The Cure - Chapter One

The world ended. Matthias kept his hands steady and his hungers buried. Then Connor walked through the gates, and both became impossible.

Dr. Matthias Reinhardt stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom, the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards under his bare feet echoing softly in the loft. His salt-and-pepper hair clung damply to his forehead, curling slightly at the temples where the heat had coaxed out its natural wave, and the air around him carried the warm, earthy spice of sandalwood from the precious bar of soap he’d rationed for months, a small luxury traded from a Swiss convoy last autumn. His skin, flushed pink from the near-scalding bathwater drawn from the communal well and heated over the woodstove, glowed under the soft folds of his dark blue robe, the fabric worn smooth from years of use, wrapping around his broad frame like a familiar embrace.

The apartment itself was a sanctuary carved from the bones of Rothenwall’s medieval past, perched atop a half-timbered house on the edge of the Marktplatz, where the exposed oak beams arched overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast. The soft glow from the kerosene lamps on the street below filtered through the mullioned windows, casting shifting diamond patterns on the uneven plank floors, worn smooth in paths from door to bed to the small kitchen alcove. It was cozy in the way only a survivor’s haven could be, insulated against the world’s decay by thick stone walls that muffled the distant calls of wall patrols and the occasional low moan from beyond the gates. A cast-iron stove squatted in the corner, its belly still radiating heat from the morning fire, with a kettle perched atop it, steam lazily curling from the spout. Bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with salvaged medical texts and faded Before novels, their spines cracked and dog-eared; a dog-eared copy of McCarthy’s The Road lay open on the arm of a threadbare armchair, a half-finished mug of herbal tea staining the side table with a faint ring. On the mantel above the stove, a framed photograph, yellowed and creased, from his Berlin days leaned against a jar of dried lavender: him with his late wife and a teenage Julian, all smiles in a world that still made sense, a quiet reminder that surfaced in unguarded moments, making his surgeon’s hands pause mid-motion as if stitching invisible wounds.

It had been one of those days that blurred the line between duty and desperation, the kind that reminded him why he’d once dreamed of a different life, back in Berlin, when surgeries were elective and ideals weren’t rationed like fuel. As the council’s lead medic and de facto guardian of the enclave’s fragile health, Matthias wasn’t truly the only doctor in Rothenwall; there were a handful of medics and assistants in the clinic, holdovers from various convoys. But on days like today, it felt that way, the weight of every fevered child, every infected wound, every whispered consultation falling squarely on his shoulders, his hands the last line between life and the Lazarus-tainted void beyond the walls. Relaxation had been the elusive promise he’d clung to all day, a mental talisman against the relentless tide of Rothenwall’s demands.

His bedroom was an intimate cocoon within the loft’s medieval embrace, its walls paneled in dark timber that absorbed the flickering candlelight. Multiple beeswax candles burned steadily on the bedside table, its flame dancing in the draft from the mullioned window, casting elongated shadows that played across the uneven plaster ceiling and the simple iron bedframe draped in faded linens. Matthias was one of the few in Rothenwall privileged with constant electricity, a perk of his council position tied to the humming generators in the vaults below the Rathaus, but he rarely indulged it here at night. Sensibility demanded conservation. Fuel convoys were unpredictable, and every watt spared could mean a ventilator running longer in the clinic tomorrow. More than that: secretly, he savored the romanticism of candlelight, its golden hush a defiant poetry in this fractured world. When you lived amid the Lazarus Plague’s endless decay, you grasped comfort wherever it flickered, a small rebellion against the pragmatism that had hardened his soul. The glow softened the edges of his possessions: a sturdy wardrobe in the corner, its doors slightly ajar to reveal neatly folded shirts and a leather medical bag hanging like a sentinel; a small writing desk beneath the window, scattered with notes and a half-filled journal where he occasionally scribbled thoughts too raw for daylight.

