The Trustees

Preston Steel catches Draven Torres tagging the wall and slaps cuffs on him. The punk’s mouth still holds a sneer until Preston says “The Center.” Fear hits fast. Draven drops to his knees, offering to blow his way out of it. Preston’s zipper drops in three seconds flat. His cock slides down that eager throat, but the watchman wants more than head—he wants control. He fists the stiff spikes of Draven’s Mohawk, spits across the punk’s face, then slams in until the airway seals shut. Draven chokes. Preston slaps him hard, open hand across one cheek, cock across the other. The load follows, thick and hot, splattering Draven’s mouth and nose. Finished, Preston yanks him up and drags him off to The Center anyway.