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Taylor hums, his spine arching like a drawn bow. He turns his head, catching Dax's mouth in a slow, wet kiss. Their tongues slide together, tasting the sweetness of roasted marshmallows. Dax's hand slides down the flat plane of Taylor's stomach, fingers running through the dark curls below his navel before wrapping around Taylor's thickening shaft. He strokes him lazily, thumb smearing the bead of precome welling at the slit. Taylor's breath hitches, his hips rolling into the grip. "I can’t believe we get the whole night together," Taylor mutters before rolling over and slotting himself between Dax’s thighs. 

Dax grins as he kisses him, his hand still between them, slowly stroking Taylor's cock with a firm squeeze. "Just us and the crickets, babe." He nips at Taylor's lower lip, tugging it between his teeth before releasing it. His chest tightens with a warmth that has nothing to do with the confined space. Four months of secrecy, of pretending they're just buddies in the dining hall, of texting under different contact names—it's suffocating. But here, with Taylor naked and pliant in his arms, Dax can admit to himself how deep he's fallen. He pulls back just enough to look at Taylor's face, flushed and kiss-swollen. "Move in with me next semester."

Taylor goes still above him. His hand, which had been drifting up to card through Dax's hair, freezes mid-air. He blinks, his dark eyes searching Dax's face in the shadows. "What?"

"Move in with me," Dax repeats. His voice is steady, but his pulse kicks against his ribs. "Get off the meal plan, ditch the dorm. We can find a one-bedroom somewhere. If we live together, we could have this everyday.”

Taylor pushes himself up off of the larger man, pulling his cock from Dax's grasp. The loss of contact makes Dax's stomach clench. "Dax, I—" Taylor shakes his head, a short, sharp movement. "People would figure it out. Moving in together isn’t exactly subtle."

Dax sits up too, the blanket pooling at his waist. His erection juts out from his lap, unbothered by the shift in conversation. This was always Taylor’s worry. Dax would come out of the closet for him in a second but he wasn’t going to rush him either. "We wouldn't be around other students," he says, his hand finding Taylor's flank and rubbing the lean muscle. "No RA breathing down our necks. No shared bathrooms where guys gossip. We can keep our shit separate at school—different schedules, different friend groups, just like now. But at home?" His thumb traces circles on Taylor's hip, inching lower. "At home, it's just us."

Taylor's jaw works, his gaze dropping to where Dax's hand creeps toward his ass. He swallows hard. "It's too far," he says, his voice rougher now. "Living off campus means a commute. I've got an eight AM lab three days a week. I can't be trekking across town every morning."

"I'll drive you." Dax leans in, his lips brushing the shell of Taylor's ear. "Every morning. I'll get up with you, I’ll make you coffee, I'll drive you to class, and I'll pick you up after. You won't have to walk anywhere." His hand finally reaches its destination, fingers sliding over Taylor's hole. Taylor's ass pushes back against the contact, a shuddering exhale escaping his lungs. Dax takes advantage, leaning up to press his mouth to the hinge of Taylor's jaw, kissing a wet path down his throat. "I'll take care of you," he murmurs against the pulse point hammering under Taylor's skin.

Taylor's head tips back, his resolve visibly crumbling. "Dax, that's—you can't just—" His words dissolve into a groan as Dax's fingers apply more pressure, tracing the furled entrance hidden between his cheeks. The pucker twitches under Dax's touch, tight and hot. Dax circles it with his index finger, pressing just enough to make Taylor squirm without breaching him. “It’d be too expensive to get an apartment off campus.”

“I’ve got a summer job lined up, I’ll cover any expense above what we would pay living on campus.” Dax replies as he reaches for the bottle of lube tossed near the tent's entrance, flicking it open with practiced ease and coating his fingers. The slick sound is obscene in the quiet of the tent.

"Tell me you'll move in with me," Dax says, his voice dropping an octave. He sinks one finger into Taylor's hole, pushing past the initial resistance. Taylor's breath stutters, his back arching off the blankets. Dax crooks his finger, finding that spongy ridge inside, and rubs. Taylor's cock, flagging slightly during the conversation, jerks back to full hardness, drooling as it twitches. "Tell me," Dax repeats, adding a second finger. The stretch makes Taylor whimper, his hands fisting in the blankets. Dax scissors his fingers, opening him up with deliberate, relentless precision. His own cock throbs, neglected and leaking, but he ignores it. This is about Taylor. About making him see reason.

"Dax, fuck—" Taylor's hips rock, grinding down onto Dax's hand. His chest heaves, nipples peaked in the cool night air. Dax ducks his head, catching one of those tight buds between his teeth and biting down. Taylor yelps, his hole clenching around Dax's fingers. Dax soothes the sting with his tongue, laving the reddened skin before switching to the other nipple. All the while, his fingers work Taylor open, three now, thrusting in and out with wet, sloppy sounds. He curves them upward, punching against Taylor's prostate with each stroke.

Taylor is writhing now, his lean body undulating on the blankets. Sweat gleams on his forehead, his lips parted and panting. "Please," he gasps, though whether he's begging for more or for mercy, even he doesn't know. He falls back into the blankets easily when Dax guides him backward. Dax's mouth trails down his stomach, tongue dipping into his navel before continuing south. He bypasses Taylor's straining cock, nuzzling into the crease of his thigh instead. His breath is hot and damp against Taylor's taint. "Come on, Dax, you gotta—"

"Say yes," Dax murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive skin behind Taylor's balls. He pulls his fingers free, ignoring Taylor's whimper of loss, and replaces them with his tongue. He licks into Taylor's open hole, then fucks his tongue in and out, broad and flat, then pointed and probing. Taylor's hands fly to Dax's head, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging hard enough to sting. Dax groans into his flesh, the vibration making Taylor buck.

"Yes," Taylor chokes out. "Yes, okay, I'll move in with you, just—fuck, please, Dax, please—"

Dax pulls back with a wet smack, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, nearly black with want. He grabs the lube again, slicking his cock with hasty, rough strokes. "On your side," he orders, his voice rough. Taylor obeys instantly, turning onto his left side and drawing his right knee up toward his chest. The position opens him beautifully, his hole pink and glistening, still fluttering from the attention. Dax spoons behind him, lining up his cock and pushing in with one long, slow thrust.

Taylor keens, his body stretching to accommodate Dax's girth. The burn is sharp and perfect, a fullness he's craved for weeks. Dax bottoms out, his hips flush against Taylor's ass, and holds there. His arm snakes around Taylor's waist, pulling him flush against his chest. He can feel Taylor's heart pounding against his own ribs. "You're mine," Dax growls into his ear. "We’re gonna live together. Gonna sleep in the same bed every night. Gonna fuck you whenever you need it." He pulls back and slams home, setting a brutal pace.

The tent fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by Taylor's broken moans and Dax's guttural grunts. Dax fucks him hard, each thrust driving Taylor into the blankets. His cock punches against Taylor's prostate with unerring accuracy, making the smaller man shake and gasp. Taylor reaches down to touch himself, but Dax bats his hand away, wrapping his own fingers around Taylor's shaft instead. He wants to make him come all on his own. He wants to show him how good he’ll treat his man. He strokes him in time with his thrusts, thumb rubbing the sensitive head.

"I’m so close," Taylor whimpers. His hole clenches around Dax's cock, milking him. "Dax, don’t stop—"

"Do it," Dax snarls, his hips pistoning faster. "Come for me, Taylor. Come on my cock."

Taylor's orgasm rips through him like a thunderclap. His back arches, his mouth falling open in a silent scream as thick white ropes spurt from his cock, painting Dax's fist and the blankets beneath them. His hole spasms wildly, pulling Dax over the edge with him. Dax buries himself deep, grinding his hips in tight circles as he floods Taylor's insides with hot, thick seed. He doesn't pull out—doesn't want to. He wants to stay here, buried inside his boyfriend, his future roommate, his—

"I love you." The words tumble out before Dax can stop them, raw and unguarded. His arm tightens around Taylor's waist, crushing him against his chest. "I love you, Taylor."

The door was cracked open. He was sprawled across his bed, shirtless, phone propped against his chest. The guy spent half his life in that bed—gaming, scrolling, whatever. His chest was smooth, defined in that lazy way of his, and when you stepped inside, he glanced up from his screen.

Something shifted in his expression. His eyes dropped to the obvious tent in your pants, then back up to your face. That hungry look flickered behind his irises before he could mask it.

You didn't say a word. Just kicked the door shut behind you and started stripping. Shirt over your head, jeans down, boxers following. Your dick sprang free, already leaking at the tip, and Tyler's gaze locked onto it like a man spotting water in the desert.

He moved before you could even ask. Scrambled to the edge of the mattress, laying flat to position his face level with your crotch. His breath was warm against your shaft, and then his mouth opened and he swallowed you whole.

No teasing. No tentative licks. Just wet heat engulfing your cock, his lips sealing tight around the base as his throat constricted around your head. You groaned, fingers twitching at your sides. This was different from the other times. 

It had been a joke at first. Just two bros hanging out in this same room, tossing back beers, talking shit about girls you knew. You'd been half-hard, adjusting yourself through your shorts, and Tyler had said something like "Dude, just ask Jose to suck you off." You'd laughed, flipped him off. 

“Bro, you’ve seen how that guy eats a hot dog. The man’s a psychopath for that, I ain't trusting him anywhere near my dick!” You deflected. In reality, since Jose had pledged last year and come out to the brothers, you had thought about asking him once or twice.

You’d both cracked up at that and he’d finally reached over and whacked your thickening junk and said, “I think he has a boyfriend now anyway. You’ll have to find someone else then.” But then his eyes had lingered on your bulge a beat too long, and the air between you shifted.

"Fine," you'd said, still half-laughing, pulling your dick out. "You suck it then."

You’d thought he’d flinch at the sight of your hard dick and you’d both laugh it off. Instead he stopped laughing and leaned over into your lap.

That first time was clumsy. Tyler's mouth had wrapped around your cockhead with this tentative pressure, like he was testing how you tasted. His jaw worked awkwardly, teeth scraping once before he found a rhythm. You'd leaned back on your elbows, staring at the ceiling, telling yourself it was just a blowjob—a mouth was a mouth. But the wet heat of him, the way his tongue swirled experimentally around your shaft, had your hips jerking up before you could stop them.

After that, it happened a few more times. At first, things were a little awkward when you’d hang out until one of you made the move, but then it became more natural. You'd show up, he'd drop to his knees. But he was always careful. Exploring. His fingers would roll your balls in their sac, tugging gently while his lips slid up and down your length. He'd grip your thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle, holding you open like he wanted better access. And when your breathing went ragged and your cock started throbbing against his tongue, he'd pull off and finish you with his fist instead.

You'd figured it out pretty quick. Tyler didn't want your load in his mouth. That was the line. Catching another dude's come on your tongue crossed from "helping a bro out" into something else entirely. Something neither of you were ready to name.

So he'd jerk you off, your slick coating his fingers, your grunts filling the room while he watched your face with this intense focus. And you'd come across your own stomach, hips bucking into his fist, and he'd grab you a towel like nothing happened.

But tonight his tongue was working overtime, sliding along the underside like he couldn't get enough.

"Fuck, dude—" Your voice came out rougher than intended. Your hips jerked forward on instinct, driving deeper into his mouth. He didn't pull back. If anything, he leaned in, nose pressing against your pubes, throat opening wider.

Pressure built at the base of your spine. Too fast. Too intense.

"Yo, get off—I'm gonna—" You tried to step back, but his hands clamped onto your thighs, fingernails digging crescents into your skin. He ignored you completely, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing, that hungry sound vibrating through your dick.

Fine. You’d tried to be a gentleman and fucking warn him. You grabbed the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and took over. Your hips snapped forward, fucking his face with deep, ruthless thrusts. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room—gagging, slurping, the slap of your balls against his chin. His eyes watered, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't fight it. He took every inch like he was starving for it.

Your orgasm built quickly until you were at your breaking point. You held his head down, buried to the hilt, and unloaded down his throat. Pulse after pulse, your seed flooding into him while his throat worked around your shaft, swallowing every drop.

When you finally released him, he pulled back gasping, lips swollen and glistening. Tears streaked his face, but behind them—contentment. Pure fucking satisfaction.

If he swallowed your load once, then he could do it again.

You stared down at him, your softening cock still inches from his mouth.

Wallace stood five-eleven, compact and dense with lean muscle forged from endless pull-ups and a metabolism that burned hot. Dark stubble shadowing the hard line of his jaw. He'd learned from bootcamp that his particular appetites required strategy. It wasn't something the Corps put in the recruitment brochures, but there were plenty of bottoms in the Marines. However, there weren’t many who had turned the hunt into an art form like Wallace. 

He knew how to get what he wanted. Find the biggest cock in any given unit, stake his claim, and ride it until his eyes rolled back. 

The barracks he was assigned smelled like industrial cleaner and foot powder. A couple of Marines looked up from their racks as he poked his head in rooms looking for the right spot, gave him the standard once-over, then returned to their phones. Wallace did his own assessment, cataloging faces, ranking bodies. Nothing special. 

He found his room and dropped off his shit. His roommates weren’t around so he figured he’d track down the rest of his squad and see if there were any particularly promising candidates.

Then he spotted the rack in the room next to his, the one with the boots underneath that were sized for a genetic anomaly.

"Ziegler's at the range," the guy in the next rack said without being asked. “He should be back soon.”

Wallace nodded, turned back to his room, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. The range must have wrapped early, because the man who walked through the door thirty minutes later made the frame look like it had been built for someone a foot shorter. Lance Corporal Cody Ziegler was six-foot-five of solid beef, shoulders that blocked the light, forearms roped with veins, and a face that belonged on a recruitment poster, all square jaw and earnest blue eyes. His high-and-tight was fresh, the sides shaved to the skin, the top a bristle of blond.

Wallace watched him from his doorway, pretending to scroll through his phone. He noted the way Ziegler moved, heavy-footed but surprisingly quiet for his size. The way he nodded at the other Marines without quite meeting their eyes. Shy, Wallace realized. A fucking giant who probably didn't know what to do with all that body.

The perfect prey.

The opportunity came that evening during the post-PT shower run. Wallace timed his entrance to the head perfectly, stripping off his sweaty PT gear and walking into the communal shower area just as Ziegler stood under the far nozzle, soap running down the ridges of his back.

And there it was.

Wallace's eyes locked onto the cock swinging between Ziegler's thighs, and his mouth went dry despite the humid air. Long, thick as his wrist, the head a fat plum even soft. It hung heavy, swaying with Ziegler's movements, a fucking weapon that most men would run from. Wallace's hole clenched with immediate, vicious want.

He stepped under the nozzle next to Ziegler and let the water run over his head. "New transfer," he said, voice casual. "Wallace."

Ziegler glanced over, then did a double-take that Wallace caught in his peripheral vision. "Ziegler." His voice was deeper than expected, a bass rumble that vibrated in Wallace's chest.

"First squad?" Wallace asked, lathering soap across his chest, making sure his biceps flexed with the motion.

"Yeah." Ziegler's eyes darted to Wallace's body, then away. Then back again.

Wallace smiled to himself under the spray. Game recognized game, even when the player didn't know he was playing.

Over the next three days, Wallace executed his campaign with the military precision the Marines had drilled into him. He positioned himself next to Ziegler at chow, in formation, during field exercises. He laughed at Ziegler's terrible jokes, asked about his hometown in Wisconsin, complimented his shooting scores. Each touch was calculated, a hand on the shoulder that lingered, a hip check in the hallway that pressed closer than necessary.

Ziegler responded like a flower starved for sun. His massive frame would angle toward Wallace whenever he entered a room. Those blue eyes tracked him across any room. And the bulge in his PT shorts, which Wallace caught him adjusting more than once, told him everything he needed to know about the effectiveness of his strategy.

Friday night, most of the squad hit the enlisted club. Wallace stayed behind. So did Ziegler.

"You don't drink?" Ziegler asked from his rack, where he sat cleaning his rifle with unnecessary focus.

Wallace crossed from the doorway where he’d been watching the man and closed the space between them and stood close enough that Ziegler had to look up. "I prefer to quench my thirst in other ways, you know?"

Ziegler's throat bobbed. The cleaning rod stilled in his hands.

Wallace reached down and took the rifle, setting it carefully on the rack alongside his. Then he cupped Ziegler's jaw with one hand, tilting that square face up with a sense of command. "You’re the perfect specimen of a soldier," he said, voice dropping to a register that vibrated between them. "Tall, strong. Obedient. With that huge schlong swinging between your legs. I bet you don’t get to fuck as much as you’d like to with a weapon like that."

Ziegler's breath hitched, his pupils blowing wide. "I, uh—"

"I’m a pretty damn good soldier, too. I bet I could take it as hard as you can give it." Wallace's thumb traced Ziegler's lower lip. "Tell me to stop and I will.” 

His hand went lower to Zieglers throat when he didn’t get an immediate response. “Tell me you want it and I'll ride you until you can't remember your own name."

"I want it." The words came out ragged, desperate.

Wallace pulled him up by his shirt and dragged him to his own rack next door, further away from the other rooms in the barracks. He stripped Ziegler's shirt over his head and ran his hands down that massive chest, feeling the slabs of muscle jump under his palms. Then he shoved Ziegler onto the bed and straddled those tree-trunk thighs.

The cock was already hard, straining against Ziegler's shorts, the outline obscene. Wallace yanked the fabric down and wrapped his hand around the shaft, barely able to close his grip. Thick, veiny, pulsing in his fist. It had to be ten inches at least. He spat in his palm and stroked it, watching Ziegler's head fall back against the pillow.

"Look at this fucking thing," Wallace growled. He reached behind himself, shoved his own shorts down, and pressed two fingers into his hole, already slicked and stretched from his preparation in the head earlier. His body opened easily, hungry for it. He added a third finger, watching Ziegler watch him, those blue eyes glazed with need.

When he couldn't wait anymore, Wallace positioned himself over that massive shaft and sank down.

The head breached him first, fat and blunt, and Wallace's breath punched out of his chest. He took it inch by inch, his hole stretching obscenely around the girth, his thighs trembling with the effort of controlling his descent. The burn was exquisite, a fullness that reached deep enough to make his vision blur. This was so much better than the slim pickings at Zuma. 

"Fuck," Ziegler groaned, his huge hands gripping Wallace's hips hard enough to bruise. "You're so tight, oh fuck—"

Wallace bottomed out and sat there for a moment, impaled, his own cock leaking against Ziegler's stomach. Then he started to move. He rode that cock like he owned it, lifting up until just the head remained inside, flexing his ring so tease at the glands, then slamming back down to take it all. The sound of their skin slapping together echoed off the concrete walls, wet and obscene.

"That's it," Wallace panted, "give me that big dick, give me every fucking inch, stud."

Ziegler's hips snapped up to meet him, driving even deeper, and Wallace saw stars. He planted his hands on Ziegler's massive chest and rode harder, chasing the pressure against his prostate with each thrust. His own cock slapped between them, neglected and dripping.

Then Wallace's hands moved up from Ziegler's chest to his throat. He wrapped his fingers around that thick neck and squeezed.

Ziegler's eyes flew open, shocked, but his cock jumped inside Wallace's ass. His hips fucked up harder, faster, his body betraying what his surprise tried to hide.

"Yeah, you like that," Wallace hissed, tightening his grip. "Big fucking Marine likes taking orders, getting choked out while his dick is buried in my tight ass."

Ziegler's face flushed red, his mouth open, desperate sounds spilling out. His hands on Wallace's hips became frantic, pulling him down with bruising force as he pounded up into that tight hole.

Wallace squeezed harder, feeling the pulse under his palm, watching Ziegler's eyes start to glaze. The power rush was intoxicating, this mountain of a man completely at his mercy while that massive cock split him open. He rode the edge of Ziegler's consciousness, loosening his grip just enough to let air through before tightening again.

"Come inside me," Wallace commanded. "Fill my ass with your load, you big-dicked fuck."

Ziegler shattered. His whole body seized as he slammed up into Wallace one final time, his cock pulsing jet after jet of hot seed deep in Wallace's guts. The sensation pushed Wallace over the edge too, his own cock erupting untouched, shooting thick ropes across Ziegler's heaving chest.

Wallace slowly released his throat, both of them gasping. He could feel Ziegler's heartbeat hammering against his palm as he supported himself on the man’s impressive chest. He could feel the massive cock still twitching inside him, the warmth of come leaking around the seal of his blissfully stretched hole.

"Fuck," Ziegler wheezed, his voice wrecked.

Wallace leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to his jaw. "Yeah. Fuck."