He crossed to the old gramophone perched on a low shelf against the far wall, its brass horn gleaming faintly in the candle’s aura. It was his most valued possession, scavenged from a ruined village during their nomadic years in Festung Hoffnung, a relic that had survived borders, raids, and the weight of his own doubts. With practiced care, his fingers lifted the needle and set it gently into the groove of a worn vinyl record, one of the few he’d managed to preserve: a pre-fall pressing of Chopin’s Nocturnes, the soft, melancholic strains unfurling into the room like a sigh from another era, piano notes rippling through the air, tender yet laced with an undercurrent of loss that mirrored the quiet fractures in his chest.

Then, he turned to the bottle of wine on his nightstand — a modest red from a Swiss enclave’s vineyard, acquired through three separate trades that had begun with a surgical kit and ended, somehow, with this — its cork already loosened in anticipation, the glass catching the candle’s flicker like a promise of fleeting oblivion. He lifted the bottle with a steady hand, the candle’s flame glinting off the dark glass as he poured a generous measure into the mismatched goblet beside it. The wine swirled ruby-red in the low light, releasing a faint aroma of overripe berries and earth, a far cry from the velvety Bordeaux he’d savored in Paris restaurants, where debates on ethics flowed as freely as the vintages. It was far from the best he’d ever tasted, tart on the edges, lacking the depth of oak and time, but more than enough, a quiet indulgence that warmed his throat as he took a slow sip, the liquid tracing a path down to settle in his chest like a muted fire.

With a deliberate exhale, he untied the belt of his robe, letting the soft fabric slide from his shoulders and pool at his feet. He stood for a moment in the candlelight, unhurried, and let his gaze drift to the antique mirror across the room. The man looking back at him was not the one he remembered from before. That man had existed in fluorescent-lit corridors and sterile conference rooms. This one had been made by something harder.

At six-one, he filled the mirror completely. The candlelight moved over him like it had an opinion, tracing the broad shelf of his chest, the salt-and-pepper hair curling across it, and stomach that was flat not from vanity but from years of carrying more than any man should. His hands hung at his sides, heavy and capable, the veins along them raised like topographic lines on a map of everything he had endured. His thighs were thick and corded, his cock hanging full and uncut between them, heavy even at rest. And his ass, round, pale, and obscenely generous, caught the candlelight in a way that felt almost unfair, the dimples at the base of his spine deepening as he shifted his weight with a quiet, unselfconscious ease.

Matthias tilted the goblet back, downing the wine in one deliberate swallow, the tart warmth spreading through his chest like a slow unraveling thread, softening the knots of the day’s exhaustion just enough to let the edges blur. He poured another glass without haste. The wine was taking effect now. Not a drunken haze, but a gentle loosening, a veil lifting over the repressed corners of his mind, where duty gave way to the insistent pull of long-denied cravings.

With a deep, releasing sigh, he lowered himself onto the bed, the faded linens cool against his flushed skin, the iron frame creaking faintly under his frame as he stretched out on his back. He started with his nipples, as he always did in these rare, solitary rituals, his fingers racing slow circles around the dusky peaks nestled in the thick hair. The touch was light at first, a teasing caress that sent a shudder rippling through his body, where his full lips parted in quiet surprise at the intensity of that first wave of pleasure. He sighed again, this time laced with unmistakable pleasure, a low rumble in his throat that echoed the piano’s tender notes. His nipples hardened under his fingertips, pebbling into sensitive buds that throbbed with each pinch and twist, the friction igniting sparks that traveled southward, awakening the deeper hunger he’d buried beneath layers of discipline and the quiet, crushing weight of being needed by everyone but himself. Slowly, his cock followed suit, the respectable length stirring from its heavy repose, thickening and lengthening against his thigh with a lazy insistence, the veiny shaft pulsing as blood rushed in, the foreskin retracting just enough to reveal the glistening head.

Matthias’s breath deepened, the wine’s warmth spreading further through his veins like a subtle permission, blurring the edges of his self-imposed restraint as Chopin’s Nocturne swirled in the candlelit air. One hand remained at his chest, fingers rolling and pinching the hardened nipple with increasing fervor, each tug sending jolts that arched his back slightly off the linens. With his other hand, he finally surrendered to the insistent throb below, wrapping his fingers around his now fully engorged cock, standing rigid against his stomach, veiny and girthy, head weeping precome in glistening beads.

