani. Because deep down, you want to watch him break the way you broke.”
The plan took shape in whispers between thrusts.
Lukas would be the bait — still raw, still leaking Park’s and Dániel’s corruption, but useful. They’d dose the stepdad with more than just blue pills. A custom cocktail: Viagra crushed into expensive whiskey, plus a subtle dissociative that Park sourced through old contacts — enough to lower inhibitions, blur memory, and leave the homophobic prick horny and suggestible without full blackout. They’d film everything. Multiple angles. The kind of raw, seedy footage that would destroy a man like Viktor Kovács — wealthy real estate developer, pillar of the conservative business community, vocal donor against “degeneracy.”
Two weeks later, the trap closed on a humid Friday night at the family’s lakeside villa. Viktor had come back from a “business trip” reeking of another woman’s perfume. Dániel had suggested a private sauna session “to bond like men,” playing the dutiful stepson card with just enough bitterness in his voice to make it believable. Viktor laughed, clapped him on the back, and agreed — another chance to lecture the boy about real masculinity while sneaking glances at his phone.
The sauna was dim, cedar-scented, oppressively hot. Viktor — mid-50s, thickset but powerful in that wealthy, gym-maintained way, salt-and-pepper hair, heavy gold chain — stripped down to a towel, already half-drunk on the spiked whiskey Dániel had pressed into his hand earlier. The blue pills were kicking in hard. His cock twitched visibly under the towel as the heat and chemicals worked their poison.
Lukas was waiting inside, pretending to be one of Dániel’s “teammate buddies” who’d had too much to drink and needed to sweat it out. The young German looked wrecked in the best way — flushed, eyes downcast, body still carrying faint bruises and marks from previous nights. His towel slipped “accidentally” as he stood to adjust the steam, revealing his thick, half-hard cock.
Viktor’s eyes lingered. The drugs made sure of it. “What the fuck is this?” he slurred, but there was no real anger — just confused heat. His towel tented obscenely.
Dániel sat beside him on the wooden bench, close enough that their thighs touched. “Relax, Viktor. It’s just us. No one has to know how hard you’re getting looking at him.”
The homophobe tried to stand, but the dissociative made his limbs heavy. Park watched everything from a hidden corner, camera rolling silently. Dániel’s voice dropped, laced with months of conditioned venom and his own seething hatred.
“You’ve always been a cheating piece of shit. Parading sluts in front of Mom while calling me soft for caring about the team. Look at you now. Cock leaking just because a young guy’s towel fell. Maybe you’ve always wanted this and hated yourself for it.”
Viktor’s face twisted — rage, shame, unwanted arousal battling across his features. Dániel reached over and yanked the towel away. The older man’s cock sprang free, thick and veined, flushed dark from the pills. Lukas, under quiet orders, knelt between Viktor’s spread thighs without a word.
The scene turned slow, seedy, and unbearably homoerotic under the humid glow.
Lukas’s lips wrapped around Viktor’s cock first — reluctant but skilled now from his own breaking. The homophobe groaned, hands fisting in the young jock’s hair, hips bucking despite himself. “This… this is fucking sick… I’m not…” But the words dissolved into heavy breathing as Dániel whispered poison in his ear.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than those cheap whores you fuck behind Mom’s back. Admit it. You’ve jerked off thinking about strong young bodies like this.”
Dániel’s hand joined in, stroking Viktor’s shaft while Lukas sucked sloppily, spit dripping down the heavy balls. The air thickened with steam, sweat, and the wet sounds of reluctant oral. Viktor’s resistance crumbled in humiliating stages — first denials, then grunts, then shameful thrusts into the warm mouth. Dániel filmed on his phone too, close-ups of his stepdad’s face contorted in forbidden pleasure, tears of rage and ecstasy mixing with sweat.
When Viktor was close, they pulled Lukas off and repositioned. Dániel forced his stepdad onto all fours on the sauna bench. Lukas mounted him from behind, sliding into the older man’s virgin ass with a slow, burning push while Dániel fed his own cock into Viktor’s mouth.
“Fuck him, Lukas. Make the homophobic bastard feel what real men do to each other.”
