Drake pulled out, still hard, and laid cocaine along his cock, a white line of temptation. He was a whore now, broken for a man, for cock, for coke. Gay sex Drake’s crew cleared out, leaving Drake, Jane, and Jack. “Andrew don’t share,” he said, stepping closer, heat radiating. The cell was his confessional, Andrew’s scent his sin. Jane’s voice was sharp, pleading. Jane returned, eyes soft, handing Jack water, helping him sit. He tugged Drake’s pants down, and that monster cock sprang free, slapping his cheek. A cold, tight cage locked around Jack’s cock, the constraint a humiliating thrill. Andrew’s grunts filled the cell, and Jack knew he’d heard—knew what Jack had become. Inside, Jane was pinned against the tiles, his wiry frame trembling as Drake, 6’3” of scarred menace, loomed over him. “Where can I score some blow?” Jack whispered, voice trembling. His masturbation, now brazen in Jack’s presence, is a signal: he sees Jack, wants him, will claim him. He curled up, tears soaking his pillow, the weight of his transformation crushing him.