He stroked slowly at first, savoring the build, using the natural lube to glide his palm along the shaft with teasing pressure, up from the base where his treasure trail met the root, over the sensitive underside, and back down, the friction igniting sparks that made his thighs tense. His eyes fluttered shut behind his glasses. It didn’t take much before the hand on his nipple relinquished its hold, trailing downward with agonizing slowness, nails grazing the fur of his chest, dipping over the firm planes of his toned abs, and skirting past the base of his throbbing cock and heavy balls, brushing them just enough to draw a sharp inhale.The touch continued, exploratory, pressing into the perineum with firm circles that sent electric waves pulsing through him, amplifying the strokes on his cock until he was rock-hard and leaking steadily. Finally, his fingers reached his hole, the puckered entrance nestled between the cheeks of his ass, and he massaged it slowly, teasing the rim with gentle pressure, circling, probing just the edge without penetration, the sensation unlocking a deeper ache that had simmered unspoken.

The first moan escaped his lips then, a guttural sound that broke the room’s hush. Yes, that was what Matthias really liked, what he really needed, the vulnerability of surrender, the deep, consuming pleasure of being filled and claimed, a truth that clashed so violently with the authoritative doctor everyone saw in Rothenwall’s clinic and council chambers. He had a big cock, thick and girthy, and he knew how to use it; Before, in the haze of Berlin’s progressive circles, he’d made his fair share of women shatter with ecstasy under him, their moans echoing his own controlled dominance, and even a couple of men when the mood struck him to top, when he’d thrust with surgeon’s precision, drawing out their submission until they begged. But what really drove him crazy, what made him empty his balls in shuddering release, was that: taking it up the ass like a slut.

Matthias kept rubbing his hole with insistent, probing circles, his finger dipping deeper now to stretch the tight ring of muscle. His other hand maintained its rhythm on his cock, jerking himself off with slow pulls that milked more precome from the slit, the slickness coating his palm and making each stroke glide with obscene ease. His skin got sweaty, a fine sheen glistening across his and the room started to smell of his sex, a musky, primal tang mingling with the sandalwood residue on his skin and the faint beeswax from the candle.

With hooded eyes, he looked to the nightstand on the other side of the bed and. In a simple wooden frame, sat a picture of him and Julian, taken just last month during Julian’s birthday, a candid shot from the Marktplatz festival, Matthias’s arm slung protectively around his son’s shoulders, both of them laughing under the kerosene lamps. Beside it, almost indecently close to that emblem of love, was his dildo. Big, black, and thick, molded with realistic veins and a flared base, it had been a gift from Otto, his lover, supposedly a joke handed over with a grin before one of Otto’s Outrider missions: “To keep you warm while I’m gone,” the burly scout had said, his deep voice laced with teasing affection. Matthias had rolled his eyes at it then, playing the part of the unflappable surgeon, but what he never told Otto was that he used the dildo much more than he liked to admit, far beyond the occasional whim, its girth becoming a ritual escape in these solitary nights when the weight of Rothenwall’s demands left him aching for release.

Otto was a good man, handsome in that rugged, post-Lazarus way with his scarred jaw and broad build, talented in bed with a stamina that could wear down even Matthias’s endurance, but his cock was ordinary at best, even slightly disappointing for a man of his sheer size. Matthias was what, before the Lazarus Plague shattered the world, they called a size queen, a label he’d once dismissed as frivolous in his family-man days, but one that now defined the hidden hunger gnawing at him, the insatiable drive for something bigger, thicker, more challenging to fill the void that duty and denial had carved out.