The double penetration was raw and extended. Viktor gagged and moaned around Dániel’s shaft, his powerful body shaking as Lukas fucked him with deep, punishing strokes — payback for his own violation. Dániel held his stepdad’s head steady, thrusting lazily, savoring the power reversal. The homophobe’s cock hung heavy and leaking between his legs, untouched but twitching wildly from the prostate abuse.
They edged him for nearly an hour in the sweltering heat. Changing positions. Making him suck both cocks at once. Forcing him to watch in the foggy mirror as Lukas railed him while Dániel whispered every filthy truth about his cheating, his disdain for the family, his secret weaknesses. When Viktor finally came — hands-free, screaming around Dániel’s cock — it was the most intense, shameful orgasm of his life, ropes of cum splattering the wooden bench.
They didn’t stop. They kept using him until he was a wrecked, babbling mess — begging incoherently, body betraying every homophobic principle he’d ever preached.
Later, in the edited footage sent anonymously to Viktor’s private email, the homophobe watched himself on his knees, getting fucked and sucking cock like a desperate whore. The message was simple:
Transfer the offshore accounts. All of them. Or your wife, your business partners, and every news outlet get the full version.
Dániel stood beside Park in the storage room days later, watching the confirmation ping on the laptop. Millions redirected. Viktor broken and silent, too terrified and ashamed to fight back.
Park pulled Dániel close, hand sliding down to grope his ass possessively. “You did well, my whore. Your stepdad’s fortune is ours now. And you… you enjoyed watching him fall, didn’t you?”
Dániel didn’t answer. But his cock was hard against Park’s thigh, the rot deeper than ever. The golden boy had become the architect of someone else’s destruction — and the lines between victim, perpetrator, and addict had blurred into something unrecognizable.
The red socks waited on the bench for whatever came next.
The money hit the accounts at 3:17 a.m.
Dániel watched the numbers climb on Park’s laptop screen from the red bench, still naked except for the red socks that had become his uniform of shame. Viktor’s offshore fortune — nearly eight million euros — now belonged to a shell company Park had set up years ago under a name that meant nothing. A quiet Swiss account that would never trace back to either of them.
Park closed the laptop with a soft click and turned to him.
“You did well, my star,” he said, voice low and warm like expensive whiskey. “Your stepfather will never speak of this. He’ll drink himself into silence and sign whatever papers we need. The homophobe who once laughed at ‘faggots’ is now our silent investor. And you…” His hand slid up Dániel’s thigh, slow and possessive. “You’re richer than you ever dreamed. But money is only the beginning.”
Dániel didn’t answer. His cock was already half-hard from the power of it — from watching the man who had disrespected his mother and paraded sluts in front of him get broken on camera. The rot had a flavor now: bitter, addictive, metallic like the taste of piss and cum still lingering in his memory.
Park stood and pulled Dániel to his feet by the hair.
“Come. I have something to show you.”
They drove in silence through the sleeping city, Park at the wheel of a blacked-out Mercedes that smelled of leather and cologne. Dániel sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the lights, the red socks still on his feet like a brand. His phone buzzed once — a message from his girlfriend asking if he was coming over. He ignored it. The old life felt like a costume that no longer fit.
The building was nothing special from the outside: an old industrial warehouse on the edge of the industrial district, the kind of place that used to store shipping containers. Park keyed in a code and the heavy door rolled open.
Inside, the air was cool and carried the faint scent of chlorine and new paint. The space had been transformed. A long corridor of private rooms, each one dimly lit with red bulbs. One room had a wrestling mat and mirrors on every wall. Another had a padded bench like the one in the storage room, but newer, with restraints built into the frame. A third had a small pool — not a full lap pool, but deep enough for two bodies to move in — the water glowing blue under underwater lights. The whole place smelled like money and sex and something darker.
Park led him to the center room. On the wall hung a single framed photograph: Dániel in his full DVTK kit, smiling after a goal, the crest bright on his chest. Below it, in elegant script, a single word:
“This is yours now,” Park said, gesturing to the entire building. “Our little kingdom. The money from your stepfather paid for it. The team’s equipment budget will cover the rest. No one will ask questions. You’ll bring them here one by one. The cocky ones. The arrogant ones. The ones who remind you of who you used to be. Lukas was the first. There will be more.”