The next day, Wallace could barely sit still through morning formation. His ass ached in the best way, a constant reminder of the night before. Every time he looked at Ziegler standing at attention in the ranks, those blue eyes would flick to him and away, a flush creeping up the big man's neck.

By lunch, Wallace had had enough of waiting.

He found Ziegler behind the mess hall, smoking a cigarette in the shade of the dumpster enclosure, away from the foot traffic. The big man looked up as Wallace approached, and something between fear and desperate hope crossed his face.

"Put that out," Wallace said.

Ziegler dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot without hesitation.

Wallace grabbed him by the front of his blouse and hauled him deeper into the alcove. He spun around and braced his hands against the wall, pushing his ass back against Ziegler's already-hardening cock.

"What are you waiting for, Marine," Wallace said. "Fuck me."

Ziegler didn't need to be told twice. His huge hands yanked down Wallace's trousers, and Wallace heard the rustle of fabric as Ziegler freed himself followed by the sound of spit. Then that fat head was pressing against his hole.

Ziegler fucked like a man possessed. He pinned Wallace against the wall with his massive body, one hand covering Wallace's mouth to muffle the sounds, and pounded into him with brutal, relentless thrusts. Each stroke drove the air from Wallace's lungs, that ten-inch cock reaching depths that made his eyes water.

"Take it," Ziegler growled in his ear, the shy man from before replaced by something primal. "Take my fucking cock, you—"

Wallace bit down on Ziegler's palm and pushed back to meet every thrust. His own cock hung hard and neglected between his legs, but he didn't care. This was what he wanted, what he'd targeted from the first moment he'd seen that monster dick swinging in the shower. A personal dildo with a pulse, wrapped in two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of muscle.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Ziegler practically whimpered. “Oh fuck, oh FUCK—”

Ziegler came with a strangled groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding Wallace's guts with another massive load. Wallace followed seconds later, painting the cinderblock wall in front of him without ever touching himself.

They stayed like that for a moment, Ziegler's bulk pressing Wallace into the wall, both of them breathing hard. Then Wallace pulled forward, letting that softening cock slip out of his ruined hole, the man’s release running down his inner thigh.

He turned and looked up at Ziegler, at that flushed face and those dazed blue eyes, and smiled.

"See you around, Lance Corporal," Wallace said, pulling up his trousers. They’d be seeing each other real soon.

Ziegler swallowed hard and nodded.

Wallace walked back toward the mess hall, his ass throbbing with every step, come still leaking into his underwear. The California sun beat down on his face, and he took a deep breath of salt air.

I was just expecting a normal barbeque.

The first few years, he’d been a typical divorced dad, that is, a complete mess. He couldn't cook anything beyond microwave dinners. His kitchen smelled like stale beer and regret. But then he’d met a group of older gay guys and become friends with them and they'd pulled him out of his funk. He’d told them about his gay son and bonded over that. Now he's standing at the grill, tongs in hand, wearing nothing but a jockstrap that frames his thick ass like a fucking work of art. His back gleams with sweat, shoulders broader than I remember, the muscles in his arms working as he flips burgers.

"Hey, kiddo!" He waves the tongs at me, grinning like this is normal. Like this is just a regular Saturday barbecue.

A guy in a red speedo walks up and slides his hand across Dad's lower back. Dad doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away. Just keeps grilling while this man's palm traces the curve of his spine down toward the waistband of that jockstrap.

Before I can react, some guy is striking up a conversation and I’m struggling not too look at the thick pouch of his thong.

“So, you’re the son. Brian talks about you all the time! It’s so wonderful that you have such a supportive father, you know."

Supportive. Dad's standing in a jockstrap letting some dude pet his ass. That sure is supportive.

I glance back over at the grill. The guy in the speedo is fifty-something with a pelt of silver chest hair and somehow thick, defined abs. He leans in and says something close to Dad's ear. Dad laughs. A real laugh, the kind I didn’t hear in the years before or after Mom left. His whole body shifts with it, and for a second I see the way his ass moves in that strap, the pouch front and center, the curves behind barely contained.

I grab a beer from the cooler and sit on the nearest empty chair. Two men on either side of me immediately introduce themselves. Rick. Douglas. Both in jockstraps, both around Dad’s age. They’re obviously a couple but they’re both looking at me with open interest.

"He's been so much happier," Rick says, nodding toward the grill. "We love having him around."

"Your dad's a legend," Douglas adds. His hand rests on his own thigh, fingers spread, and I can't stop noticing how close that hand is to the pouch of his strap. "We don’t get many straight guys in the group, but it's refreshing to see a man who doesn't give a shit. Just enjoys the vibe."

Straight. Dad told them he's straight. Told me he's straight. Standing there in underwear designed to showcase cock and ass, letting men touch him, laughing with them, hosting them—and he's straight.

I watch him work the grill. Watch the way he bends to check the meat, his ass spreading in that strap, the fabric riding up. Three men nearby stop talking to watch too. One of them adjusts himself through his speedo, slow and obvious.

Dad looks over at me and raises his beer. 

Just a cookout. With twenty gay men in their underwear and my father dressed like a porn extra. I drink my beer and try not to think about what I'm actually seeing here.

The burgers disappear fast. I nurse another beer while making small talk with Rick about his job at the community center, Douglas chiming in between sips of his cocktail. Dad flips the last patties, that jockstrap stark against his tanned skin and pale ass, then finally shuts the grill lid. The food is gone within the hour, replaced by coolers dragged out from the garage.

As the sun dips, the yard transforms. String lights flicker on, casting everything in a warm amber glow. The men grow louder, bolder. Someone cranks music from a Bluetooth speaker. Bodies press closer on the patio furniture. Hands linger on shoulders, waists. Douglas's palm finds my thigh twice before I shift away.

I check my phone—nearly ten. The crowd has thinned slightly, maybe fifteen men remaining, but the ones left are the drunk ones. The handsy ones. Rick's arm draped around my shoulders, his breath hot and drunk against my ear as he slurs something about me being "a hot piece of ass just like your old man."

Time to go.

I extract myself from the conversation, scanning the yard for Dad to say goodbye. The grill sits cold and abandoned. His lawn chair is empty. I realize it’s been awhile since I’ve seen him. I circle the patio, checking the garage, the side of the house. Nothing.

The back door stands slightly ajar.

I step inside, the kitchen air cool against my skin after the humid night. The sliding door muffles the party noise to a dull throb. The overhead light is off—just the under-cabinet LEDs casting a low yellow glow across the countertops.

That's when I hear it. A low grunt. Wet, rhythmic slapping.

My feet stop moving.

Dad is bent over the kitchen island, forearms flat against the granite, his back arching in a deep curve. The jockstrap is shoved down around one ankle. Behind him, the man in the red speedo—his speedo now tangled around his thighs—grips Dad's hips with both hands and drives into him with steady, brutal thrusts.

"Take it, Brian," the man growls, fingers digging into Dad's fleshy waist. "Fuck, you're tight tonight—"

Dad's response is a broken moan, his head hanging between his shoulders. Sweat rolls down his spine, catching the golden light. Each thrust shoves him forward against the counter, the granite digging into his stomach, and he pushes back to meet every stroke.

I stand frozen in the doorway. My brain refuses to process the image: my old man, the guy who'd coached my Little League team, face-down and moaning while some stranger pounds his ass in his own kitchen. The wet slap of skin on skin. The slick sound of cock working open a hungry hole.

I couldn’t have asked for a more positive response from my parents when I came out. It was never an issue. But I find myself feeling angry that my dad never mentioned he slept with men. Like, as the gay man in the family, I deserved to know that fact or that it somehow lessened his support for me. 

Those feelings are promptly shoved to the back of my mind when a loud groan rips from my father’s throat.

Dad's fingers curl against the countertop. "Shit, shit, shit," he gasped. "You’re gonna wreck my pussy!"

“Fuck yeah, I am. This pussy is mine!” The man hisses in my father’s ear. “Who’s pussy is it?”

“It’s yours! Your fucking pussy!” Dad practically sobs.

The plan had been different. The plan had involved Heidi and a one-bedroom apartment in Oakland with decent light and a commute that didn't quite make either of us suicidal. We'd dated for two years through college, the kind of comfortable relationship that feels permanent until it isn't. When the tech firm that hired her decided to relocate her team to their Texas office for tax purposes, she'd looked at me across our favorite coffee shop and I could already see the exit strategy forming behind her eyes. She was starting to eye a life on her own. I'd already signed my offer letter in California. The breakup was practical, almost clinical. We split the dishes we'd accumulated, I’d been kicked off our shared Spotify, and that was that.

Now I was twenty-three, single, and living in a studio that cost more than my parents' mortgage. The walls were thin enough that I could hear my neighbor's alarm clock every morning at five-thirty. The kitchen was a hotplate and something just larger than a mini-fridge. The bathroom had mold in the grout that no amount of bleach could kill. I'd been here four months, and the novelty of West Coast living had worn off somewhere between my third ramen dinner in a week and my fourth rejection from slightly-better apartments.

The gym was the one place I didn't feel like a complete failure. I'd played baseball in college. Not well enough for any professional attention, but it’d kept me in shape. The gym down the street was overpriced and crowded with tech bros who treated workouts like an exercise in optimization, but it had free weights and a shower that actually got hot. I went five days a week, more out of habit than dedication, and kept my head down.

The guy approached me on a Tuesday. I was between sets at the bench press, scrolling through rental listings I couldn't afford on my phone, when a shadow fell across the screen.

"You're new here, right?"

I looked up. He was about my age, maybe a year older, he had obviously perfected the instagram build with his cut arms sticking out from a sleeveless shirt that showed definition even at rest. His hair was buzzed short and he had one of those easy smiles that came from never having to worry about whether people wanted to talk to you.

"Shane," I said, offering my hand.

"Todd." He shook it with a firm grip. "I've seen you around. You looking for something to do this weekend?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd spoken to maybe three people at this gym in four months, and none of them had been this direct. "Depends on what it is."

"There's this party. At this guy's place in the Hills." He said it the way people say things they expect you to be impressed by. "Gunnar Vance? The tech guy?"

The name rang a bell. Gunnar Vance was one of the first Gen Z wunderkinds who'd cashed out before he was even legal drinking age—some app or platform or something that had made him stupid rich practically overnight. His face had been on a few magazine covers I'd seen in the break room at work, usually next to headlines about disruption or the future of whatever.

"I don't really run in those circles," I said.

Todd laughed. "Nobody does. That's the whole point. He hires guys like us to hang out with him." He gestured out our respective builds.

I must have looked as skeptical as I felt, because he held up his hands.

"Look, I know how it sounds. But it's not like that. He's just one of those nerds who never figured out how to be cool, and now he's got enough money to buy the feeling. You know? He wants hot guys around him so he can pretend he's one of them. It's sad, honestly, but the parties are insane. Top-shelf everything, catering, pool, the works. Plus, there’s no small chance that you’ll walk out with a new iPhone or some sort of new tech."

"You're telling me a multimillionaire pays attractive men to attend his parties and there's nothing weird about it."

"I'm telling you it's not a sex thing." Todd shrugged. "I mean, maybe it is for some of the guys who go. But not with him. He doesn't do anything. He just…likes having us around. Like decoration, I guess. Or validation. To be honest, I’ve only spoken to him a couple times. I mostly just hang out with my friends and enjoy the amenities."

The logic was flimsy, but so was my social life. My weekend plans consisted of binging streaming shows and trying not to leave my apartment because that inevitably meant spending money. "How much does he pay?"

"Couple hundred a night, sometimes more if it's a bigger event. Plus whatever you eat and drink, which is always premium." He pulled out his phone. "Give me your number. I'll text you the details."

“Are you just recruiting for him?”

Todd laughed, “Nah, but you seem chill and it’s a fun time. He never minds a new face.”

I wasn’t convinced. But I was bored, I was broke, and the alternative was depressing.

The party was exactly what Todd had described and nothing like it at the same time.

Gunnar's house was a modernist monstrosity perched in the Berkeley Hills with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire bay. The driveway was full of cars from brands I was too poor to recognize. Inside, the furniture was all sharp angles and uncomfortable-looking surfaces, the kind of design that prioritized aesthetics over actually sitting down. There were probably thirty people there, and every single one of them looked like they'd stepped out of a fitness influencer's Instagram.

And then there was Gunnar.

I spotted him immediately, not because he stood out in a good way, but because he was the only person in the room who didn't seem to belong. He was shorter than most of the men surrounding him, and slighter. He didn’t have the insane musculature of these male models. That’s not to say he was some slouch, he just looked completely average. He wore a backwards baseball cap—an affectation that looked like a costume on him rather than a style choice—and his energy was different from everyone else's. Higher. More anxious. He gestured wildly when he talked and laughed too loud at his own jokes, and the circle of guys around him laughed back with the forced enthusiasm of people who knew where their paycheck was coming from.

I snorted into my whiskey. It was good whiskey, too. Something Scottish and peaty that I'd never have been able to afford on my own.

I grabbed a drink and it wasn’t long before Todd appeared beside me with a plate of food from the catering spread. "See? Did I tell you so or what?"

"It's exactly as weird as I thought it would be."

"Maybe. But the whiskey's free." He clinked his glass against mine and wandered off toward a group near the pool.

I spent the rest of the night drifting. The other guests were mostly friendly in the way people are when they're all getting paid to be somewhere—surface-level chatter about workouts and supplements and the ridiculousness of the housing market. Nobody asked what I did for a living. Nobody seemed to care. We were all just bodies filling space, making Gunnar feel like he was the center of something worth being the center of.

I came back the next weekend. And the weekend after that. It was comfortable, I could disappear in the crowd but still felt like a social life, or at least something more than what I’d had before.

Over the next month, I settled into the periphery of Gunnar's rotating cast of hired companions. I never made it into the inner circle—those were the guys who got the real money, the gifts, the trips—but I was tolerated at the edges. Free food, free drinks, free access to a lifestyle I had no business participating in. I was aware there were other meet ups and events outside the typical weekend party but I was never on those lists. It was enough.

Gunnar always had a new group of young studs around him. Some would disappear after a few weeks, replaced by fresh faces with better abs or more convincing laughs. The ones who stuck around had figured out the formula: hang on his words, touch his arm occasionally, never let the energy dip. It was performance art, and Gunnar was both the audience and the unwitting star.

Meanwhile, my real life was spiraling. My apartment was going to raise my rent in a few months. My car needed new brakes I couldn't afford. The credit card balance I'd been telling myself was temporary had crept up to a number that made my stomach clench every time I looked at it. The job was stable, boring, utterly insufficient for the cost of living in the Bay Area. I started picking up freelance gigs on weekends, which cut into my party time, which made me more anxious about losing my spot in the rotation.

It was somewhere around month three that I made a decision. If I was going to keep riding this particular gravy train, I needed to make myself indispensable. Or at least noticeable.

Gunnar's interest in the muscular men he surrounded himself with wasn't exactly subtle. The way his eyes tracked certain guys across the room. The way he leaned into touches a beat too long. The way his voice pitched up when someone particularly attractive complimented him. Maybe Todd had been right that it wasn't a sex thing, in the sense that Gunnar wasn't actually fucking any of these dudes. But he wanted something from them. That much was obvious.

So I started pushing.

It began small. Catching Gunnar's eye across a crowded room and holding his gaze a second longer than necessary. Finding excuses to stand close to him at parties, close enough that our arms would brush. When I approached him to say hello, I'd squeeze his shoulder just to let my hand rest there afterward feeling the reaction of his tense muscles and watching the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly.

Each time I pushed the boundaries a bit, I expected to be uninvited. Each time, the details for the next party would come through in my messages like nothing had happened.

The touches got bolder. A hand on his lower back as I guided him through a doorway. Sitting close enough on the couch that our thighs pressed together, the heat of his body seeping through the fabric. I'd never been particularly good at flirting with women—I'd somehow fumbled my way into a relationship with Heidi through sheer proximity and shared classes—but with Gunnar, it was different. Easier. Maybe because I didn't actually want anything from him beyond his money and his continued tolerance of my presence.

Whatever the reason, it worked. I found myself moving closer to the inner circle, included in more intimate gatherings, receiving slightly larger cash transfers at the end of the night. Gunnar started seeking me out at parties, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me, his face brightening in a way that made something complicated twist in my chest.

I ignored it. I had rent to pay.

The night Chris approached me, I was nursing a beer by the pool and watching Gunnar hold court with a group of new guys. He needed a chance to test out the fresh meat and by now I was feeling more secure in my position. They were all taller than him, broader, effortlessly masculine. Just how he liked it. Gunnar was telling some story about a meeting with investors, his hands moving through the air like conductors, and the new guys were mostly laughing on cue. There was an art to it. They’d figure it out eventually.

"You're good at that."

I turned. The guy beside me was leaner than most of Gunnar's regulars, with short cropped hair and a jawline dusted with dark stubble. He looked familiar and I was sure I'd seen him at a few parties, always hovering at the edges like me.

"At what?"

"The thing you're doing." He nodded toward Gunnar. "The touching. The eye contact. He eats it up."

I took a long pull from my beer, buying time. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do." The guy—Chris, I remembered now—shifted closer. "I've been around longer than most. Seen plenty of guys cycle through. You figured out something most of them miss."

"And what's that?"

"That Gunnar wants something he's too scared to ask for." Chris's voice was low, pitched just for me. "And the guys who give him a taste of it are the ones who stick around."

I set my beer down on the concrete ledge. "They told me this wasn't a sex thing."

“Who told you that?”

“Todd.”

"Todd's an idiot. There’s a reason he’s not around much anymore." Chris's mouth curved. "It's always a sex thing even if there’s no sex. Gunnar's not going to bend you over the couch and fuck you. But he gets off on the attention. On being desired. You think a guy like that doesn't know what he's doing, surrounding himself with shirtless gym rats? He knows. He just can't admit it."

The twist in my chest tightened. "So what are you doing here?"

Chris glanced back at Gunnar, who was still talking, still performing, still surrounded by men who were pretending to care about his investor meeting. "I've been in his orbit for almost a year. I've seen him buy cars for guys who made him feel special. Seen them disappear when someone newer comes along." He paused. "I’m pretty sure he's getting bored of me and I’m not done milking this cash cow. I need to do something to stay relevant."

"And you want my help because..."

"Because you're new enough to be interesting and bold enough to push the limits." Chris met my eyes. "Together, we can give him something he can't get from just one person. We can control the situation. Keep him hooked without having to actually—" He made a vague gesture. "You know. Cross the line."

The way Chris was talking and looking at me like I was already going to try to ‘cross the line’ made me uncomfortable. I considered turning around and walking out right then. But the credit card bill was due in a week, and my car was making a concerning noise every time I braked, and the thought of losing access to Gunnar's world made my throat tighten with something that felt dangerously like panic.

"What did you have in mind?"

The opportunity came sooner than expected.

The following weekend, Gunnar hosted a morning gathering—a smaller affair, just a dozen guys shooting hoops on his private basketball court and drinking before noon. The sun was bright and hot, the kind of California heat that was unseasonable for the bay and made sweating feel justified rather than gross. Most of us had stripped off our shirts within the first twenty minutes, and the court was a tableau of glistening skin and competitive posturing.

Gunnar had played a bit at the beginning but now he sat on the sidelines with his baseball cap backwards even as he lifted his hand to shield his face from the sun. But his eyes were everywhere, tracking the movement of bodies, the flex of muscles, the casual touches that passed between players. He yelled out a string of vaguely encouraging sports lingo, like he’d memorized the vocabulary but didn’t speak the language. He looked tense, though. His jaw was tight, and he kept checking his phone with a compulsive frequency. Obviously, work stress was bleeding into his ample leisure time.

Chris caught my eye across the court and raised an eyebrow. I nodded. This was as good a chance as any.

We waited until the game broke up, until the other guys started drifting toward the pool or the food table, leaving Gunnar alone with his phone and his furrowed brow. Then we moved.

"Hey, man." Chris dropped into the chair beside him, casual and easy. "You look like you could use a break."

Gunnar looked up, startled, then smiled when he recognized us. "Just some stuff at work. Nothing major."

"Nothing major doesn't give you that crease between your eyebrows." Chris reached over and pressed a smoothing thumb to the spot, a gesture so intimate that Gunnar froze for a half-second before forcing a laugh.

"I didn't realize I was being observed that closely."

"You're not." I settled into the chair on his other side, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "You just look like shit."

Gunnar laughed again, more genuine this time. "Thanks, Shane. Really appreciate the honesty."

"Anytime." I let my hand land on his knee, a brief squeeze. "Seriously though. When's the last time you actually relaxed?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen with an expression of barely concealed frustration.