Matthias’s slick fingers slipped from his hole with a wet pop, his other hand giving his throbbing cock one final slow stroke before he reached across the nightstand. The heavy black dildo came into his grasp, warm from the room’s trapped heat, its realistic weight and texture sending a fresh shiver racing up his spine. He lifted it, holding it upright in the candlelight, and stared. The deep, glossy black of it caught the flame like polished obsidian, and just looking at it dragged him backward through the years, pulling up the ghosts of every cock that had ever split him open and left him ruined for anything less.

He remembered Lukas, a rugby player from his second year at the Charité Universitätsmedizin Berlin, who had pressed him into the narrow dorm mattress with the casual confidence of someone who had never been told no, his cock a brutal, upward-curving thing that found Matthias’s prostate with maddening precision and didn’t relent until Matthias had his teeth buried in the pillow, knuckles white against the headboard. Then Karim, the intense Syrian exchange student who had shared his flat the following summer, dark-eyed and unhurried, who would gather both of Matthias’s wrists in one hand and pin them above his head like it cost him nothing, breeding him for hours with a focused, almost scholarly dedication, whispering in broken German against his ear how loose the “pretty German slut” still was. Giacomo he had found in Rome during a weekend that was supposed to be a conference and became something else entirely, a tattooed sculptor with Renaissance hands and a cock like a Roman column, that pushed so deep into him Matthias had genuinely wondered, in some distant clinical corner of his surgeon’s mind, whether something inside him had been rearranged permanently.

Those wild, greedy years before Clara.

Matthias swallowed hard, the memory of her name hitting like a scalpel between the ribs. He had loved her, loved her with every fiber of his being. Deeply. Completely. From the moment she smiled at him across the operating theater in 2009 until the day cancer stole her breath away, he had never once looked at another man or woman with desire. She had been his world, his safe harbor, the woman who made the restless boy grow into the devoted husband and father the world saw. In all their years together, through Julian’s birth and every late-night shift, he had buried that part of himself so completely he almost believed it was gone. But after she died, it didn’t take long for the craving to claw its way back out of the grave. Within weeks of laying her to rest, while the world was still pretending the Lazarus Plague was just another headline, the hunger had returned fiercer than ever, like a beast that had only been sleeping. By the time the dead began to rise, Matthias was already sneaking away during supply runs, letting rough strangers stretch him open in the backs of trucks, chasing that brutal fullness he had denied himself for so long.

He brought the heavy dildo to his lips without hesitation and slid the thick head into his mouth. The taste was of cheap plastic, but he didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, coating the toy with saliva, tongue swirling around the veined surface the way he would have worshipped a real cock. An embarrassed chuckle vibrated around the dildo before it melted into a needy hum. Matthias felt ridiculous, the respected surgeon on his back with a fake dick stretching his mouth, drool already slipping down his face… but the silliness only sharpened the ache, because what he was really tasting, what he was really craving, was the real thing, hot and throbbing and alive.

Finding sex in this broken world had turned out to be surprisingly, almost shamefully easy. A few years into Die Dunklen Jahre, birth control had simply… stopped existing. No more pills, no more implants, no reliable clinics. Pregnancy became a potential death sentence, complications, infection, the pura danger of bringing a child into a world of shambling dead and ration lines. Women grew ruthlessly careful, choosing partners with surgical precision or swearing off men altogether. That left entire communities of men walking around with heavy, aching balls and no safe outlet… men who would gladly bend a willing, discreet hole like his over the nearest crate or desk if he gave the slightest signal. And Matthias had given those signals. Quietly. Carefully. Never in public, never where it could touch his reputation or, Gott behüte, Julian.