Dániel’s breath caught. The scale of it hit him like a tackle he hadn’t seen coming. Not just blackmail. An operation. A factory for breaking straight men.
Park stepped behind him, pressing close, one hand sliding down to cup Dániel’s cock through his shorts.
“You’re not just my whore anymore, Dani. You’re my partner. My recruiter. My favorite broken thing. And tonight…” His lips brushed Dániel’s ear. “Tonight we celebrate.”
He led him into the pool room.
The water was warm, scented faintly with eucalyptus. Park undressed slowly, revealing the older, softer body that had taken everything from him — the slight belly, the dark hair on his chest, the thick cock that had first claimed him in the storage room. Dániel stripped without being told, the red socks the last thing to come off. They floated on the surface like blood in the blue light.
Park pulled him into the water.
What followed was slow, seedy, and unbearably intimate.
They moved together in the glowing pool, bodies sliding against each other in the warm water. Park didn’t fuck him right away. He made Dániel wash him — hands gliding over the older man’s chest, soaping the hair, stroking between his legs with reluctant reverence. The power dynamic had shifted in a way that made Dániel’s head spin. He was still the toy, but now he was also the heir. The prince of this underground kingdom.
When Park finally bent him over the edge of the pool, it was different from every other time. Slower. Deeper. Park’s cock sliding into him with long, deliberate strokes while one hand reached around to stroke Dániel’s own aching length in perfect rhythm. The water lapped at their skin. The red socks lay discarded on the tiled edge, watching like witnesses.
Park whispered the whole time.
“You broke your stepfather tonight. You made him beg for cock like a cheap whore. You filmed it. You own him now. And every time you look at your mother, every time you kiss your girlfriend, you’ll remember this. The money in your account. The rooms waiting to be filled. The straight boys who will kneel where you once knelt.”
Dániel came first — hard, shaking, his cum mixing with the pool water in milky clouds. Park followed seconds later, burying himself deep and flooding him with a long, satisfied groan.
They stayed like that for a long time, floating in the blue light, Park’s softening cock still inside him, Dániel’s forehead pressed to the cool tile edge.
When they finally climbed out, Park wrapped a thick towel around Dániel’s shoulders like a king draping his favorite.
“Tomorrow you start recruiting. Pick one. Anyone on the team. Bring him here. Make him yours the way I made you mine. And when he breaks… you’ll understand why I’ve enjoyed every second of this.”
Dániel looked at the framed photo on the wall — his own smiling face under the word HOME — and felt the last clean piece of himself slip away.
He was no longer just the victim.
He was the architect now.
And the kingdom of broken straight men was only just beginning to fill.
The red socks waited on the floor, ready for whatever came next.
The knock came at 2:14 a.m.
Dániel was still toweling off from the pool when the heavy door to the warehouse buzzed. Park checked the security feed on his phone and smiled — slow, dark, hungry.
“Perfect timing,” he murmured. “A cop. Young. Hot. Asking about Viktor’s sudden… generosity. He knocked on the wrong door, Dani. And now he belongs to us.”
The new arrival was exactly what the kingdom needed.
Officer Mateo Reyes — 26, built like a fucking tank, thick arms straining his navy uniform shirt, dark hair buzzed short, jaw like carved stone. The kind of straight cop who probably fucked his girlfriend in missionary once a week and thought he was the king of the world. He’d been asking the wrong questions at the wrong bars, following the money trail from Viktor’s accounts. A concerned citizen tip had led him here.
Park opened the door with a polite smile.
“Officer. Come in. We’ve been expecting someone like you.”
Mateo stepped inside, hand resting casually on his holster, eyes scanning the dimly lit corridor. “I’m following up on some financial irregularities involving a Viktor Kovács. This address came up in connection with a shell company. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
Park’s smile widened. “Of course. Right this way.”
They led him into the central room — the one with the wrestling mats and mirrors on every wall. The second Mateo’s back was turned, Park nodded once.
He slammed into the cop from behind, powerful arms wrapping around Mateo’s thick chest, pinning his arms before the younger man could even reach for his gun. Mateo roared in surprise, thrashing like a bull, but Dániel had spent months being broken by Park — he knew exactly how to use leverage, how to twist a man’s strength against him. They hit the mat hard.
