The money was gone. Dean wouldn’t loan him anymore weed. And Stefan still felt like he’d been beaten into a thin sheet of brittle metal, and was ready to snap.
He needed to be filled.
He didn’t even want to f**k—but he needed something, someone, anyone, inside him. Inside every part of him. He needed to be filled and surrounded, held down under someone so tight that it left bruises, and wrapped around a toy or a d**k so huge that it made him bleed.
He needed it.
“Sick,” he told himself, even as he turned into the narrow street of terraced houses. “God, you’re so sick, so f*****g sick—”
He didn’t call. He hadn’t been called, either. Daz was going to punish him. And yet Stefan wanted it, even as he shivered inside his jacket and told himself that if he did this, if he handed himself ove