"That's what I thought." Chris stood up, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made his torso elongate, the muscles in his abdomen shifting beneath the skin. "You've got that giant tub in your bathroom, right? The one with the jets?"

Gunnar's brow furrowed. "The soaking tub? Yeah, but—"

"You should use it. Nothing like hot water and bubbles to melt away the stress. Especially after getting all sweaty." Chris held out his hand. "Come on. We'll help you relax."

"I don't think—"

"That’s the problem, dude. You think too much." I stood too, flanking him. "Let us take care of you for once."

Gunnar looked between us, his expression a complicated mess of want and worry and something I couldn't quite name. His phone buzzed again. He silenced it.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay."

The bathroom was ridiculous. It was double the size of my entire apartment, all white marble and chrome fixtures, with a walk-in shower that could fit six people and a tub that was more like a small pool. Chris started the water while I found the bath supplies and poured in a generous amount of something eucalyptus scented.

Steam filled the room as the tub filled, the bubbles rising in a white mountain. Gunnar stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching us like he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up here.

“So, what’s all this?” Our benefactor asked.

"You're stressed," Chris said, his voice calm and reasonable. "It's written all over you. So we're going to help you unwind. That's all."

"In my tub?"

"In your tub." I started pulling off my basketball shorts. "We do this all the time in locker rooms. It's a guy thing. Nothing weird about it."

Gunnar's eyes tracked my hands as I pushed the shorts down my hips, then quickly looked away. His cheeks were pink and not from the steam.

Chris was already naked when I looked over, his body lean and cut in the afternoon light filtering through the frosted window. He stepped into the tub, the water swirling around his calves, and let out an exaggerated groan. "God, that's good. Come on, Gunnar. Live a little."

I stepped in after him, the hot water enveloping my legs, my waist, my chest as I sank down. The bubbles rose around me, obscuring everything below the surface. "Your turn," I said, looking up at Gunnar.

He stood there for a long moment, his back against the marble counter, his fingers drumming against his arms. I could see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wanted this was fighting with the part that was terrified of what it might mean.

"Come on," I said. "We're all guys here." He really was so easy to play sometimes.

Gunnar swallowed. Then, slowly, he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.

His body was unremarkable compared to the men he surrounded himself with. Thin but soft in the middle, with narrow shoulders and the kind of pale skin you’d expect from someone who spent most of his time indoors. But it wasn't bad. There was a certain vulnerability to it that made something shift in my chest—the same complicated twist I'd been ignoring for months.

He hesitated again at his cargo shorts, his fingers on the waistband. Chris and I waited, neither of us pushing, letting the silence do the work.

Finally, Gunnar pushed them down.

His cock hung soft between his thighs, and even flaccid, it was impressive. Thin but long, longer than mine, longer than any I'd seen outside of porn. It swayed slightly as he stepped toward the tub, and I had to consciously keep my expression neutral.

Gunnar settled into the water in the spot we’d left open between us, the bubbles rising to his chest, his eyes closed as the heat worked into his muscles. For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water and the distant hum of the jets.

Then I let my hand drift through the water and settle on his thigh.

Gunnar's breath caught but he didn't move away. His leg was warm beneath my palm, the muscle surprisingly firm for someone who spent most of his time at a desk. I let my thumb trace a small circle on the outside of his thigh, just above the knee.

"Stress lives in the body," Chris said, his voice low and soothing. He moved behind Gunnar, his hands finding the tense knots in his shoulders. "You carry it here. Right in this spot."

Gunnar let out a shaky breath as Chris worked his thumbs into the muscle. "That does feel...good."

"See?" I let my hand slide a little higher on his thigh. Still innocent. Still deniable. "You just need to let people take care of you sometimes."

His eyes were still closed, his head tilted back against the edge of the tub. The pink in his cheeks had spread down his neck and across his chest. Beneath the water, I could see movement—his cock stirring, filling, rising toward the surface.

Chris caught my eye over Gunnar's shoulder. His expression was careful, calculating, but there was something else there too, like a flicker of hunger that he quickly suppressed. He gave the slightest nod. We had just planned to tease him a bit but the heat and the tension in the air were driving us to go further.

I moved my hand higher.

Gunnar's cock was fully hard now, jutting up from the bubbles like a periscope. It was even more impressive erect. My own dick twitched in response, which I hadn't entirely expected.

"You're so tense," I murmured, my hand brushing the crease where his thigh met his hip. "Just relax. Let go."

Chris's hands worked lower, down Gunnar's arms, along his sides. His touch was clinical but deliberate, each stroke designed to heighten sensation, to blur the line between therapeutic and something else entirely.

Gunnar's breathing had changed to something faster, shallower. His eyes were still closed, but his jaw was tight, his hands gripping the edge of the tub. He knew what was happening. He had to know. But he wasn't stopping it.

I let my fingers brush the base of his cock.

Gunnar made a sound between a gasp and a moan that he tried to swallow. His hips shifted, whether toward my hand or away from it, I couldn't tell.

"It's okay," Chris said, his mouth close to Gunnar's ear. "We've got you."

I wrapped my hand around his shaft.

The sound Gunnar made then was unmistakable—a raw, broken noise that echoed off the marble walls. His cock pulsed in my grip, hot and hard, and I felt my own arousal spike in response. This was happening. This was actually happening. 

Was this how I was paying rent now? Stroking off some rich dude? Apparently, it was because I continued. 

I started to stroke him, slow and steady, my grip firm enough to feel every ridge and vein. The water sloshed gently around us, adding a rhythm to the movement. Gunnar's head fell back against Chris's chest, his mouth open, his chest heaving.

Chris's hands had moved lower too, one resting on Gunnar's hip, the other tracing soapy patterns on his stomach. He was watching my hand move beneath the water, his eyes dark and focused.

"That's it," Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just feel it. Let us make you feel good."

Gunnar's hand found my thigh under the water, gripping hard enough to leave marks. His hips were moving now, tiny thrusts that pushed his cock through my fist. I matched his rhythm, tightening my grip, twisting slightly on the upstroke.

"Fuck," Gunnar breathed. "Fuck, that's good."

"I know." I leaned closer, my shoulder pressing against his. "Just let go."

Chris slid back into his spot beside Gunnar and his hand joined mine, his fingers wrapping around the head of Gunnar's cock while I worked the shaft. Our hands moved together, slick with water and bubbles, and Gunnar's whole body went rigid.

"I'm going to—" He choked on the words, his back arching. "I can't—"

"Do it," Chris said. "Come for us."

Gunnar came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock pulsed in my hand, shooting thick ropes of white that disappeared into the bubbly water. His whole body shook, his fingers digging into my thigh, his face contorted in a way that looked almost painful.

I stroked him through it, gentling my grip as the spasms subsided, until he was softening in my hand and his breathing was starting to even out. Chris's hand had moved to his chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath the skin.

For a long moment, nobody moved. The water was still, the steam hung in the air, and Gunnar sat between us with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, looking more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. His expression was complicated—grateful and ashamed and wanting all at once—but underneath it all, there was something like wonder.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

I squeezed his thigh. "Anytime."

Things shifted after our experience in the bath. Gunnar couldn't keep his hands off us. Not in a sexual way, but in the way a man handles something precious. Chris and I became his favorites overnight, and the perks rolled in fast.

My rent got paid. Direct deposit, first of the month, no questions asked. Then came the watches, a Breitling for me, an Omega for Chris. Designer jackets hung in our apartments like Gunnar had measured us in his mind and sent his stylist shopping. We stopped paying for most things anywhere. Gunnar's black card was always in reach.

We were at his place constantly. Just the two of us sometimes, no other boys needed. Mornings by his infinity pool, afternoons in his home theater watching whatever he wanted, evenings in his kitchen while his private chef cooked whatever we craved. Gunnar orbited us like we were the sun, and he was just grateful for the warmth.

I didn't mind it. The money was too good, the lifestyle too easy. But there was a knot in my gut every time Gunnar looked at me with those hungry, grateful eyes. The bath had cracked something open, and none of us had figured out how to close it.

There was a Thursday when a client issue kept me at work late into the night and I missed an invitation to Gunnar’s place.

Chris went alone. I kept checking my phone when I could but didn’t hear from him. No texts. No updates. I figured they were just watching movies or some shit.

The next morning, my phone buzzed.

Chris: He kissed me.

I stared at the screen as I was waking up. I’d made it home late and immediately passed out. I typed back with thumbs that felt thick and clumsy.

Shane: How'd it happen?

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Chris: We were in the hot tub. He just leaned over and did it. On the mouth. I kissed back.

I leaned up in bed, the sheet tangling in my legs and holding me down. My throat tightened.

Shane: How far should we take this? He's going to want more than handjobs eventually.

The response came fast.

Chris: I'll go as far as he needs me to. You see what he gives us? I'm not giving that up.

I read the message twice. The words sat flat on the screen, no hesitation in them. Chris had made his calculation, and the math was simple: Gunnar's money was worth whatever he asked for in return.

I locked my phone without replying. Drove to work through fog-slicked streets, windshield wipers thumping like a heartbeat. Chris's text glowed in my mind, bright and ugly. I wasn't jealous—I told myself I wasn't. But the thought of Gunnar kissing Chris in that steamy water while I was working for a barely livable wage made something acidic pool in my stomach.

If Chris was willing to go all the way, where did that leave me? I could probably push off the most intimate stuff onto Chris if I played my hand right but then I’d risk falling out of favor.

The next party was Saturday. There was a bigger crowd than usual at Gunnar’s place, and a different mix of people than usual. Some tech summit afterparty that spilled into his mansion like champagne from a shaken bottle. I wore the Brioni suit Gunnar had bought me. Charcoal gray, tailored so clean it felt like wearing a second skin. Chris was across the room in navy, working a cluster of investors with that easy smile of his. I wondered if he wasn’t already lining up his plan b if things with Gunnar didn’t work out.

Gunnar held court near the massive double-sided fireplace, drink in hand, laughing at something a woman in Valentino said. His eyes kept drifting to Chris, then to me, then back. That hungry look, the one that had been intensifying for weeks.

I returned it. And I watched.

I waited until he broke away from the group, heading toward the hallway that led to his private wing. Then I moved.

The hallway was dim, recessed lighting casting warm pools on the hardwood. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side showed the valley glittering below. I caught up to him near the first guest room door.

"Gunnar."

He turned, and I didn't give him time to speak. I pushed him against the wall hard enough to feel the impact but gentle enough not to hurt. My hands found his shoulders, pinned them back. His eyes went wide, lips parting.

I kissed him.

Not soft. Not tentative. I drove my mouth against his like I'd been thinking about this for weeks—because I had. My tongue pushed past his lips, tasting the expensive liquor on his breath, the mint underneath. He made a sound, something between a gasp and a groan, and his hands came up to my waist.

I pressed my hips forward. My groin against his. The friction sparked through me, blood rushing south. I could feel him responding. His cock thickened against mine through our pants, his fingers tightening on my hips.

I ground against him. Slow, deliberate rolls of my pelvis, dragging his hardening length against my hip as I licked into his mouth. His head fell back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat. I kissed it, bit lightly at the tendon, felt him shudder.

"Shane—" My name came out ragged.

I pulled back. His hair was mussed where my fingers had tangled in it. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen and wet. A flush crept up his neck, disappearing into his collar.

I winked at him. Straightened my tie. Walked back to the party like I hadn't just dry-humped a millionaire against his own wall.

The rush hit me halfway across the living room as exhilaration and nerves twisted together. My cock was half-hard in my pants, and I had to angle my body carefully as I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray.

Chris appeared at my elbow. "What did you do?"

"Staked my claim." I sipped the champagne. It tasted sweeter than usual.

“Atta boy!” He slapped me on the shoulder.

Gunnar emerged from the hallway five minutes later. His hair was fixed, but his color was still high, and he'd thrown on a sweatshirt to hide the evidence. He caught my eye across the room and held my gaze for three long seconds. Something burned in that look. Need. Want. A question.

I raised my glass to him and turned away.

The party wound down around 2 AM. Bodies trickled out, Uber notifications chiming from phones, an exodus of drunk tech bros and women teetering on heels they'd regret tomorrow. Chris and I helped Gunnar herd the last stragglers toward the door like good guests, the kind who earned their keep.

When the door finally closed behind the last guest, silence settled over the mansion like snowfall.

Gunnar stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets. He looked between us—Chris on his right, me on his left.

"Stay the night." Not a question.

Chris glanced at me. I gave a small nod.

Gunnar led us upstairs.

The windows of his bedroom let in a soft glow of the distant city lights that painted everything in soft gold.

He stood near the edge of the bed, watching us. I could see the shape of him still half-hard in his pants, the memory of our hallway encounter not yet faded.

He stepped towards us. And then again.

He kissed me first. Softer and more chaste than before. Then Chris. And then me again. I found myself getting worked up by the contact as he reached up and held both of our arms.

"I want to watch you two." His voice was low, controlled. "Together."

Chris's breath hitched. My pulse kicked up, hammering against my ribs. I had expected to approach this line with Gunnar. Chris would be part of the equation, but I’d never considered sex with him. This was the line we'd been dancing toward since the bath, and now it was here.

Chris looked at me, and something passed between us—the same calculation from his text, now made flesh. This was happening. We'd both already decided what it was worth.

Chris started undressing. I followed. Shoes first, then jackets, shirts, pants. We'd seen each other naked before in the tub, but this was different. 

I took in Chris's body in the new light of sexual interest. He was lean, defined, a runner's build with sharp hip bones that cut shadows across his lower stomach. I could imagine kissing him there. His cock hung soft between his thighs, but it twitched as I stepped closer.

We kissed tentatively, and then with more confidence. I found I liked the feel of his stubble grinding against my chin. My hands explored his flank as he wrapped his arms around my neck. My some unspoken signal we made out way to the bed. We fell onto it side by side. The feeling of the mattress shifting as Gunnar climbed on after us reminded me that we were meant to put on a show. I rolled on top of my friend and ground our hardening cocks together for the first time.

We both groaned loudly.

I pulled away when I felt a hard pressure against my arm. I looked up and saw Gunnar sitting close by. He hadn't undressed like us, but his hand had drifted to his own crotch, palm pressing against the bulge there.

He was offering me a bottle. Premium shit, of course—thick glass bottle, minimalist label. I realized slowly that it was lube. I took it and looked down at Chris below me. His eyes had gone wide but he nodded. Gunnar had chosen our roles tonight, whether we liked it or not. 

I coated my fingers and turned to Chris. He'd climbed out from under me, positioning himself on hands and knees, beside Gunnar. I knelt behind him, one hand on his hip.

"Slowly," Gunnar said. "I want to see everything."

I pressed one finger to Chris's hole. He tensed, then forced himself to relax. I worked the digit inside the tight channel. A second finger joined the first, stretching him open. Chris dropped his head between his shoulders, breath coming faster.

"More," Gunnar instructed. "Open him up properly."

I added a third finger. Chris groaned, pushing back against my hand. His cock was fully hard now, hanging heavy between his legs. I fucked him with my fingers, slow and deliberate, watching his hole stretch and flutter around my knuckles. It was a heady sight. I found myself glad that I was doing this for the first time with someone I understood, someone with the same motivations as me. We were on the same page and that helped.

"Now," Gunnar said, a little shaky. "Put it in."

I slicked my cock. I was hard as steel, aching for this whether I'd admitted it or not. I lined up with Chris's entrance and pushed forward.

The head breached him quickly. Chris hissed through his teeth, fingers clenching in the sheets. I paused, letting him adjust, feeling his body fight and then yield around me.

"Deeper," Gunnar commanded. "All the way."

I fed my cock into him inch by inch. The heat was overwhelming, the tightness unlike anything I'd felt before. Chris's back arched, a moan tearing from his throat as I bottomed out, my hips flush against his ass.

"Hold there," Gunnar said. He'd unzipped his pants now, his cock in his fist. It was almost comical how much of his length stuck out between his fingers. He stroked himself slowly, eyes locked on where my body joined Chris's. "Now fuck him. Slow."

I pulled back until just the head remained inside, then sank forward again. Chris whimpered. I set a rhythm of long, deep strokes that dragged against every nerve ending. Each thrust pushed a sound from Chris's lips, each withdrawal left him gasping.

"That's it." Gunnar's voice had gone rough. "Just like that. Don't stop."

I didn't stop. I fucked Chris with deliberate, measured thrusts, my hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Now that I was doing it, I don’t think I could have walked away even if I wanted to. It was intoxicating. The sensations alone were insane but watching his ring cling to my shaft as it pulled out and thrust back in time, drove me wild. Chris's arms gave out. He collapsed onto his elbows, face pressed into the sheets, ass still high in the air. I followed him down, covering his body with mine, driving into him from a new angle that made him sob.

"I'm close," I gritted out.

Gunnar kneeled up in the bed. "Inside,” he swallowed. “Finish inside him."

I slammed home one final time and let go. My orgasm crashed through me, pumping my release into Chris's ass in thick spurts. I ground against him, riding the waves until I was spent, shaking, draped over his back.

We stayed like that for a moment. Then Gunnar's hand was on my shoulder, pulling me back.

"My turn."

Chris and I were already level with his crotch from where he knelt on the bed. His cock jutted up from his open pants, flushed dark with arousal. I couldn’t catch Chris’ eye from this angle but we leaned in together.

I took the head first, swirling my tongue around the crown, tasting the salt of his precome. Chris mouthed at the shaft, lips dragging along the length, tongue tracing the vein underneath. Gunnar's hands found our heads, fingers tangling in our hair.

Chris and I worked in tandem—licking up opposite sides of his cock, meeting at the tip to share a messy kiss before diving back down. I took him deeper, relaxing my throat until my nose pressed against his pelvis. Chris sucked at his balls, one then the other, while I bobbed on his shaft.

"Fuck—" Gunnar's hips jerked up, fucking my mouth. "Don't stop, don't—"

His cock pulsed on my tongue. Hot cum flooded my mouth, thick and bitter. I swallowed what I could, but some escaped, dripping down my chin. Chris pulled off his balls and caught the next spurt across his cheek, mouth open, tongue out.

Gunnar groaned like a man unspooling. His fingers tightened in our hair, then released. He sagged back against the headboard, chest heaving, cock softening against his thigh.

Chris and I stayed where our bodies were still tangled. Our faces painted with the man’s come, our breath ragged, the taste of Gunnar lingering on our tongues. Chris looked at me, and I didn’t have the energy to interpret the complicated emotions I saw projected there. 

Gunnar reached down and cupped my face, thumb smearing through the mess on my chin. His eyes were soft, satisfied, and still hungry.

"Good boys," he murmured.

Morrison had stumbled onto the strategy five years ago, when he'd caught his starting quarterback getting his dick sucked by a desperate sophomore running back hoping to make the travel roster. Instead of cracking down, Morrison watched how that quarterback's completion percentage jumped over the next month. No girlfriend drama. No late-night texts. No distracted film sessions. Just a focused player with empty balls and a clear head.

Now the program had institutionalized it. Three full-ride scholarships reserved exclusively for team cocksuckers. Their only job: drain whoever needed draining, whenever they needed it. No questions, no hesitation, no attitude.

Some guys were reserved about using the perk. Tyler Brennan, the senior tight end, still acted like it was weird. He'd shower alone, avoid eye contact with the service players, and probably jerk off in his apartment like some kind of puritan. Meanwhile, DeShawn Williams—starting running back, All-American candidate—pulled his cock out so often the cocksuckers practically had his schedule memorized. Before film study. After lifts. Sometimes during halftime when the adrenaline wouldn't stop buzzing.

The numbers didn't lie. Since implementing the program, off-field incidents had plummeted. No assault allegations. No jealous girlfriends keying cars. No sexting scandals blowing up on social media. The team's collective testosterone had an outlet, and it showed on Saturdays. They played hungry but controlled.

It also made recruiting fucking easy.

This weekend, Marcus Cole was visiting campus. Five-star linebacker from Texas, built like a football god at six-three and two-forty. Every program in the country wanted him. But Morrison had something they didn't: the full red-carpet treatment.

Marcus stepped out of the recruiting van and onto the practice facility's polished concrete. His eyes swept across the weight room, the fifty-yard indoor turf, the nutrition center that cost more than some schools' entire athletic budget. Then Jamal Hicks appeared—six-one, two-twenty, defensive end with a smile that closed deals. Jamal extended his hand, and Marcus took it.

"Welcome to the family, bro," Jamal said, clapping the teen prodigy on the shoulder. "We're gonna show you a good time."

That was the pitch. Recruits got paired with a player host who treated them like teenage kings. Best food in town. VIP access everywhere. And when the sun went down, whatever else they wanted. Jamal knew exactly how to read a prospect—whether he needed the subtle approach or could be offered the full menu on the first night.

