Corey's turn came after Charlie's endless thank-you speech finally wound down, and the shift in energy was immediate.
The room had been holding its breath through two slow, almost reverent phases Carter's glittery worship and Charlie's nonstop narration but Corey had been simmering since the moment he first climbed onto Kota's lap back in the hallway.
He'd waited through Carter's gentle grinding, through Charlie's yapping blowjob, through every awkward pause and Beckett's robotic updates. Now his name was called "Corey initiates Phase 3"—and the grin that split his face was pure, predatory triumph.
He didn't hesitate. Corey stood, peeled off his cropped shirt in one fluid motion, and dropped it somewhere behind the sofa without looking. The baggy gray jeans came next—unbuttoned, shoved down just past the swell of his hips, kicked off one ankle at a time until he stood in nothing but black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he already was. His long dyed-white hair swung forward as he turned, catching the purple LEDs like spun moonlight. He looked over his shoulder at Kota, that signature shit-eating grin flashing bright and unapologetic.
"Doggy," he announced to the room like he was ordering takeout. "Everyone can see my legendary clap game up close and personal." He dropped to his knees on the thick black rug in front of the sofa, then lowered himself to his elbows, back arching so hard the dimples at the base of his spine popped out. Those wide hips tilted up, ass presented like an offering—thick, round, already jiggling faintly from the shift in weight. He looked back again, chin resting on one forearm, grin widening.
"C'mon, big man. Ruin your boy toy proper."
The room went still. Even the hypno video's binaural tones seemed to quiet for a second. Kota's pulse thundered in his ears. He was still mad furious, really at the closet comments, the lap-sitting, the endless teasing that had turned every denial into fuel for Corey's game. The way Carter had gotten the gentle treatment, the way Charlie had narrated his own blowjob like a live podcast, the way Mort kept throwing sarcastic jabs it all piled up behind Kota's ribs until it felt like pressure in a sealed chamber. And Corey's grin, that cocky, knowing smirk, was the match.
Kota stood. No words. No hesitation. He stepped forward, jeans still open from Charlie's turn, cock already thickening again despite the ache of two back-to-back orgasms. He didn't bother with gentleness. No warm-up, no teasing strokes, no whispered permission. He lined up, gripped Corey's hips with bruising force fingers sinking into soft flesh and slammed in to the hilt on the first stroke.
Corey's theatrical moan cracked instantly. What started as exaggerated showmanship—
"Yeah, that's it, fuck your little chaos goblin—"
fractured into something raw and ragged on the second thrust. The sound punched out of him, high and broken, as Kota bottomed out again, hips snapping forward with punishing rhythm. That ass was everything the school chat had promised and more: thick, jiggly, clapping thunderously with each deep plunge. The sound echoed off the exposed brick wet, meaty slaps that filled the room louder than the hypno tones. Every time Kota pulled back, the cheeks rippled outward; every time he drove in, they clapped together around his length like they were trying to keep him buried.
Corey kept trying to dirty-talk through it, voice hitching higher with every word.
"Yeah—fuck—make me—take it—harder—"
But the sentences splintered fast. Thrust after thrust chipped away at the bravado until he was gasping curses instead.
"Shit—fuck—too deep—god—"
Kota's hands tightened, thumbs pressing into the dimples above Corey's ass, pulling him back onto every stroke. The long white hair spilled across Corey's shoulders, swaying with the force of it. Kota reached forward, wrapped a fist in the strands, and yanked—hard.
Corey's whole performance collapsed. His elbows buckled, chest dropping to the rug, ass still high and presented. The shit-eating grin vanished; his mouth fell open on a string of babbling pleas instead. "Pleaseplease don't stop—fuck I'm gonna—need it—need you—please—" His voice cracked on the last word, body trembling as Kota pounded relentlessly. The clap game was on full display now cheeks rippling outward, jiggling violently, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room.
"THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED RIGHT?" Kota grunted as a plunged deeper, balls deep now
Corey came hands-free. full-body shudder as his prostate pulsed hard around Kota's cock. His hole clenched so tight it dragged a guttural groan out of Kota's throat. Corey's back arched impossibly, long hair whipping as his head snapped back, mouth open on a silent scream that turned into a broken whine. His cock jerked untouched beneath him, spilling across the black rug in thick ropes while his ass milked Kota with rhythmic spasms.
Kota almost lost it right then. The clench was brutal, vise-like, pulling him dangerously close to the edge. He yanked out at the last possible second, hand flying to his length, stroking twice before he painted those legendary cheeks white. Thick stripes landed across the jiggling flesh—hot, messy, dripping down the cleft and pooling in the dimples. Corey reached back immediately, fingers scooping up a generous glob. He brought it to his mouth, licked it off slowly, staring right at Kota with glassy, victorious eyes the whole time. His tongue dragged across his knuckles, collecting every drop, before he rasped out a single sentence.
"Worth the wait."
Then he collapsed forward onto his elbows, giggling weakly into the rug.
Kota stood there breathing hard, cock twitching in the open air, slick and oversensitive. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his thighs shook from the effort of holding back. Three down, six to go, and he already felt hollowed out balls aching, refractory period screaming in protest, head fuzzy from the relentless purple light and the weight of every stare still fixed on him. Corey rolled onto his side, grinning up at him through damp white hair, looking wrecked and proud at the same time.
Beckett stepped forward with another sterile Q-tip, expression blank as ever. "Phase 3 complete. Retention score: superior. Amplification underway."
Kota wiped his brow with a shaky forearm and sank back onto the sofa edge, legs trembling. He wasn't sure how many more he had in him. The hypno spirals kept turning behind him, the LEDs pulsed like a heartbeat, and the room waited—patient, hungry, inevitable—for the next name on Beckett's list.
Only three. And the night was nowhere near over.