He had Otto, of course, who kissed him like he mattered and fucked him with genuine affection. But there had been others in the eighteen months since they’d arrived in Rothenwall, quick, anonymous releases that left him both satisfied and quietly disappointed. There was Tomas, the soft-spoken supply clerk who worked the stores. Tomas would lock the depot door after hours and bend Matthias over a crate of preserved beans and thrust with sweet, eager little grunts until he came too fast, always apologizing with kisses afterward. Matthias always came too, but it was never enough; he’d leave with a polite smile and an empty ache still throbbing deep inside. Sergeant Marek from the night wall patrol, stocky, gruff, salt-of-the-earth type with rough calloused palms from years gripping rifles. Marek’s cock was modest in every sense, unremarkable in length and girth, but what he lacked in presence he compensated for in determination, taking Matthias against the guard tower wall one stormy night while the kerosene lamps hissed overhead. Marek fucked like he patrolled, hard and no nonsense, but never quite enough to make Matthias see stars the way he secretly needed, always leaving him teetering at the edge of something just out of reach. And then there was Felix, young Felix Brandt, one of Rothenwall’s cartographers, barely twenty-six, lean and earnest with ink-stained fingers and a perfectly respectable six inches that curved slightly left. Felix would find excuses to linger after delivering his maps to the clinic, and eventually stopped making excuses altogether, pressing Matthias against the supply shelves with a cartographer’s careful attention to detail, whispering apologies and questions in equal measure, like he couldn’t quite believe the geography he had stumbled into. He was gentle, and he lasted longer than the others, but again, never quite enough.

All of them good men. Kind, in their way. None of them ever suspected how deeply unsatisfied he remained, how every ordinary cock only sharpened his craving for something monstrous, something that would split him open and ruin him for anything less. None of them like—

— naked over the medic table in the underground lab, eyes squeezed shut, full lips bitten hard between white teeth. That powerful, muscular Black body glistening with sweat under the harsh battery lights. His big hand sliding slowly, possessively, up and down that huge piece of Black, monstrous cock, easily eleven inches of dark meat —

No.

Matthias’s eyes snapped open in panic, heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped animal. The dildo was still buried halfway inside his mouth, his throat fluttering wildly around the thick girth, his own cock jerking untouched and leaking in thick strands across his hairy stomach.

No.

Don’t go there.

Not Connor.

Not Julian’s boyfriend.

When he thought the dildo was wet enough, he pulled it from his mouth, thick strings of saliva stretching between his lips and the glossy black head before breaking and dripping down his jaw. The candlelight made it gleam, wet and ready, and the sheer size of it — bigger than Otto, bigger Marek, bigger than any of the cocks he’d taken in Rothenwall — sent a fresh pulse straight to his own throbbing erection. He could have reached for the little tube of lube tucked in his medical bag on the floor. He always kept it there for these nights. But tonight he didn’t. Tonight he wanted the burn. He wanted to feel every brutal inch force its way inside him, wanted the tearing stretch that reminded him exactly what kind of man he really was beneath the white coat and the wire-rimmed glasses and the loving-father smile.

He pressed the fat, spit-shiny head of the dildo against his tight pucker and pushed.

The first inch burned like fire.

A wrecked, guttural moan tore from his throat —“Fiiiiick…”— hollow and broken, the sound nothing like the calm, authoritative voice he used in the clinic. Pain flared sharp and bright, his rim stretching obscenely around the massive girth, the dry silicone dragging against sensitive walls that hadn’t been opened this wide in too long. Tears instantly pooled at the corners of his eyes, spilling over and sliding down his cheeks. His hole clenched hard, trying to reject the invasion even as his hips rolled up greedily, chasing it.

He didn’t stop.

Another inch. Another moan, higher this time, almost a sob. The burn was exquisite, the stretch bordering on too much, his hole forced open wider. Sweat broke out across his skin, slicking the dense fur on his pecs, dripping down the deep valley between them, pooling in his navel. His cock leaked steadily now, long clear strands drooling onto his stomach every time the dildo nudged against his prostate on the way in.

Halfway.

He was panting, glasses fogged, face wet with spit and tears. The pain was a living thing inside him, white-hot and perfect, and beneath it the pleasure was already building, unstoppable. His free hand flew to his cock, jerking it in short, desperate strokes, using the flood of precome as lube while he kept pushing the toy deeper.

“Gott... ja... sheisse, ja,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty room, voice cracking with shame and lust. The candles flickered on the nightstand as if disturbed by something in the air, and Matthias couldn’t look away from the dancing flames. He stared right at them while he forced the last thick inches inside himself, his hole stretching impossibly around the widest part, the heavy silicone balls finally pressing flush against his cheeks.