Marcus grinned, already impressed by the facilities. "Looks like y'all know how to take care of your people."

Jamal's smile widened. "You have no idea."

Coach Morrison walked right into the cloud of post game funk that filled the lockerroom. He didn't give a fuck about the smell. He cared about the win column. Three consecutive conference championships didn't happen by accident, and the secret wasn't some revolutionary playbook. It was the three full-ride scholarships given to the right guys, the heart of this team. Those guys were kneeling in the equipment room two doors down, waiting for practice to end.

Morrison had stumbled onto the strategy five years ago, when he'd caught his starting quarterback getting his dick sucked by a desperate sophomore running back hoping to make the travel roster. Instead of cracking down, Morrison watched how that quarterback's completion percentage jumped over the next month. No girlfriend drama. No late-night texts. No distracted film sessions. Just a focused player with empty balls and a clear head.

Now the program had institutionalized it. Three full-ride scholarships reserved exclusively for team cocksuckers. Their only job: drain whoever needed draining, whenever they needed it. No questions, no hesitation, no attitude.

Some guys were reserved about using the perk. Tyler Brennan, the senior tight end, still acted like it was weird. He'd shower alone, avoid eye contact with the service players, and probably jerk off in his apartment like some kind of puritan. Meanwhile, DeShawn Williams—starting running back, All-American candidate—pulled his cock out so often the cocksuckers practically had his schedule memorized. Before film study. After lifts. Sometimes during halftime when the adrenaline wouldn't stop buzzing.

The numbers didn't lie. Since implementing the program, off-field incidents had plummeted. No assault allegations. No jealous girlfriends keying cars. No sexting scandals blowing up on social media. The team's collective testosterone had an outlet, and it showed on Saturdays. They played hungry but controlled.

It also made recruiting fucking easy.

This weekend, Marcus Cole was visiting campus. Five-star linebacker from Texas, built like a football god at six-three and two-forty. Every program in the country wanted him. But Morrison had something they didn't: the full red-carpet treatment.

Marcus stepped out of the recruiting van and onto the practice facility's polished concrete. His eyes swept across the weight room, the fifty-yard indoor turf, the nutrition center that cost more than some schools' entire athletic budget. Then Jamal Hicks appeared—six-one, two-twenty, defensive end with a smile that closed deals. Jamal extended his hand, and Marcus took it.

"Welcome to the family, bro," Jamal said, clapping the teen prodigy on the shoulder. "We're gonna show you a good time."

That was the pitch. Recruits got paired with a player host who treated them like teenage kings. Best food in town. VIP access everywhere. And when the sun went down, whatever else they wanted. Jamal knew exactly how to read a prospect—whether he needed the subtle approach or could be offered the full menu on the first night.

Marcus grinned, already impressed by the facilities. "Looks like y'all know how to take care of your people."

And yet here Trey is, face-down in Collin's predictably high-thread-count sheets, getting skewered on his dick.

His fingers are gripping the white cotton as Collin's thick cock splits him open with methodical, unhurried precision. The older man's hands bracket Trey's hips. Each thrust lands with the same consistent depth, the same measured rhythm, like he's reconciling a fucking spreadsheet instead of pounding a twenty-one-year-old's ass.

Trey should be out there. Clubbing. Doing shots off some sorority girl's stomach. Getting wrecked at a frat party and waking up in a stranger's dorm. He turned twenty-one two months ago, and this—this vanilla powerfuck from a lump of a man in khaki shorts—is not the party boy package he signed up for.

"Good?" Collin asks, his voice low and even, like he's confirming a dinner reservation.

Trey just grunts. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Yeah, it's good. It's always good. Collin's got a big cock—thick and uncut and curved just right to hit his prostate every goddamned time—and he knows how to use it with the same boring competence he brings to everything else. No creativity. No spontaneity. Just steady, relentless fucking that makes Trey's eyes roll back despite himself.

The headboard doesn't even creak. Collin is reasonable enough to drop good money on sturdy shit if he knows how to fuck like this.

The clock on the nightstand reads 9:47 PM. On a Friday. Trey's friends are probably just starting their night right now, and he's about to fall asleep with a dick in his ass before ten o'clock like some kind of geriatric.

Collin's pace picks up slightly, the smallest variation like adjusting the tuner on his vintage record player, and Trey's prostate throbs in response. His own cock leaks against the sheets, untouched and aching. He wishes Collin would jerk him off. Would give him something rougher, dirtier. Would make this worth giving up his ass for.

Instead, he just takes it. Lets Collin fuck him with that same steady rhythm until the older man grunts—once, predictably—and buries himself deep, filling Trey's hole. No fanfare. No dramatic finish. Just efficient, thorough seeding.

Collin doesn't even pull out. He just wraps an arm around Trey's waist and settles behind him, big spoon curling around little spoon like they're some married couple.

Trey lies there, stuffed and sticky, staring at the ceiling. If he was going to give up his ass, it should be to some college jock with a six-pack. He should be riding some trust fund kid at a frat orgy, not this domesticated dick-down from a man whose most exciting weekend activity is choosing between Diet Coke and Coke Zero.

But his body sinks into Collin's warmth anyway. His eyelids droop. And somewhere beneath the frustration, something in his chest unclenches—craving the predictability of this calming presence, the way Collin's arm tightens around him, the way he already knows he'll wake up to the smell of eggs and bacon and that boring man making him breakfast.

"Next exit," Colton said. "Then about half a mile."

The Pine Ridge Inn materialized from the darkness—a two-story L-shaped structure with a flickering neon sign and a parking lot half-full of pickup trucks. Greg pulled the truck around back where it would be out of sight from the road, killed the engine, and let the silence settle. Mountain air crept through the cracked window, carrying pine and the distant smell of woodsmoke.

Colton headed for the glass windows of the motel lobby while Greg made sure the load was secured for the night. 

"Room 14," Colton said, pocketing the key card as he returned to the truck. "Ground floor, back corner."

They grabbed their overnight bags from the cab. Greg rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness from the three-hour drive. At thirty-four, he'd put in eight years at Henderson's Home Appliances, and his body showed it—broad shoulders, thick chest, hands calloused from hauling refrigerators and washing machines up narrow staircases. Colton was two years younger, an inch shorter, but just as solid. He also had a bit more hair which he always found a way to point out. They'd started only months apart and had been paired on deliveries ever since.

Eventually they’d decided to save their per diem and just share a room. They’d often splurge on a steak dinner with some of the extra money. They were good enough friends that they didn’t mind spending a little more time together in exchange for a few extra dollars. The arrangement came with a few other perks too. Overall, they were never shy about volunteering for these overnight deliveries out to the boonies.

The room was standard issue—a king bed, a TV bolted to the dresser, grimy wallpaper with a single landscape print above the bed, and a bathroom with weak water pressure. Greg dropped his bag on the side of the bed nearest the door, the same side he always took. Colton took the other without comment. The routine was well established, worn smooth by repetition.

"Shower?" Colton asked, already tugging his shirt over his head.

"Go ahead." Greg sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out his phone. Two texts from his girlfriend, Brianna, asking if he'd made it safe. He typed a quick reply and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

The shower ran for ten minutes. When Colton emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam followed him into the room. Water beaded on his shoulders and rolled down the dense mat of hair on his chest. Greg watched him cross to his bag, watched the towel shift as Colton dug for clean clothes.

"My turn," Greg said, standing.

He kept his shower brief—just enough to wash away the road grit and the day's sweat. When he came back into the room, Colton was sitting on the edge of his bed in boxers, scrolling through his phone. The TV was on, volume low, playing some local news segment about a volunteer event at a nursing home.

Greg toweled off and pulled on his own boxers. He hung the towel in the bathroom and came back to find Colton had moved. Colton sat in the middle of the bed now, back against the headboard, phone abandoned on the nightstand.

Neither of them spoke. The routine didn't require conversation.

Greg scooted in beside him. The mattress dipped under their combined weight. He could smell the hotel soap on his warm skin.

Colton's hand came to rest on Greg's thigh. A simple gesture. Unhurried. His thumb traced a small circle against the muscle.

"Long drive," Colton said.

"Yeah."

Colton's hand moved higher. His fingers found the edge of Greg's boxers and slipped beneath the loose fabric. Greg let his legs fall open, an invitation that required no words. Colton's palm was warm and rough as it wrapped around Greg's cock, which thickened steadily under the attention.

Greg turned his head. Colton was already looking at him. They rarely kissed—only twice in the months since this started—and the possibility of it excited him as Colton squeezed him root to tip, working him to full hardness with practiced strokes.

"Lay back," Colton said.

Greg shifted onto the bed properly as he slipped out of the thin fabric of his boxers, lying back against the pillows completely exposed. His companion stripped off his own underwear and climbed over him, positioning himself so his knees bracketed Greg's head while his own face hovered above Greg's groin. The sixty-nine was their standard opening. It was efficient, mutual, a way to take the edge off before the main event.

Colton's cock hung heavy above Greg's face, half-hard and swelling. He reached up and guided it into his mouth, tasting the familiar flavor of his skin. Above his own groin, he felt Colton's breath warm against him, then the wet heat of his buddy’s mouth closing over the head of his cock.

They worked each other slowly at first. Greg sucked Colton with long, deliberate pulls, his tongue pressing flat along the underside of the shaft. Colton  matched his rhythm, bobbing in steady strokes that drew groans from Greg's chest. The sounds in the room were the wet rhythm of mouth on cock, breathing through noses, the occasional creak of the mattress.

Colton was the only one between them who had prior experience. He had admitted to sucking a few dudes before Greg, but Greg got the impression it was more than just a few.

“Fuck!” Colton’s head popped up so quickly it startled Greg and his coworker’s cock popped out of his mouth. “I forgot the lube in the truck.”

They disengaged so Colton could jump off the bed and pull his boxers back on and yank on his boots. He didn’t bother with any other clothes before he grabbed the keys and bolted out the door. Greg chuckled at his eagerness and stroked his dick. He’d be lying if he wasn’t just as excited.

Colton was gone less than forty seconds before he burst back into the room panting. He grinned at his companion as he waved the bottle of clear liquid in the air. Greg crawled down the bed and beckoned Colton towards him. When the man was close enough he gripped his dick and pulled his whole body towards him. Colton’s member was eye level and Greg didn’t waste any time in swallowing it again. 

Colton groaned and tossed the bottle on the bed so he could dedicate his hands to gripping his buddy’s head. He let the ministrations continue for a minute before he pulled out and jumped back into bed, not taking the time to take his boots off again.

They returned to the familiar 69 position on their sides this time and Colton’s eager mouth inhaled the other man’s dick. Greg enjoyed it for a moment but he was ready for the next part of the night and pulled his knees back, giving Colton access. The younger man's mouth left Greg's cock and traveled lower. His tongue traced the seam of Greg's balls, then dragged further down. He shuddered when Colton's tongue found his hole, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing inside.

"Fuck," Greg breathed around Colton's cock. He pulled off for a moment, just feeling. Colton's tongue was insistent, probing, working him open with sloppy dedication. Greg returned the favor, his own mouth finding Colton's ass. He spread his companion's cheeks with both hands, revealing the hairy trench there, and licked into him, tongue fucking into Colton's hole with deep, hungry thrusts.

They ate each other like that for long minutes, trading back and forth between cock and ass, building each other toward the edge and then backing off. The room smelled like musk and sweat and saliva on top of the existing trace of mildew. Greg’s jaw ached pleasantly. His cock throbbed against his stomach whenever Colton's mouth abandoned it.

"Ready?" Colton asked, his voice rough.

"Yeah."

His coworker shifted around, reaching for the small bottle of lube that had gotten lost in the sheets earlier. He slicked his fingers and worked two inside Greg, stretching him open with careful pressure. Greg bore down, his body familiar with this preparation, eager for it.

Colton moved between Greg's legs. He pushed Greg's knees toward his chest and lined up his cock. The first press was always the most intense. The blunt pressure, the slow yielding, the stretch as Colton's thick head breached him, was overwhelming. Greg exhaled and let his body open.

Colton sank in to the root. He held still for a moment and then began to fuck him with deep, measured thrusts. Greg grabbed his own cock and stroked it in time with Colton's movements.

"Close," Colton grunted.

"Fuck, yes."

Colton drove in hard and held. Greg felt the pulse of the man's cock inside him, the warmth spreading deep as Colton came. Colton's face was flushed, his jaw tight, his hands gripping his companion's hips hard enough to leave fingerprints embedded in his skin.

A dribble of come dripping onto the sheets before Greg’s hole could close again after Colton pulled out. They both moved with choreographed ease. Greg kneeling behind Colton's bent over figure, pressing into Colton’s ass with his own lubed fingers. By the time he was ready, Colton's cock was softening but twitched with renewed interest as Greg filled him.

Greg fucked Colton harder than Colton had fucked him, chasing his own orgasm with urgent thrusts. The younger man pushed back against his thrusting waist, encouraging him deeper. 

Greg buried himself completely and came, his cock pulsing inside Colton's ass, pumping him full. He stayed there for a long moment, catching his breath, before withdrawing.

Colton lay back against the pillows, chest heaving. Now, he was the one leaking from his fucked-open hole, come pooling beneath him on the sheets. His cock lay soft against his thigh, spent and satisfied.

"Steak?" Greg asked, already reaching for his clothes.

Colton grinned. "There's a place three blocks north. Saw it on the way in."

The descent always made his ears pop. He worked his jaw, swallowed, and kept his eyes on the leather of Arthur's boots in front of him.

Arthur stood with his weight shifted to one hip, carbide lamp dangling from his calloused fingers. The pale skin at the back of his neck was streaked with the day's first layer of dust, dark hair already damp with sweat that dripped down to his collar. He didn't look back at Wayne and Wayne was grateful for that. He’d find Wayne staring at him far too often if he did. But Arthur’s hand found Wayne's wrist in the dark before the cage jolted to a stop at the third level and the shift boss started barking orders. Just a brief squeeze, thumb pressing against the pulse point. But it settled him.

They'd been at this for eight months now. Long enough for Wayne's hands to crack and bleed and heal into something that looked more like his father's than his own. Long enough for the clay to work its way so deep under his fingernails that no amount of lye soap could scrub it clean. His older brother Billy had spent three years in these tunnels before the cave-in crushed his leg and left him walking with a cane at twenty. Their mother had wept and prayed when Wayne told her he was going down too. She'd stood in the kitchen doorway with flour on her apron, her mouth working around words that wouldn't come, and finally just pressed her palm to his cheek like she was memorizing the shape of his face.

Wayne had wanted to tell her it would be all right. He'd wanted to say he'd be careful, that they needed the money, that the company store was eating them alive. But what came out instead was the truth, Arthur's name. “Arthur's going, I have to go with him,” and his mother's eyes had gone quiet and knowing in a way that made his stomach clench. 

He didn't have the words for what Arthur was to him. He'd never seen two men look at each other the way he looked at Arthur. In church they talked about sin between men like it was a thing that happened somewhere else, to other people—city degenerates and foreigners, not boys who grew up chasing jackrabbits through the sagebrush. Wayne had searched himself for sickness, for the corruption the preacher warned about, and found only this: a certainty as solid as bedrock that he would follow Arthur Parrish into the ground if that's where Arthur went.

The shift stretched fourteen hours. Wayne swung his pick until his shoulders burned and his vision narrowed to the seam of coal before him. The dust hung so thick in the tunnels that breathing felt like swallowing sand. Around him, the other men worked in silence broken only by the ring of steel and the drip of water somewhere in the dark. His father worked two levels above. Arthur's father worked the east drift. None of them spoke during shift—they saved their breath for survival.

When the whistle finally blew, Wayne's back cracked as he straightened. He wiped his face with his forearm and left a smear of black across his tan skin. Arthur appeared at his elbow, lamp off now, his lean frame outlined in the dim glow of Wayne's light.

Arthur looked up and smiled at him and bumped his shoulder.

Wayne just looked back at his friend and nodded. It was all he needed to say.

Their day off came slow. The rest of the week was filled with more of the same—darkness, sweat, the endless rhythm of pick and shovel. Wayne's mother counted out ration stamps at the kitchen table, her lips moving as she calculated how to stretch the flour and the sugar. His father sat in the chair by the radio, too tired to do more than listen to the staticky broadcasts from Denver. Billy propped his bad leg on a stool and whittled, his face drawn and old before its time. Wayne watched all of them and felt the future pressing in around him like the walls of the mine.

He was seventeen years old. Everyone felt he should be thinking about girls, about marriage, about the things other boys used to discuss in hushed tones behind the schoolhouse. Instead he lay awake in the bed he shared with his younger brother and thought about the way Arthur's breath caught when Wayne's hands found the hollow of his hip. He thought about the salt taste of Arthur's throat and the sounds he made when Wayne touched him in the places no one else had ever touched. He thought about how Arthur's pale skin flushed pink in the hills, how his dark curls looked spread against the golden grass, how his body arched like something holy when Wayne took him in hand.

He would’ve slept in the next morning, would’ve taken advantage of the day off to rest, but this was his only day to be alone with Arthur and he couldn’t sleep a second longer. Wayne pulled on a worn shirt and overalls worn soft at the knees. They were the cleanest clothes he had. He told his mother he was going fishing as he pulled on his boots that were already splitting at the soles. She nodded without looking up from the washtub, her hands red and raw from the lye.

Arthur was waiting at the parish fence line where the town gave way to the foothills. He'd shed his mining shirt for a threadbare undershirt that showed the lean lines of his shoulders, the ridge of his collarbones, his smooth chest. His curls were longer than he usually kept them, falling over his forehead in a way that made Wayne swoon. His friend grinned when he saw Wayne coming, that reckless grin he never showed to anyone else—the one that cracked through his respectful facade and revealed the fire underneath.

Arthur made a sound of greeting and started walking. Wayne fell into step beside him, their shoulders nearly touching as they climbed.

The late summer heat had burned all the green from the hills. All that was left was golden grass and gray sage. The heat had scorched away the wildflowers and the tender sprouts of spring, leaving only the hardy scrub that could survive the drought. The sun beat down on the back of Wayne's neck, and sweat trickled down his spine, but he didn't mind. Up here the air was clean. There was no coal dust, no diesel fumes, just the smell of sage and hot rock and the cracked mud of the distant creek bed that had dried to a trickle weeks ago.

They walked in comfortable silence, picking their way between boulders and patches of prickly shrubs. Wayne watched Arthur move ahead of him, always captivated by the easy stride of his long legs, the way he pushed through the brush without hesitation, the pale strip of skin where his undershirt rode up at the small of his back. Wayne's hands itched with the want of touching him.

They found their spot in a hollow between two ridges, shielded from view by a stand of juniper and a tumble of granite. The ground was flat enough, covered in dry grass that crunched under their boots. Arthur stopped and turned, and Wayne saw his chest rise with a deep breath—the first easy breath either of them had taken all week.

"God, I'm tired," Arthur said. He pulled his undershirt over his head in one motion, revealing the pale torso beneath, the ridge of his ribs visible beneath the skin. Mine work was lean work—no softness left on either of them.

Wayne let the straps of his overalls fall from his shoulders and then reached for the buttons of his own shirt, but Arthur was there first, pushing his hands aside with an impatient sound. Arthur's fingers worked the buttons from the top, knuckles brushing Wayne's throat, his chest, his stomach. Each touch left a trail of heat that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Let me," Arthur said, and Wayne's hands fell to his sides.

Arthur peeled the shirt off Wayne's shoulders and let it drop. His palms slid across the tan skin of Wayne’s pecs. Unlike Arthur, he has started growing a patch of dark hair in the center of his chest over the past year. Arthur loved running his hands through it on his way to Wayne's nipples. Wayne's breath caught as his friend thumbed them. Arthur smiled, that private smile, and leaned in to press his mouth to Wayne's collarbone.

Wayne's hands found Arthur's hips, pulling him close. The contact made them both groan, even if it was just dusty denim against dusty denim. Wayne buried his face in the curls on top of Arthur's head and breathed him in. The faint mineral smell of the clay that had worked its way into both their pores but he could still make out the scent of Arthur underneath it.

They undressed each other slowly, piece by piece, dropping their clothes onto the dry grass to make a rough bed. Arthur's fingers traced the lines of Wayne's ribs as he pushed the overalls down past his thighs, and Wayne returned the favor, palming the sharp jut of Arthur's hipbones, the lean muscles of his thighs. They were dirty—of course they were dirty, they were always dirty now—but neither of them cared. Wayne pressed his thumb into the crease where Arthur's leg met his hip and felt the grit of coal dust against his fingertip, and all he could think was more.

