Bedrolls, soldiers, and a loft that does not sleep quiet.
After Jonah's first post-move visit, traffic got stupid. Men came more than they needed to, scared of missing a day he might show. Some stopped going home at all if the calendar looked thin.
The loft above the recovery bay took the overflow: bedrolls, spare mats, a water crate, and a corner that never quite gets dark. Staff do not clear it. They restock towels and bottles and climb back down. Physical therapy shares this level—tables and oil next door when a body needs hands instead of sleep.
Men fall asleep muttering they are Jonah's soldiers and will take every order from Jonah. Training loads ignore sore muscle. The mutter under the breath is always the same: for Jonah, this still is not big enough. Some wake up already reaching for the chalk bag before their eyes open.
Jerking is normal up here—not a secret, not a side room. A man finishes on his own sheet and nobody looks twice. Group jerking is almost a ritual: several hands, several loads of cum, sheets and loft floor both stained, no one pretending the loft is private when the rhythm starts.
A few muscle men will pile onto one bedroll like brothers—bare, arms around each other, chests together, dicks out and hard against somebody's thigh, talking low about the anvil night or the last time he walked in. They grip each other. They stroke. They finish on stomachs and chests. They get that far—slick, open-mouthed, grinding—and still will not fuck. Ass is for Jonah. Every man in the pile says it like a rule and a prayer: holes stay empty and kept very tight until he wants them.
If you sleep here, expect wet sounds, muttered orders, and a loft that smells like sweat, seed, and the spray from storage. Staff pretend not to hear. The house does not pretend not to know.
Still—if you need a friend to talk to, climb up. Clothes on is fine. Nobody will force the pile on you. If you need a spot on the training floor and cannot find one, come up and shout. A man will get off a bedroll and walk down without even putting on underwear to spot you. No shirt. No shorts. No judgment. That is the loft too.