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Samson gulped in his breaths as he propped himself up. His knees, palms and elbows were filthy from where he’d been on all-fours earlier, pressed into the dirty stone floor. As the dull ache settled into his muscles, he realised he was cold and uncomfortable. “Leave, then” he muttered so quietly, voice cracking and throaty, the words aimed at the the Red Templar closest to him. Most filed out quickly, some scrambled to grab discarded armour, probably not even their own, but they just wanted to leave quickly, lest they provoke the wrath of their lieutenant. Samson, however, said nothing more, and made no move to get up either. He watched the door click shut, and then he slumped back to the floor, boneless.
He’d come not five minutes ago, seed cooling and drying across his stomach. He felt dirty, sticky from the release of the other Red Templars who had joined him in his chambers. Sniffling, Samson stood, stumbled over to the mirror hanging on the wall. He looked at himself, disgusted. Dried spunk matted his hair and a thick dried line covered his forehead. His eye were red and puffy, tears still clinging to his lower lashes, and his cheeks were wet and red too, from where the tears had spilled over. More come covered his chin. He lifted it slightly, to observe his throat; it was red, darker in the middle where it was already starting to bruise. He coughed, mouth dry but throat full of too-thick saliva, and his knees wobbled. Exhausted limbs threatened to buckle under him completely. He was totally spent, fucked-out.
He managed to make it to his bed, where he flopped gracelessly. Restlessly, he wriggled around on the top of the sheets, and then settled to stare at the ceiling above. The tears that had not quite left the corners of his eyes rolled down over his temple, and he heaved a sigh. Right now, in this aftermath, he wasn’t so sure asking his soldiers for this had been the right thing. But he had been so desperate, had needed it so badly, hadn’t gotten off in months. He stifled a tiny whimper and blinked away the prickling warmth of threatening tears as he thought of how they’d seen him.
Murmuring at first, then groaning, long and oh so loud, the words please please please over and over again. He was whining almost, eyes and cheeks wet from the force of the Templar behind him, fucking him hard. A louder, more clearer please and Samson took the Templar’s hand from his shoulder and placed it on his throat, squeezing it lightly. He got the message, and eventually Samson was being choked until black crept round the outside of his vision and white stars burst across his pupils. Samson had come like this, the other man thrusting into him so hard that he could feel it all the way in the tightness of his throat. His moans filled the chamber totally, too loud compared to the soft quietness of the other men.
And then, when Samson realised, real tears began to flow.
After all taking their turn with him, coming in him or across him, they had turned him over onto his back with an almost unseemly tenderness. One of the men came to kneel in between his legs. Pushing his thighs up and apart, he slid one finger inside Samson, nothing compared to how he had been filled before, but brushing against that sweet-spot inside him so perfectly. Another came and knelt at his side, taking Samson’s still hard cock into his hand and pumping, pressure and rhythm and everything just right, so right. So right that Samson had shut his eyes softly and began to imagine that all this night, he’d been with someone else. He imagined hand’s calloused from too many sword fights stroking his cock and probing inside him. He imagined soft, scared lips covering his own, hungry and yet gentle all in the same moment. He imagined arching up as he tightened his grip into soft, blonde curls. He imagined, oh fuck, he imagined -
“Cullen” he moaned, so loud into the room, as he came, hard.
No one spoke to break the silence, not until Samson ordered them to leave.
He felt the flush on his cheeks, the humiliation creeping over. He had let his men, his loyal and trusting men, hear him shout that name, as if he was moaning for Cullen to answer all his prayers, as if he would abandon his new god to worship under Cullen instead. He knew it made him look weak. And right now, he felt weak too, too-thin, pale body striking against dark bed sheets, alone, bruised, filthy and crying.