They sank down onto the makeshift bed, clothes bunching beneath them. The dry grass pricked at Wayne's back, but he barely noticed because Arthur was climbing over him, knees bracketing Wayne's hips, pale skin glowing golden in the afternoon light. Wayne reached up and pushed the curls back from Arthur's forehead, and Arthur turned his face into Wayne's palm and kissed the calloused heel of his hand.

"I see you every day but we only get this one day together," Arthur said. His voice was low, rough. "If I had it my way, we’d have a whole life of this."

Wayne's throat tightened. He didn't have the words Arthur had—never had. What he had was his hands, his mouth, the whole of his body that he would gladly lay down in service of this boy. He pulled Arthur down and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry, tasting the salt of his sweat and the faint sweetness of the chewing tobacco he favored.

Arthur kissed back just as desperately, his tongue sliding against Wayne's, his hands braced on either side of Wayne's head. Their hips moved together in a slow grind, and Wayne felt Arthur's cock press hard and hot against his stomach. He reached down and wrapped his hand around both of them, his own length sliding alongside Arthur's, and the sound his friend made was like nothing that existed in the world below.

"Wayne—" Arthur gasped against his mouth. "God, Wayne—"

Wayne stroked them together, his grip tight enough to make them both shudder. The heads of their cocks slid against each other and Wayne's hips bucked up into his own fist. He couldn't tell where he ended and Arthur began—just heat and pressure and the slick slide of skin on skin.

But he wanted more. He wanted to take Arthur apart piece by piece, to memorize every inch of him, to worship at the altar of this body that had become his religion. He released them both and Arthur made a sound of protest that turned to a moan when Wayne rolled him onto his back and started kissing down his chest.

Wayne had gone to the county courthouse with his dad once a few years ago. It had been a whole day’s trip but worth it to see the biggest building he’d ever seen. It stood three stories tall and a whole block wide. The entire thing was built from stone, mostly gray granite taken from the quarry two towns over, but the front steps were a smooth, pale stone that rose up to thick white columns bracketing the entrance. He often thought of that beautiful stonework when he was face-to-face with the expanse of Arthur’s skin. It was just as smooth as the texture beneath his tongue. The steps had seemed to swallow the sound of his footsteps as they’d climbed to the front doors. Wayne felt like Arthur’s body would do the same. Like he could scream his deepest worries into the nook of his friend’s neck and he’d take them all away.

Wayne's mouth found Arthur's nipple—pale pink, tight—and he sucked it between his teeth. Arthur's back arched off the clothes, his hands flying to Wayne's hair, fingers tangling in the shaggy strands. Wayne worked the nipple with his tongue, then bit down gently, and Arthur's hips jerked.

"God, Wayne," Arthur groaned. "Have mercy!"

Wayne moved lower, kissing the ridge of each rib, the hollow of Arthur's stomach, the faint trail of dark hair that led him lower. Arthur's cock lay hard against his thigh, flushed pink, and Wayne nuzzled against it, breathing in the musk of him, the heat. He pressed his lips to the head and tasted salt.

Arthur's hands tightened in his hair. "Don't tease."

Wayne wasn't teasing. He was savoring. But he took mercy on them both and opened his mouth, taking Arthur in as deep as he could go. Arthur's cock was long and lean like the rest of him, and Wayne had learned over their months together how to relax his throat, how to breathe through his nose, how to take all of Arthur and hold him there until they were both trembling.

He set a slow rhythm, pulling back to tongue at the head, then sinking down until his nose pressed against Arthur's curls. Arthur's hips stuttered upward, fucking into Wayne's mouth in shallow thrusts that made Wayne's jaw ache in the best way. The sounds Arthur made—gasps and moans and bitten-off curses—were louder than the wind in the juniper, louder than Wayne's own racing heart.

"Wait—" Arthur pulled at Wayne's hair. "Wait, I don't want to—not yet—"

Wayne released him with a wet sound as his friend propped himself up on his elbows. He looked back at the wet and throbbing member in front of him. He dreamed of it sometimes—often—but his subconscious never really captured the true beauty of it. He gripped Arthur’s ass and pulled his body closer so he could nuzzle his face in closer to his lover’s core. He held his body close and let his raging heart settle a bit. He felt like something was slipping away from him and these stolen moments were all he could do to claw it back. 

His friend’s fingers traced the hard lines of muscle on Wayne's shoulder. They were one of the few good things that came from a life of menial labor. "My dad says they're opening a new drift next month," he said. "Deeper than the others. More dangerous."

Wayne's stomach clenched. "You don't have to volunteer for it."

"It’s not about volunteering." Arthur shifted to look at him. "They’ll send the youngest and freshest down first. That’s the score, we go down and we dig and we hope the mountain doesn't swallow us whole. It’s what our fathers did. And our grandfathers."

Wayne thought of Billy, of his mother's face, of the future that waited for them like a trap. Wives they didn't want. Children they couldn't afford. A lifetime of darkness and dust until the earth claimed them back. He couldn't fathom ever caring for a woman the way he cared for Arthur. The very thought of anyone else's hands on him, anyone else's breath against his skin, made him nauseous.

“We’ve been damned to that hell by God himself,” Arthur’s voice was shaking in his anger. He only let it out in quiet moments like this. “The only fucking mercy we’ll ever see is if a stray boulder puts us out of our misery early.

"There's got to be something else," Wayne said.

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Wayne could feel him deliberately untense parts of his body. Then he said, "I heard a man in town talking about the shipyards in California. He was making his way out there for a job. They're paying real wages—not company scrip. We could go. You ever wonder what the ocean looks like?"

Wayne crawled back up Arthur’s body and took in the emotion in his eyes. He almost saw something like hope in them, and it made him want to cry. He bent his head towards him. They kissed again, Arthur tasting himself on Wayne's tongue, and Wayne felt Arthur's hand wrap around both of them once more. This time Arthur set the pace with slow, deliberate strokes that made Wayne's vision blur at the edges.

Wayne couldn't stop touching him. His hands roamed over Arthur's chest, his sides, his thighs. He traced the ridge of Arthur's hipbone and the hollow of his throat. He palmed Arthur's ass and pulled him closer, grinding their cocks together in Arthur's grip. He pressed his forehead to Arthur's and stared into those dark eyes, so close he could see the flecks of gold in the brown.

"I'd follow you anywhere," Wayne said. The words came out rough, barely a whisper, but Arthur heard them. He would’ve heard them just from the look in his eyes even if Wayne had never opened his mouth.

Arthur's hand sped up. His breath came in short bursts against Wayne's lips. "Then let's go," he said. "Let's get out of this place. Go west, go east, go anywhere—"

Wayne's orgasm hit him like a cave-in—sudden, devastating, leaving him buried in the rubble of his own release. He spilled over Arthur's hand, over Arthur's cock, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Arthur followed a moment later, his back arching, his head thrown back, a sound torn from his throat that was almost a sob. His release mixed with Wayne's, slicking the space between them, marking them both.

They lay there in the aftermath, chests heaving, the hot air stirring the sagebrush around them. Wayne kept his arms around Arthur and held on. The sweat cooled on their skin, turning the dust to paste, and Wayne thought absurdly that they'd need to wash in the creek before going home.

Wayne pulled Arthur closer and pressed his lips to the crown of his head. Soon they would have to dress, to descend, to return to the world that had no place for what they were. But for now, in this hollow between the hills, they were free.

"I mean it. Wherever you go," Wayne said against Arthur's hair, "I'll follow."

Arthur's hand found his and laced their fingers together. Dust and dried spend and the salt of their mingled sweat caked their naked bodies. This was his religion. This boy, this place, this fleeting moment of grace before the darkness called them back.

Three months of my own fist had me desperate enough to say yes.

The first thing I noticed was the wetness. I didn’t like the feel of lube on my hand so it never felt that slick and enveloping. Clayton was full on swallowing my cock from root to tip in one smooth glide. My bro didn't hesitate or gag. He took me deep, his throat opening around my shaft, and my hips jerked off the couch cushion before I could stop them. He just hummed, his tongue pressing flat against the underside of my dick, and swallowed around the head.

"Fu-uck," I breathed in a surprised laugh. My fingers found his hair without thinking, one hand gripping the short strands on top while the other griped the shaved scalp on the side. His mouth kept working me over relentlessly.

He was methodical. Patient. Each stroke of his lips built pressure in my balls like stacking weights at the gym—slow, deliberate, heavy. When he pulled back to tongue my foreskin and my slit, swirling precum across his tastebuds, my thighs shook. When he sank down again, I stopped caring that it was a guy sucking me. I stopped caring about anything except getting deeper into that throat.

I finished harder than I had in years. Ropes of come spurting against the back of his mouth while I groaned through clenched teeth, my whole body rigid. He swallowed every drop, milking my shaft with lazy pulls until I pushed his head away, too sensitive to take more.

I’d figured it was a one-time thing. A favor between buddies. I needed it to be that way.

But the days rolled by, and I couldn't stop thinking about his mouth. The way he'd looked up at me, lips stretched around my cock, those dark eyes watching my face for every reaction. I texted him: You around?

He was.

At first it was once a week, and then it was more, and then it was near constant. I'd get hard in class, at the gym, in the damn grocery store, and my first thought wasn't some girl's tits or ass. It was Clayton on his knees, that wet heat swallowing me whole.

Then I met Jenna. Cute. Funny. Great body. The sex should've been good—she was enthusiastic, flexible, eager to please. But the first time she went down on me, my dick barely twitched. Her mouth was too gentle. Too inexperienced. I had to close my eyes and imagine Clayton's throat opening around me just to get hard enough to fuck her.

Now this is how it works. Every time. I sneak off before sex, usually under the guise of looking for a condom. Clayton sucks me until I'm throbbing, a heady mix of spit and precome leaking down his chin, my cock aching and desperate. Right at the edge—right before I blow—he pulls off. Wipes his mouth. Smirks.

She was seated at the other end of the bar, stirring a martini with a little red plastic spear, the olive spinning in lazy circles. Dark hair fell past her shoulders, and her black dress clung to curves that made his mouth go dry. She caught him looking and didn't look away. Instead, she smiled—slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that made promises.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, sliding onto the stool beside her.

"You’re a little too late," she said. "I’ve already got ond."

"Then I'll buy your next one."

She laughed, a throaty sound that carried over the noise. She extended her hand. "I'm Mira."

"Jonah." Her palm was warm and soft against his, her grip firm. She wore a thin gold band on her ring finger, and his stomach dropped a fraction. Married. Of course she was married. Women who looked like that always had someone waiting at home.

But she hadn't pulled her hand away, so he held on a beat longer than polite. "That's a nice ring."

She glanced down at it, something flickering across her face—amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Thanks. It's new."

"How new?"

“Five months." She picked up her martini and took a long sip, watching him over the rim. "Just married. Honeymoon phase and all that."

He exhaled through his nose, already recalibrating. Five months married and she was alone at a dive bar. Either things were already falling apart, or something else was going on. He signaled the bartender for another round anyway. Might as well enjoy the conversation, even if it wasn't going anywhere.

They talked. She was easy to talk to—sharp, funny, unafraid to say exactly what was on her mind. She worked in marketing, hated her boss, and loved gruesome true crime podcasts. He told her about his job as an architect, his new project downtown, and the hours that kept him too busy for anything serious. The whiskey warmed his blood, and her knee kept brushing against his, and he kept reminding himself that she was married. 

"You're disappointed," she said, reading his face with unsettling accuracy.

"What? No. Why would I be—"

"Because you think this isn't going anywhere." She leaned closer, and he caught her perfume—floral with an edge of musk underneath. "Because I'm married."

He shrugged, trying to play it off. "Just seems like a waste of both our time, doesn't it? You're not going to go home with me."

"What if I told you you were going to go home with me?"

He blinked. "I'd say you're drunk."

"I've had two drinks." She set her glass down with a soft thunk. 

He stared at her, waiting for the punchline, the hidden camera, the husband to appear from the shadows and demand to know what he was doing talking to his girl. But she just smiled that slow, deliberate smile again.

"You want to cuck your husband," he said. The words came out flat, testing them.

"Bingo." She traced the rim of her glass with one manicured fingernail. "He's been begging for it since before the wedding. I finally decided to give him what he wants."

Jonah's pulse kicked up a notch. He'd heard of this—seen the porn, read the Reddit threads—but he'd never actually met anyone who did it. The idea made his cock stir in his jeans, though he couldn't have articulated exactly why. There was something about the power of it, the way it flipped the usual script. Some guy sitting there, watching, powerless, while Jonah took what was supposed to be his. It was twisted. It was hot.

"What's your husband look like?" he asked.

Mira's smile widened. "Why? Does it matter?"

"Just curious. This would make a lot of sense if he’s some rich old guy."

"He's cute. You'll see." She slipped off her stool and landed on her heels with a graceful thump. "Coming?"

He threw back the rest of his whiskey and followed her out into the night.

The walk to her place was short—three blocks to a converted Victorian that had been chopped into apartments. She fumbled with the keys at the front door, giggling, the alcohol hitting her more than she'd let on. Her hand found his in the dark and she pulled him up the stairs, her heels clicking on the wooden steps, her ass swaying under that black dress with every stride. By the second landing, his cock was straining against his zipper.

"In here," she whispered, pushing open a door at the top of the stairs.

The apartment was small but nice. Everything looked fresh and new, including the catalogue furniture set that screamed newlywed. And there, on the couch, sat a man.

Jonah stopped in the doorway. He really had expected an older man. Maybe someone soft, or desperate, or pathetic. Not this. The guy was young—late-twenties, same as Mira—with a lean, athletic build visible even under his clothes. He had a sharp nose and jawline, dark eyes, defined cheek bones. A little shorter than Jonah, but otherwise the kind of guy you’d expect to see with a catch like Mira.

What the hell was he doing letting his wife treat him like this?

The husband looked up at them from the couch. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His hands gripped his knees. He seemed excited and nervous, his dark eyes darting between Jonah and Mira, lingering on Jonah's shoulders, his chest, the obvious bulge in his jeans.

Jonah opened his mouth to say something as the door swung shut behind him—hi, nice to meet you, this is weird—but before he could get a word out, Mira's fingers curled into his shirt and she pulled him down to her.

Her lips parted against his, hot and wet and hungry. She kissed like she was trying to swallow him whole, her tongue sliding into his mouth, her teeth catching his bottom lip. Jonah's brain short-circuited. All the questions he had about Ethan, about the situation, about what the hell he was doing here, evaporated. There was only Mira's mouth and her hands fisting in his hair and her body pressing against his.

She walked him backward into the living room, never breaking the kiss. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah saw Ethan shift on the couch, his breathing audibly quickening. Good. Let him watch. That was the point, after all.

Mira's hands found his belt, yanking it open with practiced efficiency. She pushed his jeans down his hips and wrapped her fingers around his hardening cock. She stroked him once, twice, her thumb smearing the precome over the head, and Jonah groaned into her mouth.

Mira directed him towards the couch and he sat down heavily onto the firm cushions. She straddled him, hiking her dress up around her waist. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her pussy was slick and hot as she rubbed against his shaft, coating him in her wetness. The other man was three feet away, sitting rigid on the opposite end of the couch, his eyes fixed on where his wife's cunt was grinding against another man's dick.

"Fuck me," Mira whispered in Jonah's ear. 

Jonah positioned himself at her entrance and thrust up. She was tight, impossibly wet, and she gasped as he filled her in one long stroke. Her nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt. He grabbed her hips and fucked up into her, hard, setting a brutal pace from the start.

"Oh god—yes—" She braced herself against the back of the couch, her tits bouncing in his face as she rode him. The fake leather creaked underneath them. Her moans filled the apartment, obscene and unashamed, and Jonah didn’t have to look to know every sound was landing like a slap across her husband's face.

He could feel the man's gaze on them, heavy as a touch. He thought this would be weird or would have killed his erection. Instead, it made him thrust harder, deeper, claiming this woman in a way her husband never could. He sucked a bruise into the side of her neck, and she keened, her pussy clenching around him.

"That's it—right there—don't stop—"

He didn't stop. He fucked her through her orgasm, feeling her shake and spasm on his cock, her wetness gushing over his balls. Then he flipped her onto her back on the couch, her head pillowed on the armrest, and drove into her again. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper.

"Come inside me," she panted, her voice ragged. "Fill me up. I want him to see."

Jonah's rhythm faltered. The dirty talk, the tight heat of her cunt, the weight of her husband's stare—he was close. It helped that he hadn’t even learned the man’s name. It was less awkward that way and he found himself performing for the man. Wanting to show off. A few more thrusts and he buried himself to the hilt, groaning as he came, his cock pulsing inside her, pumping her full of his release.

He collapsed on top of her, both of them breathing hard. The apartment was quiet except for their gasps and the distant thrum of bass from the bar below. Mira sat up slowly, smoothing her dress down as they disentangled, a satisfied smile on her flushed face. She turned to her husband, who hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. His knuckles were white on his knees, and the outline of his erection was visible through his shorts.

"Ethan," Mira said, her voice still breathy. "This is Jonah."

Ethan swallowed. "Hey," he managed, his voice cracking slightly.

"Hey," Jonah said. It was absurd, introducing himself now, after what had just happened. But the social script was all they had left.

Mira reached over and cupped her husband's cheek, a gesture that was almost tender. "You were so good," she told him. "You watched so well. I think you've earned a reward." She nodded toward his crotch. "Go ahead."

Ethan's hands moved to his waistband with almost embarrassing speed. He shoved his shorts down and wrapped his fist around his cock—it was a nice cock, Jonah noted with detached surprise, thick and flushed and leaking—and started stroking. Fast and desperate. Jonah gathered that Ethan had been holding back for hours.

This was probably the point in the night that Jonah should have gotten up, found the bathroom, cleaned himself off before excusing himself from this fucked up newlywed power play. Instead, he watched. He watched Ethan's fist flying over his shaft, his thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke, his hips jerking up into his grip. He watched the way Ethan's eyes kept darting to Mira's well-fucked pussy, still dripping with Jonah's come, and the way that sight seemed to push him closer to the edge.

It was hot. Jonah didn't want it to be hot, but it was. There was something mesmerizing about watching this attractive man get off on his own humiliation, on the evidence of his wife's infidelity dripping down her thighs. Ethan's breathing grew ragged, his abs tensing, his free hand gripping the couch cushion.

"Can I—" he choked out, looking at Mira.

"Go ahead," she said. "Come for me."

Ethan came with a strangled groan, his cock spurting thick ropes of white over his fist and onto his stomach. His whole body shuddered, his face twisted in ecstasy, and Jonah couldn't tear his eyes away.

Afterward, while Ethan cleaned himself up in the bathroom, Mira took Jonah's phone and typed in her number. "Text me," she said, pressing the device back into his palm. "I had fun."

As he kissed her goodbye and walked out the door he knew he wasn’t going to text her. He didn’t need to be pulled deeper into whatever this was. But then again, he couldn’t stop thinking about how Ethan just sat and watched, how he got himself off on the lack of power.

Jonah texted Mira the next morning, and she replied within minutes. The conversation flowed easily, naturally, but there was an undercurrent of heat to it that kept him half-hard at his desk all day. She sent him a photo of her cleavage while he was in a meeting. Afterwards, he excused himself to the bathroom and jerked off to it.

The week continued like that. She was relentless. She'd message him at random hours—descriptions of what she wanted him to do to her, what she wanted to do to him, what Ethan had said when she told him about their texts. She sent him a video of herself in the shower, water sluicing over her breasts, her hand disappearing between her thighs. He watched it on repeat until his phone battery died.

By Friday, he was climbing the walls. Every notification made his cock twitch. He'd gone through more lotion in five days than he usually used in a month. And then, finally, the message he'd been waiting for:

Mira: You should come over tonight. Bring that big cock of yours.

He was at her door by eight.

Mira answered in a silk robe, untied, nothing underneath. She pulled him inside and kissed him, her hands already working at his buttons. He reached for the robe and she batted his hands away.

"Not yet," she murmured against his mouth. "Patience."

She walked him into the living room, and this time, Ethan was already on the couch. Naked.

Jonah stopped short. The husband sat with his back against the armrest, his knees drawn up slightly, his cock half-hard against his thigh. His body was better than Jonah had realized under  his clothes—lean muscle and smooth skin that practically glowed in the soft light. He looked up at Jonah with those dark eyes, nervous and eager, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

Mira continued helping Jonah out of his clothes before pushing him toward the center of the room. The woman ran her hands over his chest, his abs, the V of his hips, but when he reached for her again, she stepped back.

"Not me tonight," she said.

Jonah frowned. "What?"

She circled behind him, her fingers trailing over his shoulders. "Ethan's been such a good boy this week. He's earned a reward." Her lips brushed his ear. "Fuck him."

