Rókus

by Edward Kyle Stokes

Chapter 3

Losing His Virginity

Laren 's flat was a testament to his alpha persona, a masculine space of clean lines and muted colours. A sleek leather sofa dominated the living room, facing a large, flat-screen television mounted on a wall. The low-lit lamps cast a warm glow, and the only other furniture was a dark, polished wood table holding a few art books and a half-empty glass of whiskey. There were no personal photos or clutter, just the stark, anonymous feel of a place used for a single purpose.

"Hang up your coat and make yourself comfortable," Laren said, his voice a low invitation.

Rókus took a moment, his gaze sweeping the room, before he hung his jacket on a hook by the door. Laren was already at a small bar cart, pouring two drinks. He offered Rókus a pill, a familiar small, rose-coloured tablet. Rókus took it, washing it down with the drink. A soothing warmth spread through him, and he sank into the plush leather sofa, the world's worries fading into the background.

Laren joined him, his body heat radiating through his clothes. He leaned into Rókus, his lips finding Rókus'. It was a long, deep kiss, his tongue a slow, deliberate exploration that left Rókus breathless and pliant. Laren's hands moved with practiced ease. He unzipped Rókus' jumper, sliding it off his shoulders, and then peeled off his t-shirt. Rókus' body, smooth and slim, was now bare to the waist. Laren's fingers traced the line of his ribs as he moved to unfasten Rókus' trousers, sliding them down with a gentle pull. Soon, Rókus was almost naked, with only his black boxers left.

Laren stood, pulling his t-shirt over his head. Rókus' eyes were fixed on him, his gaze tracing the sculpted lines of Laren's chest, the washboard abs, and the powerful, corded muscles of his arms. Laren looked like a god, a figure carved from marble.

As Laren unzipped his jeans, Rókus' focus shifted. The material parted, revealing a prominent bulge that left no room for doubt. Laren bent down, his hand disappearing to remove his underwear. He was more than just well-built; he was powerfully, impressively endowed, the full extent of his size now visible. Rókus swallowed, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm.

Laren extended his hand, and Rókus took it, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cool air in the flat. "Let's go to the bedroom," he said, pulling Rókus up off the sofa.

The bedroom was as minimalist as the rest of the flat, a large bed with a dark gray duvet dominating the space. A single, low-wattage lamp on a bedside table cast a soft, intimate glow. There were no pictures on the walls, just a mirror above a simple, dark wood chest of drawers.

Laren kept his arm around Rókus as they reached the bed. He gave him a gentle, almost playful push, and Rókus sank into the soft mattress. The pill and the alcohol had made him pliant and unsuspecting.

Laren leaned over, a hungry look in his eyes, and slid Rókus' boxers down, leaving him completely naked. The sudden chill on his skin brought a moment of clarity. A flicker of panic crossed Rókus' mind as the reality of the situation finally dawned on him, but it was too late. He was trapped, sprawled out on the bed, defenseless.

Laren moved with a predator's swiftness. He reached for a small bottle of lube on the bedside table and squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. He knelt beside the bed and, without a word, pushed a finger into Rókus. Rókus instinctively tightened up, his muscles clenching in protest. "Relax," Laren whispered, his voice a low command, "Don't fight it." His finger pressed deeper, stretching and prying.

Rókus took a sharp breath, his body tensing, but Laren was not to be denied his prize. With a grunt, he positioned himself, his formidable size a sudden, terrifying presence. He pushed, a single, powerful motion, and then he was in, his entry a sharp, violent pain that tore through Rókus, stealing his breath.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, and for a moment, Rókus lay still, disoriented. He was in a strange bed, a strange room. A pounding headache was a familiar visitor, but this time it was joined by a sharp ache in his lower back and a profound soreness in his arse. It all came rushing back: the pill, the couch, the bedroom, Laren. He was no longer a virgin. The phrase echoed in his head, cold and clinical.

He slipped out of bed, the sheets cool against his skin, and padded to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection. His own eyes looked back at him, wide and haunted. He replayed the fragmented memories—the pill, Laren's touch, the forceful invasion. He remembered the wild, ecstatic look on Laren's face as he'd pounded him into the mattress, then flipped him over, pushing his legs apart for the final climax. It was a memory that burned, a terrifying combination of pain and something else, something he couldn't name.

Suddenly, it was all too much. He went back into the bedroom and found his boxers on the floor. The rest of his clothes were scattered in the living room. He dressed quickly, grabbing his jacket and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He didn't even glance at Laren, who was still asleep, a peaceful expression on his face. He just walked out, the click of the lock a quiet, final sound behind him.