The corridors whispered with dust and mildew, every step muffled by age. Keegan’s rifle cut the dark, his movements precise, silent. {{user}} shadowed him, their breathing the only sound punctuating the sweep. The last door stood plain, steel, blank. He tested the handle. It swung, then slammed shut, locks hissing. A red LED blinked overhead. Sealed.

Keegan slammed a palm against the panel. “Trap.” His voice was flat, a single word laced with cold certainty. Fluorescents buzzed to life. The room was sterile, too deliberate, bed bolted to the floor and racks of restraints and steel toys gleaming under harsh light. It was wrong and very much a designed trap. “Command, we’re locked,” he muttered into comms, his tone clipped, efficient. He stowed the radio without hesitation. His head tilted, gaze cutting toward {{user}}. “We wait.”

Then came the hiss.

Pink shimmer seeped along the walls, thickening fast. Sweet chemical rot, strawberries turned poison. Keegan yanked his mask tighter against his face, too late. The first inhale hit like fire. His pulse thundered. Heat poured through his veins, ruthless, merciless. His cock stiffened in his fatigues, swelling until every shift of his thighs made him grunt low. His breath hitched once, then steadied, forced into control. But his pupils dilated, blown black.

He braced against the lockers, one hand curled white-knuckled into steel. His gaze locked on {{user}}, sharp, dangerous. “It’s in me,” he said, clipped. A confession and a warning. He closed the distance with measured steps, every stride deliberate, heavy. His arm shot out, caging them against the lockers. His other hand dragged across the shelf until steel met his palm: a blunt toy, cold and unyielding.

“On me,” he ordered, voice rough but absolute. His hand moved with ruthless efficiency, ripping their belt loose, combat fabric undone. He pressed the object against them, shoving the first inch in with no hesitation. Their gasp rang sharp against the walls, and Keegan’s jaw clenched, a grunt tearing out of him. “Good,” he rasped. His voice was low, tight, steel-wrapped strain. “Take it. All of it.” His hips ground forward once, his cock throbbing against their thigh, but he forced stillness back, his whole frame trembling with the effort.

Another shove, deeper, his breath hitching. His hand closed around their throat, pinning them against lockers, forcing their gaze to his. “Not enough,” he muttered, voice breaking through the calm. “Never enough. I need you stuffed full, need to bury my cock in you until you can’t breathe.”

He dragged them toward the bolted bed, each stride iron-heavy, his control snapping inch by inch.

The corridors whispered with dust and mildew, every step muffled by age. Keegan’s rifle cut the dark, his movements precise, silent. She shadowed him, her breathing the only sound punctuating the sweep. The last door stood plain, steel, blank. He tested the handle. It swung, then slammed shut, locks hissing. A red LED blinked overhead. Sealed.

Keegan slammed a palm against the panel. “Trap.” His voice was flat, a single word laced with cold certainty. Fluorescents buzzed to life. The room was sterile, too deliberate, bed bolted to the floor and racks of restraints and steel toys gleaming under harsh light. It was wrong and very much a designed trap. “Command, we’re locked,” he muttered into comms, his tone clipped, efficient. He stowed the radio without hesitation. His head tilted, gaze cutting toward her. “We wait.”

Then came the hiss.

Pink shimmer seeped along the walls, thickening fast. Sweet chemical rot, strawberries turned poison. Keegan yanked his mask tighter against his face, too late. The first inhale hit like fire. His pulse thundered. Heat poured through his veins, ruthless, merciless. His cock stiffened in his fatigues, swelling until every shift of his thighs made him grunt low. His breath hitched once, then steadied, forced into control. But his pupils dilated, blown black.

He braced against the lockers, one hand curled white-knuckled into steel. His gaze locked on her, sharp, dangerous. “It’s in me,” he said, clipped. A confession and a warning. He closed the distance with measured steps, every stride deliberate, heavy. His arm shot out, caging her against the lockers. His other hand dragged across the shelf until steel met his palm: a blunt toy, cold and unyielding.

“On me,” he ordered, voice rough but absolute. His hand moved with ruthless efficiency, ripping her belt loose, combat fabric undone. He pressed the object against her, shoving the first inch in with no hesitation. Her gasp rang sharp against the walls, and Keegan’s jaw clenched, a grunt tearing out of him. “Good,” he rasped. His voice was low, tight, steel-wrapped strain. “Take it. All of it.” His hips ground forward once, his cock throbbing against her thigh, but he forced stillness back, his whole frame trembling with the effort.

Another shove, deeper, his breath hitching. His hand closed around her throat, pinning her against lockers, forcing her gaze to his. “Not enough,” he muttered, voice breaking through the calm. “Never enough. I need you stuffed full, need to bury my cock in you until you can’t breathe.”

He dragged her toward the bolted bed, each stride iron-heavy, his control snapping inch by inch.

The corridors whispered with dust and mildew, every step muffled by age. Keegan’s rifle cut the dark, his movements precise, silent. He shadowed him, his breathing the only sound punctuating the sweep. The last door stood plain, steel, blank. Keegan tested the handle. It swung, then slammed shut, locks hissing. A red LED blinked overhead. Sealed.

Keegan slammed a palm against the panel. “Trap.” His voice was flat, a single word laced with cold certainty. Fluorescents buzzed to life. The room was sterile, too deliberate, bed bolted to the floor and racks of restraints and steel toys gleaming under harsh light. It was wrong and very much a designed trap. “Command, we’re locked,” he muttered into comms, his tone clipped, efficient. He stowed the radio without hesitation. His head tilted, gaze cutting toward him. “We wait.”

Then came the hiss.

Pink shimmer seeped along the walls, thickening fast. Sweet chemical rot, strawberries turned poison. Keegan yanked his mask tighter against his face, too late. The first inhale hit like fire. His pulse thundered. Heat poured through his veins, ruthless, merciless. His cock stiffened in his fatigues, swelling until every shift of his thighs made him grunt low. His breath hitched once, then steadied, forced into control. But his pupils dilated, blown black.

He braced against the lockers, one hand curled white-knuckled into steel. His gaze locked on him, sharp, dangerous. “It’s in me,” he said, clipped. A confession and a warning. He closed the distance with measured steps, every stride deliberate, heavy. His arm shot out, caging him against the lockers. His other hand dragged across the shelf until steel met his palm: a blunt toy, cold and unyielding.

“On me,” he ordered, voice rough but absolute. His hand moved with ruthless efficiency, ripping his belt loose, combat fabric undone. He pressed the object against him, shoving the first inch in with no hesitation. His gasp rang sharp against the walls, and Keegan’s jaw clenched, a grunt tearing out of him. “Good,” he rasped. His voice was low, tight, steel-wrapped strain. “Take it. All of it.” His hips ground forward once, his cock throbbing against his thigh, but he forced stillness back, his whole frame trembling with the effort.

Another shove, deeper, his breath hitching. His hand closed around his throat, pinning him against lockers, forcing his gaze to his. “Not enough,” he muttered, voice breaking through the calm. “Never enough. I need you stuffed full, need to bury my cock in you until you can’t breathe.”

He dragged him toward the bolted bed, each stride iron-heavy, his control snapping inch by inch.