The words hung in the air. Jonah's brain stuttered, trying to process. "I'm straight," he said, too quickly.

"I know." Mira's hands slid down his arms. "But you watched him jerk off last time. You liked it."

His face burned. "That's not—I didn't—"

"You watched," she repeated, her voice low and hypnotic. "You didn't look away. You wanted to see him come." Her fingers interlaced with his, guiding his hand down to his own half-hard cock. "And part of you is already thinking about it."

She was right. He hated that she was right. The idea was insane—he'd never touched a man, never wanted to—but something about the way Ethan was looking at him, the way his cock was filling out as he watched them, the way Mira's voice wrapped around him like silk...it was doing things to his head.

"Look at him," Mira whispered. "Look at how much he wants you."

Jonah looked. Ethan's cock was fully hard now, curving up toward his stomach, the tip glistening. His lips were parted, his breath shallow, his eyes fixed on Jonah's body with naked hunger. It was the same look Mira had given him at the bar that first night. 

"I'll be right here the whole time," Mira said, pressing herself against Jonah's back, her silk robe cool against his skin. "I'll tell you exactly what to do."

His cock was fully hard now, jutting out from his hips, and there was no hiding it. Mira reached around and stroked him, once, twice, her thumb swirling over the head the way she had that first night.

"Just this once," she murmured. "See if you like it. And afterwards I’ll give you a reward too." 

Ethan shifted on the couch, turning over, his chest pressed against the cushions. He arched his back, presenting himself, and Jonah's mouth went dry. His ass was round and firm, the cleft between his cheeks leading down to a tight, pink hole that seemed to pulse with invitation.

Jonah had never considered anal sex before—not with a man, not with anyone. But staring at Ethan's asshole, watching it clench and relax in anticipation, his cock throbbing in Mira's grip, he wanted it. He wanted to wreck that tight hole, to feel it grip him, to push inside and take what was being offered.

More than that, he really wanted to fuck Mira again and she had named her price. 

"Lube," he said, his voice hoarse.

Mira smiled against his shoulder and produced a bottle from somewhere. She squeezed some into his palm, and he slicked his cock, the cool gel making him hiss through his teeth.

"Start slow," Mira said, settling onto the adjacent chair, her robe falling open to reveal her glistening pussy. She was getting off on this, he realized. She was going to watch him fuck her husband and touch herself while he did it.

Jonah positioned himself behind Ethan, his hands gripping the other man's hips. His cock nudged against Ethan's entrance, and the husband let out a shuddering breath, pushing back slightly, seeking contact.

"Tell me if—" Jonah started. He realized he hadn’t actually ever talked to the guy. And now they were going to have sex.

"I can take it," Ethan said, his voice muffled by the cushion. "She stretched me out earlier.”

Jonah pushed forward. The head of his cock breached Ethan's hole, and the tight heat that engulfed him made his eyes roll back. It was different from a pussy—tighter, drier despite the lube, the muscle gripping him like a vice. He held himself still, letting Ethan adjust, feeling the ring of muscle flutter around his shaft.

"Keep going," Ethan groaned. "I can take it."

“That’s right, babe.” Mira chimed in from where she sat rubbing herself at the sight. “Tell him about that dildo you took on our wedding night.”

“It—” he gasped, “It was so thick. Felt like taking a fist up my ass.”

The talk seemed to relax Ethan and Jonah pushed deeper. Inch by inch, he sank into the man's ass, the tight heat giving way to a deeper warmth that made his balls tighten. He bottomed out, his hips flush against Ethan's cheeks, and they both let out long, shaky breaths.

"Fuck," Jonah whispered. "You're so tight."

Ethan clenched around him in response, and Jonah's hips jerked forward involuntarily. The friction was incredible. It was different from anything he'd felt before, raw and intense and dirty in a way that made his pulse pound in his ears.

He started to move. Slow at first, pulling out until only the tip remained, then sliding back in, feeling every inch of Ethan's channel gripping him. Mira's breath was coming faster from the chair, the wet sounds of her fingers working her pussy filling the room alongside the slap of Jonah's thighs against Ethan's ass.

"That's it," Mira panted. "Fuck him. Fuck my husband's ass."

The words hit Jonah like a drug. He thrust harder, faster, his tentative rhythm giving way to something more primal. Ethan was moaning into the cushion, his back arching, his ass pushing back to meet every stroke. The fake leather of the couch squeaked underneath them as Ethan reached back to grip Jonah’s thigh, urging him on.

Jonah's hunger grew with every thrust. The deeper he got, the more he wanted. With one hand he grabbed the back of Ethan's neck and pinned him down, the other hand held his hip in place. Jonah used the leverage to drive into him harder, deeper, his cock hitting spots that made Ethan cry out and clench around him. Sweat dripped down Jonah's temples, his abs flexing with every thrust, his balls slapping against the husband's taint.

"You like that?" he growled, surprising himself. "You like my cock in your ass?"

"Yes—" Ethan sobbed. "God, yes—fuck me—"

Jonah leaned forward, draping his body over his lover’s husband without breaking his rhythm.

“How’s it feel knowing you’ve got a better pussy than your wife?” He whispered into the other man’s ear before he bit at it. Ethan let out a broken, shaky sob of pleasure.

Jonah pounded into him, the couch groaning beneath their combined weight, Ethan's face pressed into the cushion, his hands scrabbling for purchase. 

Mira came with a sharp cry, her fingers buried in her pussy, her body arching off the chair. The sound pushed Jonah over the edge. He slammed into Ethan one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and came with a roar. His cock pulsed inside Ethan's ass, pumping him full of another man’s sperm, breeding him the way he'd bred Mira a week before.

He collapsed onto Ethan's back, both of them heaving for breath, his softening cock still inside. The apartment was quiet except for their ragged gasps. After a long moment, he pulled out, his come leaking from Ethan's stretched, reddened hole.

Mira appeared beside them, her robe hanging open, her face flushed and satisfied. She pressed a kiss to Jonah's shoulder, then leaned down to kiss her husband's sweat-damp hair.

"Good boy," she murmured to Ethan. Then, to Jonah: "Same time next week?"

Routine is a funny thing. Jonah used to have his own. He’d go to the bar on the weekend, find a girl, take her home, never see her again. No, Mira set his routine and it settled into Jonah's bones like curing concrete. Mira would text and he would drive across town to the apartment she shared with her husband, let himself in, and find Ethan waiting. Always Ethan. Never Mira, not anymore. She'd be there, sometimes, watching from a chair or the edge of the bed, her hand between her thighs, but she'd made it clear: her husband would be pleasuring Jonah's for now.

All too quickly, it had been nine weeks since he'd felt her cunt grip him. Nine weeks of nothing but Ethan's mouth, Ethan's ass, Ethan's hungry eyes looking up at him while Mira directed from the sidelines like some pornographic conductor. Jonah would finish inside Ethan's guts, pull out, and watch the man's hole drip with his load while Mira touched herself to the sight. Then she'd kiss Ethan's forehead and tell Jonah to leave.

He'd jack off in his own bed sometimes, thinking about her pussy, the way she'd felt that first night. He wanted her again but she kept hanging that in front of him like some prized carrot. But he could never finish to the thought of her. His dick would soften in his hand, unsatisfied, because it had gotten so accustomed to the tight clutch of Ethan's asshole. That realization sat in his chest like swallowed glass.

He still hadn’t ever spoken to Ethan outside of sex but their physical bond meant he could read him pretty well now. He knew exactly where to touch him to make him feel good and he could tell by his eyes when his discomfort either physical or mental from the strain of the situation was pleasurable and when it drifted towards painful. 

Their sex talk was intuitive nowadays too. A stream of filth left Jonah’s mouth the entire time he was mounted on the man’s ass. Ethan, for his part, was all encouragement, motivating his wife’s lover to go harder, deeper, more, more, more. Apparently, Jonah had a thing for being called ‘daddy,’ or at least he liked the word coming out of Ethan’s mouth. Mira obviously knew that her husband responded well to praise, to being reassured that he was doing well, that his partner felt good. 

It was a mind fuck, sure, but Jonah couldn’t say he wanted to walk away even if he told himself he would after every visit.

Mira asked him over again on a Thursday night. Not when they would typically meet up, but he was never going to say no.

Jonah showered, dressed, and drove across town. He'd stopped questioning why he kept going back. The answer was complicated in ways he didn't want to examine.

He let himself in with the key they'd given him. The front hall was dim, but sounds drifted from the living room—skin slapping skin, a woman's sharp gasps, the wet suction of fucking. That was odd. As far as he knew, Ethan hadn’t fucked anything since they’d been married, but good for him. Jonah found himself smiling at the thought of his fuck buddy getting a taste of his wife’s pussy again.

Jonah kicked off his shoes and walked toward the noise.

Mira was on her back on the coffee table, her legs wrapped around a man's waist. A big man. Broad-shouldered, muscles shifting under dark skin as he drove into her with a rhythm that made the table creak. His powerful ass clenched and released with each thrust, and between his thighs, Jonah caught flashes of his cock—thick, glistening, spreading her open in a way Jonah had never managed.

Ethan sat on the couch five feet away, just like that first night. His eyes never left his wife.

Jonah stood frozen in the doorway. The sounds of Mira's cunt squelching around that massive dick were obscene, her moans higher and more desperate than Jonah had ever heard from her. The man's balls swung heavy with each stroke, slapping against her ass, and she clawed at his back like she was drowning and he was the only solid thing.

"Fuck—fuck—right there, don't stop—" Mira's voice cracked.

The man grunted, shifted his angle, and pounded deeper. The coffee table groaned.

Jonah's throat clicked when he swallowed. He crossed to the couch and sat beside Ethan, their shoulders almost touching. Ethan glanced at him, then back at the spectacle. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say. He could see the excitement in the cuck’s eyes.

Up close, Jonah could see more. The man's cock was easily nine inches, thick as Jonah's wrist, disappearing into Mira's stretched pussy with brutal efficiency. Her cunt lips clung to the shaft on each outstroke, pink and swollen and slick. She seemed…so completely undone.

Ethan's hand flexed on his knee. Jonah watched the huge man's ass flex, watched the muscles in his back ripple, watched Mira's tits bounce with every impact. His own cock was impossibly hard.

Minutes passed. The man showed no sign of slowing. If anything, he fucked harder, lifting Mira's hips to change the angle, driving into her with a force that made her scream into the throw pillow she'd grabbed. Jonah had never seen anything like this controlled, powerful, relentless pounding. It was like watching a machine designed for a single purpose.

Finally, Mira tapped the man's shoulder. "Slow down, babe."

He eased his pace but didn't stop, grinding deep inside her in slow circles that made her whimper. She turned her head toward the couch, her eyes finding Jonah.

"You want to join?"

Jonah's mouth went dry. "Yes."

The word came out before he could think. Yes. He wanted her again, wanted to feel that pussy around his cock, wanted to reclaim something he'd lost.

He stood, already pulling his shirt over his head. His hands went to his belt.

Mira's voice cut through the room. "Great, you can take his dick next."

Jonah's fingers froze on his buckle. "What?"

The black man hadn't pulled out. He was still buried inside her, still slowly rotating his hips, making Mira gasp between words.

"You can go next." Mira's eyes were glassy, her lips swollen. 

"I'm not—" Jonah shook his head. "Mira, I'm not gay. You know that."

She laughed. Actually laughed, while another man's cock twitched inside her. "Baby, you haven't had pussy in months. You've only gotten off with another man. And you think you’re straight?"

"That's different. You told me to—"

"I told you to fuck him, and you did. Happily. Every time." She pushed at the man's chest, and he finally pulled out, his cock swinging free—hard, wet, impossibly large. "Jamari here is going to fuck you, and then I’ll give you a prize. That's the deal."

Jonah stared at Jamari's dick. It jutted from a thatch of short cut black curls, curving wickedly the last few inches of his impossible length. A strand of one of both of their fluids hung from the tip.

"I can't take that," Jonah said. "It's too big. I've never—"

"You've been on the giving end plenty." Mira sat up, her legs still spread, her cunt gaping and dripping. "Time to find out what Ethan loves so much."

Ethan hadn't moved from the couch, but his hand had moved to his crotch. He was watching Jonah now, something like sympathy in his expression. That in itself almost made him walk away. But there was something there in their connection, something deeper. Ethan wanted him to stay, he didn’t want to be alone in this, and he was excited by his wife’s manipulation.

"Jonah." Mira's voice softened. "Don't you want me?"

He did. God, he did. His whole body ached for her.

Jamari crossed to him, his heavy cock swaying with each step. He was taller than Jonah by several inches, broader, his body radiating heat. "First time?"

Jonah nodded.

"I'll go slow." The man's voice was deep, unhurried. "Listen to the girl and we’ll all have a good time. What do ya say?"

Jonah's hands trembled as he finished unbuckling his belt. He pushed his jeans down, then his boxers, his own cock half-hard despite his fear. Jamari's hand closed around it, stroking him to fullness with a grip that made Jonah's knees weak.

"Bend over the arm of the couch," Jamari said.

Jonah moved to the couch, positioning himself over the padded arm. His ass was in the air, exposed. He felt Ethan shift beside him, felt the heat of another body close by.

He felt the tickle of hot breath on his hole as two large hands spread him apart and then the shock of projectile liquid as Jamari spit on it. He followed it up with a lath of his thick tongue. And then another. And another. A moan was ripping from Jonah’s throat before he could stop it. His legs were trembling. He wanted it to last forever but it was over all too soon. 

Something cold and wet dripped between his cheeks. Lube. Jamari's thick fingers worked it into his crack, circling his hole, pressing against the tight ring of muscle.

"Relax," Jamari murmured. "Push out for me."

Jonah buried his face in the couch cushion. The first finger breached him, sliding in to the first knuckle. It burned, but it was manageable. Then a second finger joined the first, stretching him wider, and Jonah groaned into the fabric.

"Good." Thick fingers twisted, found something inside him that made Jonah's cock jump against the couch arm. "There it is."

He worked Jonah open with patient efficiency, adding more lube, more fingers, until Jonah was panting and his hole was sloppy with it. Then the fingers withdrew, and something much thicker pressed against his entrance.

Jamari's cock. The head was blunt, insistent, pushing against Jonah's resistant muscle.

"Push out," Jamari repeated.

Jonah bore down, and the head popped inside.

"Fuck—" Jonah's voice came out in a squeak. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that bordered on pain. But the man above him wasn’t slowing, he just continued to bore down on his prey.

"Halfway," Jamari said.

Halfway? Jonah thought there was no way he could take more, but Jamari pushed forward, feeding inch after inch into Jonah's virgin ass. It went deeper than Jonah could have imagined, pressing against places that had never been touched, and the pain began to shift into a heavy, throbbing pressure that made his cock leak against the arm of the couch.

When Jamari's hips finally met Jonah's ass, Jonah was shaking. He could feel the man's balls against his skin, could feel the cock pulsing inside him, could feel how completely he was filled.

The thick cock pulled back, and Jonah gasped at the drag of that hard shaft against his walls. Then Jamari pushed in again, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had Jonah moaning with every stroke.

"There you go, bitch," Jamari said from above him. "Take that dick."

Jonah was taking it. His body opened around the intrusion, his hole stretching to accommodate the girth, and each thrust sent a jolt through his prostate that made his cock twitch. He'd never felt anything like this—being fucked, being used, being filled. It was overwhelming and terrifying and somehow exactly what he needed.

His fucker picked up speed. Hips snapped forward, driving his cock deep, and Jonah's moans turned to grunts, then to cries. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, mixing with Mira's wet cunt and her breathless encouragement.

"Look at you," she said from somewhere behind them. "Taking that big black dick like a good boy."

Jonah couldn't respond. He could only grip the couch cushion and take it, his body rocking with each thrust, his own cock dripping precum onto the fabric.

Jamari fucked him for what felt like an eternity—long, deep strokes that rearranged Jonah's insides, then short, brutal pumps that made him see stars. Jonah's orgasm built like a wave, cresting higher with each impact, and when it finally broke, he came without touching himself, his cock spurting onto the couch while his ass clenched around the intruding shaft.

Jamari grunted, fucked him through it, then pulled out. Jonah's hole gaped, empty and aching. In the haze of his release he found himself disappointed that Jamari hadn’t bred him. He couldn’t imagine how much jizz a cock like that could produce. He managed to pull himself upright and fall into the couch cushions without his legs giving out completely.

But the new man wasn't done. He turned to Ethan, who was still sitting on the couch, his cock in his hand and his eyes wide.

“Let’s keep this party going. It’s your turn, baby.” There was a lilt to his voice that showed just how much he was enjoying this situation.

Ethan didn't resist. He stood, bent over the couch arm opposite Jonah, and Jamari pushed into him with one long stroke. Ethan's moan was practiced, familiar—this wasn't his first time taking a dick this size. The man fucked him with the same relentless rhythm, and Jonah watched from inches away, his own ass still throbbing, as Ethan's face twisted with pleasure.

It was strange, seeing it from this angle. Watching Ethan take cock, watching his hole stretch and gape, watching him moan like a whore. Jonah had been the one fucking him all these weeks, but he felt like he was seeing it for the first time now that he was seeing it from the outside as someone who understood, deeply, how it felt to be in his position. 

Jamari lifted one of Ethan’s legs up to switch up the angle and drive even deeper. Ethan cried out in ecstasy. He looked beautiful like this, submitting completely. Jonah couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching his face. Ethan looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

They didn’t need any words to communicate.

Jonah leaned in and met his lips in a tender kiss.

Jamari did grace Ethan with his load. Maybe it was the status of his position as the primary cuck. Who knows. He finished inside Ethan with a deep groan, his hips jerking as he pumped his come deep into the husband. Then he pulled out, his cock slick and shiny in the dim light of the apartment, and turned back to Mira.

"I hope you’re not done yet," she said, and took his hand.

The man just chuckled, “I can go all night.”

They disappeared down the hall, and the sound of the bedroom door closing was like a gunshot.

Jonah and Ethan were left alone on the couch. Ethan's ass was leaking come, his cock still hard, his face flushed. Jonah's hole ached, his thighs trembling, his own release cooling on the couch beneath him.

Ethan shifted, his hand finding Jonah's. Their fingers intertwined.

"You okay?" Ethan asked.

Jonah didn't know the answer to that. His ass burned. His cock was spent. He could hear Jamari and Mira through the wall—the bed creaking, her muffled moans, the rhythmic thud of the headboard.

He just nodded. He wasn’t used to actually talking with Ethan.

"She's not coming back out tonight," Ethan said.

"I know."

Ethan turned toward him, and Jonah turned too, and then they were kissing again—soft, searching, desperate. His hand found Jonah's cock, stroking it back to hardness, and Jonah reached for Ethan's.

They jerked each other off on the couch, looking into the other’s eyes, listening to Mira get fucked by another man. When they came, it was quiet, almost tender, their foreheads pressed together and their hot breath mingling.

His lungs burned. Each exhale came ragged, catching somewhere between his throat and his chest, and he couldn't seem to pull enough air past the pressure building inside him. The stretch was too much, too new, his body resisting the intrusion even as his hips canted backward for more.

Fingers dug into his hipbones with enough force to bloom bruises. Adam's hands—those familiar hands from all the casual touches over the years—gripped him in ownership, yanking him back onto each thrust. The ache of those points of contact anchored Garrett somewhere outside the overwhelming fullness, and he clung to that small pain like a lifeline.

Then there was the tickle. Coarse hair against hair, Adam's thighs sliding against his own with every drive forward, and that particular whisper of sensation made him shudder in ways the deeper penetration didn't. It was too intimate, too human—the scratch of leg hair catching and releasing as their bodies worked together.

Adam fucked like he did everything else: focused, determined, with a tight physique that moved with efficient power. His best friend. His roommate for the past two years, who'd seen him at his worst and never flinched. Now that compact body was behind him, inside him, claiming him in a position that left Garrett utterly exposed.

He was on his hands and knees getting fucked by his best friend, losing his virginity to the steady rhythm of Adam's hips snapping against his ass.

And he loved it. Every burning inch, every bruising grip, every gasp that escaped his own lips.

A new sensation cut through the chaos—cold metal against his spine. Adam's necklace, the one he never took off, swung forward as Adam leaned down and covered Garrett's body completely. The necklace trailed along his sweaty back, a shocking line of coolness that made his muscles clench involuntarily around the cock buried inside him.

Adam groaned at the squeeze, his chest pressing flat against Garrett's shoulders, his breath hot and unsteady against the nape of Garrett's neck. The shift in angle drove him deeper, impossibly deeper, and Garrett's elbows buckled.

