Page 21 of Hallow’s Crown

The words don't register at first. I stare, waiting for the punchline.

He repeats, "Masturbate. You have sixty seconds to begin, or the trial escalates."

The cold water is still spraying, now with less force, misting me more than soaking, but the chill is enough to make my skin raw. I don't want to touch myself in front of him, not out of modesty, but because that's what he wants.

But I'm not a fucking idiot. I know how to play to the crowd.

I glance at his crotch, see the outline of what he's packing, and grin up at him.

"Clock's ticking," I say, and take my cock in hand.

At first, nothing happens. I'm not turned on, not even a little, but the pressure of his stare is enough to make my body remember how to perform. My hand moves, slow, up and down the shaft, and after a few strokes the sensation overrides the embarrassment. My nerves are hyper alive, every touch amplified by the cold and the humiliation and the knowledge that he is watching, just a foot away.

He crosses his arms, face impassive except for a faint darkening in his pupils. The air between us is charged.

The more I focus on the mechanics, the less I feel like myself. I close my eyes, try to conjure any memory that isn't this room, but every time I do, he says, "Eyes open, Richards."

I look at him and see the heat behind the control, the way his chest rises and falls in deliberate rhythm. He's not just watching for protocol; he's watching for something else.

My hand moves faster. I’m hard now, and he stares at it with the cold curiosity of a biologist observing a rare animal. I brace my other hand against the tile, spread my stance, and jerk myself with slow, steady strokes. It’s a power move—I'm giving him a show, but I'm also claiming the moment. If I'm going to be an exhibit, I'll be a memorable one.

He moves in, crowding my space. He’s taller, broader, but I hold my ground. He reaches out, presses his palm to my chest, feeling the heartbeat. He leaves his hand there, warm and heavy.

"Finish," he says, and the word is pure command.

I pump faster, my own breath ragged, my body not sure whether it's more ashamed or aroused.

It’s both.

That’s the fucked part.

I feel the pressure build, my balls tight, and I stare at him, right into the blue-grey of his eyes, and I let it happen.

When I come, it’s silent, but the spatter is impossible to miss. It stripes the tile and some of it gets on his wrist. He doesn’t flinch.

He waits until the last pulse, then raises his hand and licks it. He looks me in the eye, and for the first time I see a flicker of something in him: satisfaction, maybe, or hunger. Or the simple pleasure of breaking a thing and seeing it still work.

He reaches into the steel drawer again, produces a towel, and hands it to me.

I wipe myself, slow and deliberate. I make a point of dragging the towel over every inch of skin, leaving nothing behind. He watches, and I know he’s enjoying every motion, every response.

When I’m done, he takes the towel, tosses it onto the drain, and steps back. He gives me a once-over, then nods. "Acceptable stamina," he says. There's something like a smile at the edge of his mouth, but it never fully forms.

He turns, crosses to the wall, and unlocks the door. He gestures for me to follow.

I do, head high, hands at my sides, body still humming with the shame and the thrill and the adrenaline.

"Next phase," he says, and his voice is almost gentle. Almost.

I step out of the room, and the air hits me with a shock. He hands me a robe—thin, grey, institutional—and I put it on, tying the sash tight.

He looks at me, expression unreadable, and says, "You're exceeding expectations."

"Hmm, I’d say the same, but so far I’ve yet to see how your cock does under pressure.”

A sliver of a smile and then it’s gone just as fast. He gestures down the corridor. "This way."

I walk, robe flapping at my calves, and feel his eyes on my back. I don't know if I've passed the test, or if this is all just another setup for failure, but I do know one thing: