Page 73 of Bottoms Up
Gavin stood and straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt, telling Atlas, “I’ll have the contracts drawn up and sent to Marco for final review. The employment terms are solid, and I’ll pass on the relevant operational data before your onboarding conversation with him.”
Atlas gave a short nod. Nothing else.
“You’ll have that call with Marco within the next thirty-six hours,” Gavin continued, “and I’ll remain in the loop as your advisor until everything is formalized.”
Gavin looked at us, cool, clinical. Like a man taking stock of a weapon before passing it off to its next wielder. “This arrangement isn’t just legal. It’s structural. Foundational. Thestart of something neither of you should enter lightly. Before you leave Vegas, I’d recommend you mark the moment.”
Julian raised an eyebrow. “How?”
Gavin turned toward Atlas. “Strip. Stand at the edge of the coffee table.”
There was no hesitation. Atlas rose and undressed without comment, folding each article of clothing with military precision and placing it beside his chair with economy of movement. No stalling. He stepped forward, bare and silent, and took his position.
He didn’t kneel. Didn’t bow. But the act of standing before us — exposed, motionless, waiting — was its own kind of offering.
“I suggest this,” Gavin said, voice calm. “One ball each — a symbolic claiming. A prolonged squeeze from each of you. Simultaneously. Full weight. Sixty seconds. A passing of the guard, from my property to yours.”
Julian stood with me, settled me on my feet, hand steady on my hip. His expression was unreadable, but his body was coiled. Ritual had always been where he thrived — clear purpose, clean lines, absolute control.
We moved in front of Atlas.
Julian reached first, cupping one side of him in his massive hand, fingers curling with calm inevitability.
I took the other in my smaller hand, the rough texture of old trauma harsh against my palm — scars that said he’d been claimed by pain long before this.
But not like this. He’d survived something terrible, but this was the promise of controlled pain within a meaningful life. A structure he could live within. Rules. Boundaries. People who care for him, even if he doesn’t think he can return the caring.
Two people holding his balls, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Stood with his feet apart, planted wide, arms behind him, grasping his elbows.
My cock twitched. My cunt clenched.
I couldn’t explain it — how much I loved this. The heavy feel of a man’s balls in my hand. The delicate meat of them, the absolute power of holding pain at my fingertips.
Had Gavin pulled this from my thoughts? Had heknown?
Maybe it didn’t matter. The weight of it in my hand was already making me wet.
Atlas’s chest rose fast — once, twice — and then he held it.
Gavin spoke from our left. Calm as ever. “I’ll start the countdown timer. Three… two… one…”
We squeezed.
Not lightly. Not symbolically. A brutal, full-handed crush. Full weight. No mercy. Flesh flattened between our palms, muscle shifting, blood pushed back into the body.
Atlas inhaled sharply — not a cry, but close. A raw drag of air, like his body was begging for oxygen.
I felt the tremor in his scrotum — the tight flex of everything trying to retreat, trying to protect itself, trying to survive.
His knees wobbled at the fifteen-second mark. He didn’t fall.
He shook at thirty.
By forty-five, he hadn’t moved, his feet were still planted, arms still behind his back, but he was clearly fighting to stay in place and accept this. Take it.
My pulse pounded. My cock throbbed. I squeezed harder, when I thought I’d been at my full potential before. This was what it meant to own something that could take pain — and need more.
His jaw was clenched so tight I half expected a molar to crack.