The chain kept sliding, cold and deliberate, as Adam's hips rolled forward with renewed purpose.

It’s too much. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He’d wanted his best friend for so long, in some unnameable way. That first kiss between them had been life changing. He knew it was all leading to this, but he wasn’t prepared for what it would feel like, what it would mean. He felt like Adam was becoming part of him, changing him from the inside out to fit him perfectly.

"Dude, just have Ty mix drinks," said Emir, leaning against the support pillar with his arms crossed. He was already dressed for the party in a fitted button-down, the fabric straining across his chest in a way that was clearly intentional. "How hard can it be?"

"Ty gave three people alcohol poisoning last semester with his 'signature cocktail,'" Drew replied without looking up. "I don’t need another meeting with the dean."

The door at the top of the basement stairs banged open, and heavy footsteps descended. When the man emerged into the dim fluorescent lighting, Drew's first thought was that someone had sent a bouncer instead of a bartender. Perry—assuming this was Perry—had to turn slightly to fit his shoulders through the doorframe. He stood maybe six-four, six-five, but it was the width of him that commanded attention. His black polo shirt stretched across a barrel chest, and his arms, exposed below the tight sleeves, were roped with muscle and dusted with dark hair.

"Perry?" Drew stepped forward. "I'm Drew. We spoke on the phone."

"That's me." Perry's voice was a low rumble, like a truck engine idling. He set down a large duffel bag behind the bar and immediately started surveying the setup. "Not bad, you really undersold the place. I've worked worse."

"Really?" Emir drifted over, curiosity getting the better of him. "Worse than a frat basement?"

Perry unpacked his kit—shakers, jiggers, a rolled-up bar mat, bottles of bitters and syrups that Drew definitely hadn't requested but was grateful for. His movements were practiced, efficient. "You'd be surprised what people consider an acceptable party venue. I bartended in a converted slaughterhouse last month. Still had the meat hooks."

"The fuck?" Emir laughed.

"The host thought it was atmospheric." Perry shrugged, a gesture that made his traps ripple visibly beneath the shirt. "I've worked rooftops with no railings, basements that flooded halfway through the night, a yacht that was definitely not registered to the person throwing the party. You learn to roll with it."

Drew watched Perry work, noting how the man's thick fingers handled the bottles with surprising delicacy. The basement bar was fully functional—a mini freezer for ice, a haphazard collection of bottles of liquor donated by alumni, some mixers that had been sitting in the back of the frat kitchen fridge for god knows how long. But Perry arranged everything with the precision of a surgeon setting up an operating room.

The bar was a legal gray area but it definitely wouldn’t fly with the school administration so they didn’t advertise it at the bigger parties. For smaller functions, like tonight, they sometimes hired a bartender. Drew had learned from experience that it was better for everyone if there was a professional mixing the drinks. Plus, it helped the frat live up to their more mature and responsible image that helped them attract some genuine talent every year.

"So what's the weirdest gig you've done?" Emir asked, settling onto a barstool like he was actually at a bar. Drew knew it had to be an act because his fake ID hadn’t even lasted one night before the bouncer confiscated it and kicked him out. Emir had a jock body but his baby face made his age too obvious.

Perry considered this while slicing lemons with a knife that appeared from somewhere in his bag. "Define weird."

"I don't know, man. Nude parties? Orgies? Shit like that."

Drew snorted, but Perry didn't miss a beat. "Neither of those are that weird in this business, actually. Nude parties are more common than you'd think. There's a whole circuit of them—private events, mostly. Ranging from high-end stuff to just neighborhood get-togethers. People who want to let loose without worrying about photos ending up online."

"Wait, you bartend naked parties?" Drew leaned against the bar, his interest piqued despite himself.

"Sure. The hosts usually want the staff to match the dress code. Or undress code, I guess." Perry's mouth quirked. "It's not a big deal. Bodies are bodies. After the first couple of times, you stop noticing."

"I don't know if I could do that," Emir said. "Just hanging out, everything out, mixing drinks?"

"It helps that I'm not exactly shy." Perry finished with the lemons and moved on to limes. "And honestly? The tips are incredible. People get generous when they're comfortable. And having a bartender who's not judging them, who's in the same state of undress...it sets a tone."

The basement door banged open again, and two more frat brothers stumbled down the stairs—Morgan and Ky, already a few drinks in despite the party not having started. They made their way to the bar, and Drew made introductions. Perry shook hands with both of them, his grip engulfing theirs completely.

"So you're the bartender?" Morgan looked Perry up and down, not bothering to be subtle about it. "You're built as hell, dude."

"Comes with the job. Carrying cases of liquor up stairs is better than any gym membership." Perry started arranging glassware. "Also, I used to do construction before I switched to bartending full-time."

"Construction explains it," Ky said. He was the shortest of the frat guys present, but he compensated with an aggressive gym routine that had him looking like a fitness influencer—all cut lines and visible abs. "You competing or anything?"

"Nah. Not my thing. I like being strong, I don't need to show it off on stage." Perry patted his midsection, which pressed firmly against the counter. "The belly's part of the package."

Drew found his gaze lingering on that belly—round but not soft-looking, the kind of gut that belied the power underneath rather than indulgence. It was so different from the sculpted physiques he saw at the campus gym, the ones that seemed almost decorative like Morgan’s. Perry's body was functional, built for work and endurance.

More guys filtered down as the party approached. The basement filled with the thump of music from speakers Ty had set up, the clink of bottles, the rising volume of conversation. Perry fell into a rhythm, cranking out drinks with mechanical efficiency while maintaining a running commentary that kept the guys around the bar entertained.

"Okay, but the nude thing," Emir circled back to the topic after his third drink. "You're just... mixing mojitos with your dick out?"

"Usually it's old fashioneds at the nude parties. Different demographic." Perry's expression was perfectly serious, but his eyes glinted. "And yes. It's just a body. Everyone has one."

"But what if you—" Emir made a vague gesture.

"Get excited?" Perry finished for him. "Hasn't happened yet. Professional focus. You're thinking about the next drink, not what's happening in front of you."

"That's impressive self-control," Morgan said, and something in his tone made Drew glance at him sharply. 

Perry just shrugged again. "Practice. You learn to ignore the folk fucking in front of your face."

Emir cackled at that and then knocked back the rest of his drink.

The party hit its stride around eleven. The basement was packed now, bodies pressed together in the space between the bar and the makeshift dance floor. Drew had given up trying to monitor the door and was nursing a beer near the bar, watching Perry work. The bartender had a crowd around him most of the night—not just because of the drinks, though those were good. It was the stories. The man had a seemingly endless supply of them, delivered in that low rumble with perfect comic timing.

But it was more than the stories. Drew had noticed how the guys were looking at Perry. The lingering glances at his arms when he shook a cocktail, the way they tracked the movement of his shoulders when he reached for a bottle. Perry's body was a magnet in a room full of men who spent hours sculpting their own, and the contrast seemed to fascinate them.

Drew included. He'd caught himself staring more than once—at the way Perry's pecs strained against his shirt when he leaned forward, at the thick column of his neck, at his thighs, which were barely contained by his dark jeans. The man was built like a classic strongman, all bulk and power, nothing refined about it. It was...compelling.

"Having a good time?" Perry asked, catching Drew's eye as he slid a drink to a sophomore whose name Drew couldn't remember.

"The best," Drew said. "You're a hit."

"I try." Perry wiped down the bar with a cloth. "These guys are friendly."

"That's one word for it." Drew took a sip of his beer. "I've noticed a lot of them are...interested in you."

Perry's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture—a slight loosening, an opening. "I've noticed too. Doesn't bother me. Like I said, I'm not shy."

"No, I can tell." Drew set his beer down. "So about those nude parties."

"What about them?"

"Would you—" Drew hesitated, then pushed forward. "Would you bartend like that here? Tonight?"

Perry stopped wiping. He looked at Drew directly, his dark eyes assessing. "You want me to strip down and finish the party naked."

"Yes." It came out quiet.

"In front of all your frat brothers."

"Yes." This time Drew said it with more confidence.

Perry was quiet for a moment. The music pulsed around them, bass vibrating through the floor. Then he smiled—a slow, lopsided smile that made him seem even more charming. "Sure. Why not."

He came around from behind the bar. A few of the guys nearby noticed and turned to watch. Perry pulled his polo over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a chest that made several people stop mid-conversation. His pecs were slabs of muscle, covered in trimmed dark hair that trailed down the center of his belly and disappeared into his waistband. His shoulders were boulders, his arms tree trunks. He wasn't cut—there was a softness to the edges, a layer over the muscle that made him look approachable rather than intimidating. But there was no mistaking the power underneath.

The belt came next, then the jeans. Perry stepped out of them and stood in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs that were struggling to contain him. Someone in the crowd was whistling. He paused, thumbs hooked in the waistband, and looked at Drew.

"All the way?" His eyes boring into the younger man’s.

Drew swallowed. "All the way."

Perry pushed the briefs down. His cock swung free—thick even when soft, hanging heavy between those massive thighs. A murmur went through the crowd, part shock, part appreciation. More whistles. Perry didn't flinch. He just gathered his clothes, tucked them behind the bar, and got back to work.

The dynamic shifted immediately. Guys who had been hovering at the edges of the bar crowded closer. Drinks were ordered more frequently, tips appeared in the jar with greater generosity, and the conversation took on a charged quality. Perry handled it all with the same unflappable professionalism, but now there was an undercurrent of exhibitionism to it—a subtle awareness of his own nakedness and the effect it was having.

Emir was the first to be obvious about it. He planted himself at the bar and didn't move for an hour, his eyes tracking Perry's every movement. Morgan and Ky took turns finding excuses to lean over the bar, getting closer than necessary. Even guys Drew had assumed were strictly into women kept finding reasons to walk past, stealing glances at Perry's body.

And what a body it was. In motion, it was even more impressive than at rest. When Perry reached for a bottle, the muscles in his back shifted like tectonic plates. When he muddled mint, his forearms corded and released. When he laughed at someone's joke, his belly jiggled slightly, and Drew watched three different guys zero in on the movement like predators tracking prey.

"You're staring," Ky said, appearing at Drew's elbow.

"So are you."

"Never said I wasn't." Ky's gaze drifted back to Perry. "We’re hiring him for the next party too, right?"

"He seems pretty popular."

"That’s one word for it." Kyle took a long drink. 

As the night wound down, the crowd thinned. The music lowered. Perry was still naked, still behind the bar, still serving the remaining diehards with the same steady competence. Emir hadn't moved, and he was looking trashed. Morgan had returned after a disappearance and was now sitting quietly, watching. Ky was making no pretense of doing anything other than admiring the view.

Drew checked his phone. Well past two in the morning. "Last call, gentlemen."

There were groans, but nobody argued. Perry started breaking down the bar, still nude, reaching for his clothes only when the last glass was washed and put away. He pulled on his boxer briefs, then paused, as if sensing the anticipation in the room.

"Good party," he said, pulling his polo over his head. The fabric stretched obscenely across his chest before settling. "You guys know how to have a time."

"You could stay," Drew said. The words came out before he could think about them.

Perry looked at him. Then at Emir, still perched on his barstool. At Morgan, who had gone very still. At Ky, who was practically vibrating with want.

"You guys keeping this party going?" Perry asked, though the way he asked made it clear he already knew what the score was here.

"My room's upstairs," Drew said. 

Perry finished dressing slowly, taking his time with each button, each buckle. The room was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator behind the bar. When he was fully clothed again, he shouldered his bag and looked at Drew.

"Lead the way."

They climbed the stairs in single file—Drew first, then Perry, then the rest trailing closely behind. The rest of the house was quiet, the other brothers either passed out or still out at other parties. Drew's room was at the end of the hall, a corner unit with its own bathroom. Presidential perks. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let the others in.

The room was neat by frat standards—a queen bed with clean sheets, a desk, a small couch. Perry set his bag down by the door and looked around, taking it in. Then he turned to face the four men who had followed him up.

"So," he said. "Who's first?"

Emir moved without hesitation. He crossed the room, stood on his tip toes, and pressed his mouth to Perry's, his hands going straight to Perry's chest. Perry responded immediately, his massive arms wrapping around Emir's smaller frame and pulling him close. The kiss was deep, hungry—Emir's fingers rubbing in the hair on Perry's chest while Perry's hands gripped Emir's ass through his jeans, lifting him up. Emir wrapped his legs tightly around the man’s waist.

Drew watched, his cock already hardening. Morgan and Ky flanked him, their breathing heavy. The sight of Perry's bulk overwhelming Emir's gym-toned body was intoxicating—the contrast between them stark and irresistible.

Perry broke the kiss and looked over Emir's shoulder at the others. "There's room for everyone," he said. "I don't tire easy."

That was all the invitation they needed. Morgan moved to Perry's side, his hands finding Perry's biceps and squeezing, groaning at the size of them. Ky dropped to his knees and started working under Emir’s ass to get at Perry's belt, his fingers trembling with urgency. Drew circled behind, pressing himself against Perry's back and reaching around to splay his hands across that broad belly.

They undressed him together, peeling away the clothes that he never should’ve put back on. When Perry was naked again, they stepped back to look at him—all of him, in the softer light of the bedroom, every inch of that massive body on display. His cock was hard now, jutting up from its nest of dark hair making it look thicker than any of them had imagined.

"Fuck," Ky breathed. He was still on his knees, eye-level with it.

"Go ahead," Perry said, his voice dropping even lower. "I know you want to."

Ky leaned forward and took Perry's cock in his mouth, stretching his lips wide around the girth. Perry groaned, his head tipping back, his hands coming to rest on Ky's shoulders. Emir and Morgan slipped out of their clothes and then descended on his chest, their tongues finding his nipples in the thicket of hair, their hands roaming across the expanse of his belly and sides. Drew pressed his palm flat against Perry's lower stomach, feeling the muscle underneath the softness, the heat of his skin, the way his breath made his core expand and contract.

Perry was a mountain of a man, and they were climbing him.

"Bed," Perry said, his voice rough. "Before my knees give out."

They moved as a unit, a tangle of limbs and urgent hands. Perry lay back on Drew's bed, his bulk taking up most of the mattress, and the four men arranged themselves around him—Ky between his legs, Emir and Morgan on either side of him, Drew straddling his thigh watching as Ky descended on his massive cock again. The bed creaked under the combined weight.

"Never done this with a frat before," Perry said, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice even as Ky worked his cock deeper into his throat. "You guys are full of surprises."

"Come back anytime, man,” Emir said as he bent to lick a stripe up Perry's belly.

I pulled the phone from my pocket as it buzzed and tapped the screen. The preview showed a thumbnail image, mostly pale, and I thumbed it open without hesitation.

There it was. My dad's naked body, filling my screen in high definition.

He'd taken it in the bathroom mirror, his ass reflected in the mirror of the cabinet that never closed quite right. The lighting was harsh and bright. He always had to have every light in every room turned on when he was home. It used to drive me crazy. He had the same stern face I remembered from growing up, just with more grey in his beard. Except now I knew what that face looked like in the throes of pleasure. That’s not really something you can ever forget.

The photo was already downloading the details my brain catalogued without permission: the faint tan line from his swim trunks, the way his lower back dipped, the shadow between his legs. He was hard, obviously, his cock jutting forward beneath him, but the angle kept it peripheral. The focus was the ass—round, firm for a man in his late forties, and he used that to his advantage.

Like I said, I wasn't shocked. I'd been expecting this.

My father was one of the horniest men I'd ever known. Growing up with him had been an education in male desperation. After Mom left, he'd gone through a dry spell that lasted maybe two weeks before he started bringing women home. Then men. Then both at the same time. The parade of bodies through our house became so routine I stopped keeping track. But nothing had changed him like John.

I leaned back in my desk chair, thumb scrolling up through the message history. A dick pic from yesterday, veins prominent against his shaft. A torso shot from two days before that, his nipples hard and his stomach flexed. A video from last week—twenty-three seconds of him working a dildo in and out of himself, his moans tinny through my phone speaker even with the volume low.

All of it sent with the same casual energy another dad might use to share a meme or a sports score. Like this was normal. Like sending your son your nudes was just how you communicated.

And maybe, by now, it was.

I set the phone down and stared at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. Twenty-three years old, still carrying the lean build from my baseball days even though I'd stopped playing so much after the community college rec league. Brown hair that needed a cut. My dad's nose. I thought about how this started.

I'd been in high school, just home from an away baseball trip. The bus had dropped us at school late on a Sunday afternoon, and I'd caught a ride with one of the guys rather than ask my dad to pick me up. The house was unlocked, which wasn't unusual—Dad was careless about things like that. I'd walked in expecting to find him watching TV or grading papers or doing whatever it was he did on weekends when I wasn't around.

Instead, I found John.

He was in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of tight boxer briefs. I still remember the blue stripe pattern on them. Tall, built like a brick wall, with a military fade and tattoos crawling up both arms. He was making a sandwich—peanut butter and jelly, I remember that detail for some reason—like he belonged there. Like he'd been living in my house for weeks and I just hadn't noticed.

"Hey," he'd said, not even startled. "You must be the kid."

I wasn't a kid. I was sixteen, only a few years younger than he was I’d guessed. But he looked…harder. The kind of maturity that came from boot camp and deployments and things I couldn't imagine. He carried himself like the house was his, and I'd later learn that in many ways, it already was.

"Marco's in the shower," he'd added, taking a bite of his sandwich. Peanut butter on his lip. He didn't wipe it away. "Should be out in a bit."

I'd stood there in the doorway, bag over my shoulder, trying to process what I was seeing. My dad had never brought a man home who looked like this. The others had been forgettable—older guys from his gym, twinks from dating apps, the occasional curious straight guy who didn't count it as gay if he was on top. John was different. John was young, closer to my age, and already integrating himself into the place.

Like he owned my dad.

I'd heard them that night. Through the walls, through the floor, through whatever thin barrier separated my bedroom from Dad's. John's voice, low and commanding. Dad's responses—higher, needier, the sounds of a man getting exactly what he needed. The headboard had knocked against the wall in a rhythm I couldn't ignore, and I'd lain in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to my dad get fucked within an inch of his life by a marine who was barely older than me.

That had been seven years ago.

I picked up my phone again. My dad's ass still glowed on the screen, waiting for a response I hadn't typed yet. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Seven years, and their relationship was still going strong. That was the part nobody expected. Dad went through lovers like tissues, but John had stuck. John had stayed. Even when his orders took him overseas, even when the distance stretched into months, he came back to my father every time.

Last fall, he'd proposed. I'd been there for that too—a quiet dinner at their favorite Italian place, John in his dress blues the day he came home from deployment, Dad crying into his chicken piccata. The ring was simple, two gold bands twisted together, and Dad wore it on a chain around his neck now because his fingers were too restless when John was gone and he was afraid of losing it.

The wedding was planned for next summer. Once John was back stateside for good. Once this deployment was over he said he would separate from the military to settle down.

But that was months away, and Dad was suffering now.

I scrolled back down to the photo. His ass really was spectacular—I could admit that without shame. Round and meaty. I often had to remind myself to keep my hands to myself around him. It was an ass built for fucking. John had spent seven years training that hole, opening it up, making it crave cock.

And now John was gone. Six thousand miles away in some desert shithole, doing whatever marines did when they weren't dicking down their slutty fiancés. Leaving my dad alone in that big house with nothing but his hand and his toys and whatever stray dick he could convince to keep him company.

I knew about the other men. Dad wasn't discreet—never had been. Some of John's friends, guys from his unit who were stateside and understood the arrangement. A few strangers from the apps, men whose faces—or rather torsos—I'd glimpsed on his phone when he forgot to close his tabs. Once, I'd stopped by unannounced and found a guy I didn't recognize leaving through the front door, his shirt inside-out and his face flushed.

My father had just shrugged when I raised an eyebrow. "John’s idea," he'd said simply. 

I didn't ask for details. I didn't want to know what John did with that information, whether it got him off or just let him know his man was doing ok. The rules of their relationship weren't my business.

But the photos in my messages made them my business. The fact that Dad had sent them to me—his son, a man even younger than his fiance—crossed a line that should have stayed uncrossed.

Except it hadn't. And I was staring at his ass like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Technically, it had been John who had changed things. Once it became clear that John wasn’t just a one night stand, I put in some effort to get to know him. It was easy, John was a personable guy and had a way of making it seem like he belonged just about anywhere. 

One night when my dad was working late, he had a couple buddies over to watch a game. I’d joined them but wasn’t really following the team. They were all attractive, muscular, all-american guys. John cornered me in the kitchen later that night and simply asked me which one I liked best. I’d been taken aback and scrambled to come up with a lie. In truth, John was the hottest of them all and knowing he had my dad wrapped around his finger intrigued me. I wanted to know how his innate confidence translated to the bedroom. But I couldn’t say any of that. Instead I indicated the one who had been sitting next to me. He was a little shorter than the other but with more muscle mass. His dark skin stretched tight over corded muscles.