Fully buried.

Deep.

So fucking deep.

A long, shattered moan poured out of him, loud and filthy, his head falling back against the pillow as his body adjusted to the monstrous fullness. His rim fluttered and spasmed around the base of the dildo, clenching greedily. Tears streamed down his face now, but his hips were already rocking, tiny helpless thrusts that made the toy shift inside him and grind right against his prostate, sending sparks of blinding pleasure shooting up his spine.

He was stuffed. Ruined. Exactly the way he needed to be.

Matthias’s thick wrist worked in a slow, punishing rhythm, driving the massive black dildo in and out of his greedy hole with deep strokes. Each thrust bottomed out completely, the heavy silicone balls slapping wetly against his cheeks, the obscene squelch echoing through the bedroom like the filthiest confession he’d ever allowed himself. The toy was buried to the hilt every single time, dragging mercilessly across his prostate on the way in, then grinding hard against it on the way out, forcing bright, electric sparks of pleasure to explode up his spine and down his thighs.

“Oh, f-fick” he groaned, the word breaking apart into a needy whimper. Sweat poured down his body now, matting the dense salt-and-pepper fur across his massive pecs, dripping from his nipples, sliding in rivulets over his stomach to mix with the steady flood of precome leaking from his throbbing cock. The thick, girthy shaft slapped wetly against his abs with every thrust, leaving shiny streaks across his skin.

The pleasure was mounting fast, building like a storm he couldn’t outrun. Every precise rub against his prostate made his toes curl, made his heavy balls draw up tighter, made his own cock jerk and spit more clear fluid. He was full, so perfectly full, and the burn from the dry stretch had long since melted into liquid heat that flooded his entire body. His free hand flew back to his cock, jerking it in frantic counter-rhythm, thumb smearing the leaking head, palm sliding slick and fast.

But then, against his will, the image slammed into him again.

Connor.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Connor. Couldn’t scrub the image from behind his eyes no matter how many times he’d tried in the days since, no matter how many surgeries had demanded his complete and undivided attention. Connor, who had no business looking the way he looked, who seemed entirely unaware of what he did to a room simply by existing in it. That powerful body laid out under the harsh battery lights like something that had no right to be so beautiful in a world this broken. The broad chest heaving with slow, measured breaths. The abs rippling with every small movement. The powerful thighs spread wide with a casual, unselfconscious ease that had made Matthias’s throat go completely dry. And then Connor’s own hand had drifted downward with a drowsy, half-conscious possessiveness, wrapping around that monstrous cock with fingers that still looked small against the veiny, impossible thickness of it, sliding from root to tip in one long, slow stroke that Matthias had absolutely no business watching and could not look away from.

Easily eleven inches.

Matthias had seen a great many things in his surgical career. He had never seen anything like that.

His eyes flew open in panic, but his hips betrayed him completely. They bucked up harder, driving the dildo deeper, forcing it to nail his prostate with brutal accuracy. A broken, high-pitched moan tore out of him “Ah—sheisse—Connor—” the name slipping free before he could stop it, naked and horrified and dripping with desperate want.

“Nein… nein, Scheisse, nein,” he gasped, shaking his head even as his body kept fucking itself harder, faster, chasing the fantasy he was terrified to name. The image wouldn’t leave. He could see it so clearly: Connor’s dark hand stroking that huge Black cock, the way the muscles in his forearm would flex, the low, growling London-Jamaican groan he’d make if he ever looked down at Matthias spread out like this, begging. The shame crashed over him like ice water, but the pleasure only spiked higher, white-hot and filthy. His hole clenched violently around the dildo, milking it as if it were Connor’s cock instead, his own thick shaft pulsing wildly in his fist.

He was so close already, teetering right on the edge, the forbidden image of his son’s boyfriend burning behind his eyes while his ass took every brutal inch like the greedy, size-queen slut he’d always been deep down.