Park was on them instantly, yanking the gun from the holster and tossing it aside. He produced zip ties from his pocket like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Easy, officer,” Park purred, voice calm and savoring. “You came looking for answers. We’re going to give you some.”
Mateo fought like a demon. “Get the fuck off me! You’re under arrest — both of you — what the fuck is this place?!”
Dániel ripped the uniform shirt open, buttons flying. The cop’s chest was a masterpiece — thick pecs, dark nipples, a light dusting of hair leading down to a hard eight-pack. Dániel’s hands roamed greedily, pinching, squeezing, claiming. Mateo bucked and snarled, but Park had already secured his wrists behind his back with the zip ties.
They stripped him methodically. Boots. Pants. Boxer briefs. The cop’s cock hung heavy and thick between his powerful thighs — straight, proud, untouched by anything like this. Mateo’s face burned with humiliated rage.
“You sick fucks — I’ll kill you both — ”
Park slapped him across the face, not hard, just enough to stun. “No. You’ll beg. Just like your friend Viktor did. Just like Dani did before he became one of us.”
Dániel’s cock was rock hard now, leaking against Mateo’s thigh as they wrestled him onto his back on the mat. The mirrors reflected everything — three perfect male bodies, one of them bound and furious, the other two predators circling their prey.
They started with his mouth.
Park straddled Mateo’s chest, feeding his thick cock between the cop’s clenched lips while Dániel held his head steady. Mateo gagged and thrashed, but Park was relentless — slow, deep thrusts that made the cop’s throat bulge. Spit ran down his chin, soaking into his chest hair.
“Fight it,” Park whispered, eyes half-lidded in ecstasy. “It makes it better.”
While Park face-fucked him, Dániel moved lower. He spread Mateo’s thick, muscular legs and buried his tongue in the cop’s untouched hole — licking, probing, stretching. Mateo screamed around Park’s cock, legs kicking, but Dániel held him open like he’d been taught. The taste of straight cop ass made his own cock throb painfully.
When Mateo was slick and gasping, Dániel lined up and pushed in.
The cop’s scream was muffled but raw — virgin hole stretched around Dániel’s thick cock for the first time. Dániel fucked him slow at first, savoring the tight, clenching heat, watching Mateo’s face twist in the mirrors. Then harder. Deeper. Park pulled out of his mouth and moved behind Dániel, pressing his own cock against Dániel’s hole while Dániel railed the cop.
Double penetration in every sense.
Park fucked Dániel while Dániel fucked Mateo — a chain of violation, the three bodies moving in filthy rhythm under the red lights. Mateo’s cock had betrayed him completely, rock hard and leaking against his abs as Dániel’s thrusts nailed his prostate over and over. Every time he tried to curse them, Park fed his cock back into his mouth.
The breaking came in stages.
First the physical — Mateo’s body shaking, hole fluttering, cock twitching despite the rage in his eyes.
Dániel leaned down, lips against the cop’s ear, voice hoarse and dark.
“You came looking for Viktor’s money. Now you’re part of it. You’re going to disappear for a few days. And when you come back… you’ll be ours. Just like me.”
Mateo came first — violently, cock pulsing untouched, ropes of cum splattering his own chest while he screamed around Park’s shaft. The sight pushed Dániel over the edge. He buried himself deep and flooded the cop’s guts, groaning as Park followed seconds later, filling Dániel while Dániel filled Mateo.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing hard, the cop trembling between them.
Park finally pulled out and stroked Dániel’s back.
“Welcome to the kingdom, officer. You knocked on the wrong door… and now you belong to it.”
Mateo lay there, cum leaking from his ass, chest heaving, eyes glassy with shock and unwanted pleasure. The straight cop jock who had walked in asking questions was already fracturing.
Dániel looked down at him, at the powerful body now marked and used, and felt the rot bloom hotter than ever.
He wasn’t just the victim anymore.
He was the one holding the leash.
And the warehouse — their private kingdom of broken straight men — had just gained its first cop.
The red socks lay discarded on the mat, watching everything.
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