And he couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

Matthias fucked himself harder and harder and harder, each deep thrust grinding mercilessly against his prostate and sending white-hot explosions of pleasure ripping through his core. He no longer fought the image, Connor filled his mind completely now, vivid and unrestrained: the young man naked and towering over him, that massive eleven cock throbbing in his fist, dark skin slick with sweat, full lips curled in a knowing smirk as he lined up and drove, claiming Matthias’s whole body like it belonged to him. The fantasy consumed him, hips snapping up to meet every savage plunge of the toy, his hole clenching and fluttering around the girth, wet squelches and his own broken moans drowning out Chopin entirely.

Pleasure mounted unbearably, tightening like a fist in his gut, his cock jerking wildly in his fist, balls drawn up so tight they ached, the edge so close it was almost painful… tears streaming, body trembling, just a bit more, just one more thrust and he’d shatter, spill everywhere in filthy, shamef—

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

The urgent bangs exploded against Chopin’s fading notes, shattering the hazy fog of near-release like gunfire in the quiet loft. Connor’s forbidden smirk dissolved behind Matthias’s eyes, the last phantom image of that monstrous cock vanishing as cold reality crashed back in. He blinked, chest heaving, utterly confused, the thick dildo still buried inside him, his hole clenching desperately around its girth as if begging it to stay. It took several pounding heartbeats before his lust-drunk brain registered that the noise was coming from his apartment door, not some hallucination. Someone was outside. Someone was calling for him.

“Dr. Reinhardt?” A male voice, muffled. “You awake, sir? Open up. Please. It’s urgent.”

Matthias cursed the entire fucking world under his breath, the words venomous in the silence. He was so close, agonizingly, shamefully, his cock still throbbed angrily against his stomach, his balls tight and aching for the orgasm that had been ripped away. With a shaky, reluctant hand he reached down and slid the massive dildo out of his stretched hole, slow and careful, biting back a broken whimper as the thick shaft dragged across his abused prostate one final time. The sudden emptiness hit him like a physical blow, his rim fluttering and clenching around nothing, the cool air kissing the gaping opening, a cruel reminder of how perfectly full he’d been only seconds ago.

Sheisse.

He had been right there, teetering on the edge of something he would have regretted the instant the high crashed and his cock stopped doing the thinking.

Sheisse.

Still cursing silently, Matthias rolled off the bed on unsteady legs, the dark blue robe scooped up from the floor and hastily wrapped around his fram. He crossed to the gramophone with heavy steps and lifted the needle, silencing the piano mid-note, the sudden quiet amplifying the frantic thud of his pulse. Then he padded toward the living room, the wooden floor cold beneath his bare feet, the lingering burn in his ass and the heavy ache in his untouched cock making every step a fresh torment. His relaxation time was over. Visits at this hour meant only one thing: a medical emergency. And whatever waited on the other side of that door was about to drag him straight back into the role of Dr. Reinhardt, the unflinching surgeon Rothenwall could not afford to lose.

Matthias yanked the door open with more force than necessary, the burn in his stretched hole pulsing with every angry heartbeat. The two young patrol boys standing in the flickering kerosene glow of the hallway corridor couldn’t have been much older than Julian, eighteen, maybe nineteen, faces still soft with the last traces of boyhood under their dark-blue City Watch caps. They flinched visibly at his growled “What?”, the hostility rolling off him like smoke.

“S-sorry, sir,” the taller one stammered. “Commander Strahl sent us.”

Matthias’s jaw tightened. “Why the fuck is Otto sending his pups to me at this hour?”

The boys exchanged a hesitant glance, shifting their weight on the creaking floorboards. The shorter one swallowed hard, voice cracking just slightly.

“It’s your son, sir. You need to come with us.”

—

Hello and welcome to my new story! I want to thank you all for being paid subscribers and for supporting me with your hard-earned money. There aren’t enough words to express how grateful I am for your generosity. This little story, and the others that will follow, is my way of showing just how much I appreciate you being here. I hope you have fun with Matthias and Connor!