“Campell!” John called to his friend who perked up at the sound. “You’re up, bud” He smacked my back and returned to the living room while his buddy stood up with a smile and bounded over to me. 

“Wanna show me to your room?”

John walked into my room without knocking about twenty minutes later and found us naked in my twin bed, my face buried in his friend's ass. I didn’t even notice at first as I tongued that sweet Marine hole. I wasn’t a virgin but my experience was limited to other lanky teenagers. I’d never been with such a meaty man before and I couldn’t get enough. 

I pulled out when I heard John’s low whistle.

“Damn, kid. Look at you go.” He tossed me a bottle of lube. “He looks wet and ready to take you.”

I fumbled with the cap and greased up my teen prick before mounting the stud beneath me. I felt the mattress sag with extra weight but didn’t fully process it as I was lost to the ecstasy of the moment. Then a wet pressure was at my parted lips. I opened them to find John naked and trying to feed me his cock. I opened and let him slip in. I wasn’t very good at multitasking at that point so I’m sure the blowjob was less than stellar, especially after hearing him brag about how good my dad was at it, but John didn’t complain. After I busted inside Campell’s ass, he took my spot and got his own nut. 

That night, I heard him fuck my dad wild for hours. The next morning he emerged from my dad’s—their—bedroom naked. That became the new norm for all of us. Less and less clothes when it wasn’t necessary. I got used to seeing John’s lube slick dick or my dad’s wrecked hole when they emerged from their room. And then the door was being left open, or they were fucking in the common spaces. 

It was after John’s first deployment that all the lines became blurred. It had only been a few months but my dad was ravenous and John was right there with him. They went at each other for a week straight afterwards. One day, I came home from school to find John sitting on the couch naked. Between his legs was my father, on his knees, giving what looked to be a top tier blowjob. 

John winked at me and asked how my day was. I don’t think I responded with anything more than one word. He beckoned for me to come join him. Once I was seated next to him, watching my own dad’s lips move up and down his thick shaft, he laid his bare, muscular arm around my shoulders, holding me close to his side. John guided my dad’s head over to my lap. I made eye contact with the man who raised me as his tentative hands slid down my waistband and fished out my dick. 

I was embarrassed how quickly I blew in my father’s mouth but John just laughed and refocused my dad on his own member until he was blasting down his throat chasing my sperm down to his stomach.

My cock was hard looking through all the pictures in our messages. I noticed it belatedly, the pressure against my zipper, the way my jeans had gotten tight in the last few minutes as I reminisced. I adjusted myself without thinking, my palm pressing against the length of me, and a jolt of heat shot through my gut.

This wasn't new either. The attraction. I'd been living with it for years, pushing it down, ignoring the way Dad moved through the house in his thin shorts, the way he bent over to pick things up, the sounds that came from his bedroom whether John was home or not. I'd jerked off to those sounds more times than I could count, my hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing, my cock slick with precome as I listened to my father beg for more.

It had probably started before that day on the couch with my dad and his boyfriend, but that experience cemented it. I was totally into my father.

And I liked to think he was into me too. Invitations like these sure made me feel like he was.

I pulled up my other texts. My buddy Devin had been asking about tonight—bar hopping, maybe some pool, the usual Friday routine. I'd been looking forward to it all week. A chance to get out of my head, drink some beers, maybe find someone to take home and forget about everything for a few hours.

My thumb moved across the keyboard.

"Hey man, gotta cancel tonight. Family thing came up, sorry."

Devin's response was immediate. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah, fine. Just gotta help out my dad."

"Cool. Rain check?"

"Definitely."

I didn’t waste any more time. I grabbed my keys and wallet, shoved them in my pockets, and headed for the door. The drive to Dad's house took twenty minutes, and I spent every single one of them thinking about his ass. The way it had looked in the photo. The way it looked in person. The way it felt under my hands, my mouth, my cock.

The way it had sounded when John was inside him, all those nights I'd lain awake listening. The way it gripped me the first time I fucked him as John slid into my own ass, sandwiching me between the two most important—and hottest—men in my life.

I parked in the driveway and sat for a moment, engine off, hands still on the wheel. The house was lit up, warm light spilling from the living room windows, a flicker that meant the TV was on. Dad's car was in the garage, the door closed. No other vehicles. No strangers tonight.

Just us.

I walked up the front path and let myself in with the key I'd never given back. The house smelled the same—Dad's cologne, a hint of the candle he burned in the bathroom, something cooking that I didn't think he'd actually eat. He was on the couch when I walked in, legs tucked under him, wearing a pair of shorts that were too small and nothing else. Habits he’d picked up from John’s pervy fantasies.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was casual but his eyes weren't. They dropped to my crotch, where my cock was still half-hard, then back up to my face. "I’m glad you got my message."

"I got it." I stood in the doorway, not moving closer yet. "John messages me every week to make sure I’m taking good car of your ass." I crossed the room and sat, leaving a careful foot of space between us. The couch cushions dipped under my weight, and Dad's body heat reached me even from that distance. He smelled like soap and musk and home.

"You know how hard John's deployment is on me, on both of us," Dad said, his eyes on the TV but his attention clearly on me. "He needs to know I'm taken care of while he’s away. I need to be taken care of. It's that simple."

"You want me to take care of you tonight." It was a statement.

"I want you to want to fuck me." He turned to face me, his knee brushing my thigh. "Do you? Want to?"

I looked at him—really looked at him. The gray of his hair, the lines around his eyes, the meaty pecs. My dad. The man who'd raised me. 

"Of course," I said. "I want to."

Dad's hand found my thigh, warm and heavy. He smiled at me, something loving. "Good. Because I've been thinking about your cock all day. I almost had you come meet me at my office over lunch today."

I smiled back at him. I would’ve gone if he asked.

I cut the engine and sat for a moment, watching the figure climbing up into the seat of the John Deere tractor parked near the equipment shed. Zachariah. I'd know that confident stride anywhere, even after all these years. But the body attached to it—that was something different entirely.

He hauled himself up into the tractor seat, one boot finding the step, then the other, and those jeans stretched tight across his ass as he reached for the key in the ignition. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. The last time I'd seen Zachariah Miller, he was twenty years old, home from college for the summer, all lean limbs and eager energy. That had been eight, maybe nine years ago. The memory of that night in the cab of his daddy's truck, his mouth fumbling but determined around my cock, surfaced unbidden and settled low in my gut.

I shook it off and climbed out of the truck. Now wasn't the time for that particular trip down memory lane.

"Hey! Zachariah!"

He turned at the sound of my voice, and I got my first good look at him in the daylight. He'd filled out. That was the first thing that hit me. He’d never been skinny but he’d always been lean given his height. The kid I remembered had been replaced by a man that was 100% grade A beef. His face had matured too—stronger jaw, a hint of stubble, the same blond hair but cut shorter, practical for farm life. He looked good. He looked like a man who'd spent the years since I'd last seen him building something of himself.

"Mr. Danvers!" He climbed down from the tractor, and I noticed the way his thighs pushed against the denim, the easy strength in his movements. "Didn't expect to see you today."

"Thought I'd check in, see how you're settlin’." I extended my hand, and he clasped it firmly. His palm was calloused, rougher than I remembered. "Heard you were back for good."

"Yeah, well." He glanced back at the farmhouse, then at the fields stretching out around us. "Dad couldn't keep it up anymore, and someone had to take over. Sarah and I talked it over, and here we are."

Sarah. Right. The wife. I'd heard about her through the local grapevine—met Zachariah after undergrad and he’d supported her through grad school, then she’d followed him back to this small town like something out of a storybook. They had a son now too, a toddler. The whole package.

"How's she handling the move?"

"Adjusting." He shoved his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders dropped slightly. "She's from the city, you know? It's a lot to get used to. The quiet, the distance from everything. And Tommy's at that age where he's into everything, so she's got her hands full while I'm out here just trying to keep this place from falling apart."

I nodded. Along with a couple other guys from the area, I'd been pitching in around the Miller farm for the last few years as Harold's health declined. Small projects here and there, extra hands during harvest, that was just how things worked around here. You just showed up when someone needed help.

"You remember what to do with all this?" I gestured at the equipment, the fields, the barn in the distance.

A smile cracked through the stress lines on his face. "It's like riding a bike. Dad had me running this place before I could reach the pedals. The land hasn't changed much."

"No, it hasn't." I leaned against the tractor, studying him. The shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he kept glancing back at the house like he was running a mental checklist of everything that needed doing. "But the rest of it—the family, the responsibility—that's different."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. That's different."

"You're doing fine, Zack." The nickname slipped out before I could stop it, something I'd called him when he was younger. "Your dad would be proud."

Something flickered in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or just the relief of hearing it said out loud. "Thanks. Means a lot, coming from you."

We talked for another half hour, walking the property while he showed me what he'd been working on and what still needed attention. I offered what advice I could, made a few notes about projects I could help with, and tried to keep my eyes off the way his ass moved in those jeans every time he climbed over a fence or bent down to check something. By the time we circled back to my truck, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the gravel.

"You should come by tonight," I said, pulling my keys from my pocket. "Poker game at my place. Nothing serious, just a few of the guys getting together to blow off steam."

His eyebrows rose. "Poker?"

"Every Wednesday. It’s mostly guys around my age. Sometimes Marshall shows up with Coach Patterson, I think you two were in the same class?"

"Marshall Bennett?" A surprised laugh escaped him. "Haven't seen him since graduation. Yeah, I remember him. Are he and Coach still close? He used to follow him around like a lost puppy."

I just chuckled. Sometimes you realize that nothing really changes in a small town.

"So you'll come?" I tilted my head toward him. "Could use the company. And you look like you could use a night away from all this."

He hesitated, glancing at the house again, then back at me. "Sarah's probably got her hands full with Tommy's bedtime routine..."

"Just come on by once he’s down." I opened the truck door. "Low stakes, cold beer, good company. What else do you need?"

The corner of his mouth curved up. "Alright. Yeah, I'll be there."

Zachariah was the last to arrive that evening. I heard his truck pull into the drive while I was dealing the second hand of the night, and by the time he knocked on the door, the rest of us already had beers cracked and chips scattered across the table.

"Come on in!" I called, and the door swung open to reveal him standing on the porch, looking uncertain in a way that made him seem younger than his years. "Grab a seat. You're just in time."

The regulars looked up with varying degrees of interest. Sheriff Davies, whose weathered face had seen every kind of trouble this town could produce, nodded from his seat at the end of the table. Mr. Lee, older than all of us and still running his convenience store six days a week, peered at Zachariah over his reading glasses. Coach Patterson, built like a man who'd never stopped doing squats, raised his beer in greeting. And Marshall, always seated beside the coach, tore his eyes off his companion and I saw the recognition flash across his face.

"Miller?" Marshall's voice cracked slightly. "Man, it's been forever."

"Marshall." Zachariah walked over and gave him a quick bro hug. "Do these old guys keep you around just to feel young or something?" He joked as he settled into the empty chair beside me, accepting the beer I slid across the table. 

"Someone's got to keep him out of trouble." Coach cuffed Marshall lightly on the shoulder, and the younger man's cheeks flushed but no one commented on it. 

We dealt Zachariah in, and for a while, the game proceeded as it always did—bad jokes, worse cards, and the comfortable rhythm of men who'd been doing this long enough to know each other's tells. Zachariah seemed to relax as the evening wore on, though his pile of chips shrank steadily. He wasn't a terrible player, just not taking any risks tonight, and maybe a little too distracted by the unfamiliar company.

It was after his third consecutive losing hand that I saw my opening.

"You know," I said, shuffling the deck with practiced ease, "we could make this more interesting."

The table went quiet. Even Mr. Lee looked up from his cards. These games were never high stakes, the buy in was just enough to cover the beers we drank. Mr. Lee held the more serious games back in his storeroom on Sunday nights when he closed up shop. I’d learned long ago that that wasn’t my scene. I only gambled socially like this and preferred to get my thrills elsewhere.

"What'd you have in mind?" The sheriff's voice was careful, measured.

"Strip poker." I let the words hang in the air, watching for reactions. "Loser of each hand takes something off. Makes the stakes a little more personal, don't you think?"

Everyone laughed—or most of them did. Marshall's face went red. Mr. Lee chuckled into his beer. Coach Patterson leaned back in his chair, considering. And the sheriff caught my eye across the table, his gaze sliding briefly to Zachariah and then back to me with a raised eyebrow.

He saw right through me. Davis had known me for twenty years, and he'd always been able to read me like a billboard. That raised eyebrow said everything: I know exactly what you're doing, and I'm going to watch you do it.

"Sure," Davis said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Why not."

One by one, the others agreed. Mr. Lee shrugged like he'd seen stranger things, he wasn’t planning to lose anyway. Coach cracked his knuckles and said he was due for a win anyway. Marshall looked like he might pass out, but he nodded along with the rest of them. And Zachariah, seated beside me with his beer halfway to his lips, just watched with an expression I couldn't quite read.

The first hand ended with Coach shedding his polo shirt, revealing a chest that was still impressively built for a man his age. He took it in stride, flexing dramatically while the rest of us hooted. After that, things evened out for a while—Mr. Lee lost a sock, Marshall his belt, the sheriff his jacket. I stayed fully clothed, my cards running hot for once.

Zachariah wasn't so lucky. He lost his shirt on the fourth hand, and I made a point not to stare when he pulled it over his head, but my eyes were quickly drawn back to the substantial muscle mass he’d gained and the new patches of blond hair along his chest and belly. He caught me looking and quickly looked away, but not before I saw the flush creeping up his neck.

The game continued. Sheriff Davis went next, stripping down to a white undershirt and then losing that too, his barrel chest covered in graying hair. Marshall had lost his shirt and shoes, sitting there in his jeans and bare feet, trying not to look at Coach's bare shoulders.

It was the sheriff who ended up in the most precarious position. After a particularly bad hand, he was down to nothing but his tighty whities and the badge he’d pinned to the waistband after losing everything else. The image was ridiculous enough that even Davis laughed, his belly shaking as he adjusted the badge.

"This is what you boys wanted, right?" He struck a pose, hands on hips. "Sheriff of the damn underwear modeling squad."

The next hand did him in. He stared at his cards, then at the rest of us, then sighed heavily.

"Well, shit." He stood up, turned around, and shimmied out of those tighty whities with a theatrical flourish. His bare ass—hairy, pale, unapologetic—wagged at all of us as he danced a little jig.

The table erupted. I was laughing so hard my sides hurt, and even Mr. Lee had tears in his eyes. Zachariah covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. Marshall had gone scarlet, but he was laughing too.

"I think that's my cue," Coach said, standing up and stretching. He was down to a jockstrap, the kind that left nothing to the imagination, and he caught Marshall's eye as he reached for his clothes. "Come on, Bennett. Let's call it a night."

Marshall nodded quickly, gathering his things without meeting anyone's gaze. I didn't comment on the fact they were wearing matching straps or the way they couldn't keep their eyes off each other. Coach's hand was lingering on Marshall's shoulder as they headed for the door and I spotted it slide down his back as they walked outside. The door shut just as he palmed Marshall's ass cheek. The boy’s affection for his coach had been an open secret for years, but what was less known is that it wasn’t so one-sided these days. 

One by one, the others filtered out. Sheriff Davis didn't bother putting his clothes back on, just held his badge between his teeth as he gathered up his clothes and waved cheerfully as he walked to his cruiser in nothing but his birthday suit. Mr. Lee, only missing one sock after the entire night, shuffled out with his winnings and a knowing look in my direction that I pretended not to notice.

And then it was just Zachariah and me.

He was standing near the window, silhouetted by the moonlight filtering through the glass. Down to his underwear—a pair of simple boxer briefs that clung to his thighs and left very little to the imagination. He hadn't dressed again after the game ended, and I couldn't bring myself to suggest he should.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the table, still wearing my jeans. My eyes moved over him slowly, taking in the changes the years had made. The thicker arms. The broader shoulders.  The hourglass figure of his wide lats tapering down to his narrower waists and then back out to hips that were somehow even more tempting than they'd been when he was twenty. The country bubble butt that had been distracting me all afternoon, now barely contained by thin cotton.

He didn't move from his spot as he turned back around. Didn't reach for his clothes. Just stood there, watching me watch him.

I pushed off the table and reached for my belt. The metal clinked as I unbuckled it, and I saw his breath catch. I shoved my jeans down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Now we were even—both of us in nothing but underwear, the space between us charged.

He was getting hard. I could see it happening, the fabric of his boxer briefs tenting as his cock filled, and he made no move to hide it. His chest rose and fell with quicker breaths, and his hands hung at his sides like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"You need to get home soon?" My voice came out rougher than I intended.

He swallowed and shook his head. "I told Sarah not to stay up."

I held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the bedroom. I didn't look back to see if he followed. I didn't need to. The sound of his bare footsteps on the creaky hardwood following me down the hall was all the answer I needed.

The bedroom was dark except for the light spilling in from the hallway. I turned on the lamp beside the bed, casting the room in a warm glow, and turned to face him. He stood in the doorway, his cock straining against his underwear now, a wet spot forming where the head pressed against the fabric.

"Come here," I said.

He crossed the room in three steps, and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss was hungry, desperate, all the pretense of the evening stripped away along with our clothes. I gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, tasting the cheap beer on his tongue and the desperation in his movements.

"Fuck," he breathed against my lips. "I've been throwing hard all day. Since you showed up at the farm. You don’t know how much I've been wanting—"

I cut him off with another kiss, walking him backward toward the bed. His knees hit the mattress and he sat down hard, looking up at me with wide eyes. I stepped between his legs, my cock level with his face, and he reached for the waistband of my underwear with trembling fingers.

"Go ahead," I said, “I’m sure you remember what to do.”

He pulled them down, and my cock sprang free, already half-hard and rising. His eyes fixed on it, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed. Then he leaned forward and took me in his mouth.

The first touch of his lips was electric, warm and wet and eager. But where the Zachariah I remembered had been fumbling, uncertain, all enthusiasm and no technique, this version knew exactly what he was doing. He wrapped one hand around the base of my shaft, the other gripping my thigh for balance, and took me deep in one smooth motion.

"Shit," I hissed, my hips jerking forward involuntarily. "You've been practicing."

He hummed around my cock, and the vibration shot straight to my spine. His tongue worked the underside of my shaft as he pulled back, swirling around the head before taking me deep again. The wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth filled the room, and I tangled my fingers in his blond hair, gripping tight enough to make him moan.

That mouth. That fucking mouth. He'd been good before—eager, willing, determined to please—but this was something else entirely. He found a rhythm, bobbing his head in long, smooth strokes, his hand working in tandem with his lips. He knew when to speed up, when to slow down, when to suck hard enough to make my knees weak. And then his throat was opening just enough to playfully squeeze around my head.

I looked down at him, at the sight of my cock disappearing between his lips, his eyes closed and leaking in concentration, his own cock twitching through his underwear, and something possessive surged through me. This was the kid who'd blown me in his daddy's truck, all grown up and in my bedroom after all these years. He was mine for the night.

"Enough," I said, pulling him off by the hair. His lips were swollen, slick with spit, and he looked up at me with dazed eyes. "Up on the bed."

He scrambled backward, kicking off his underwear as he went, and I finally got a look at all of him. His cock was thick, cut, curved slightly to the left, flushed red and leaking at the tip. His balls hung heavy between his thighs, and below that—below that was the ass I'd been staring at all day, round and firm and practically begging for my hands.

I reached for the nightstand, pulling out lube and a condom, but he shook his head.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then tossed the condom aside with a smirk. Fuck, this boy was perfect and right now, with him looking at me like that, I wasn't going to argue.

I climbed onto the bed, pushing him back against the pillows. His skin was hot under my hands as I ran them over his chest, his stomach, the sharp ridges of his hip bones. He arched into my touch, his cock brushing against mine, and we both groaned at the contact.

"Can you turn over for me?" I asked.

He flipped onto his stomach without hesitation, presenting that incredible ass to me. I grabbed both cheeks, kneading them roughly, spreading them apart to reveal the tight pink hole hidden between them. He shuddered as I dragged my thumb across it, his hips pushing back against my hand.

"Yes," he hissed as his breathing picked up.

I grabbed the lube, slicking my fingers, and pressed one inside him. He was tight, clenched around me like he hadn't done this in a while, and I took my time working him open. One finger became two, scissoring and stretching, and he moaned into the pillow, his hands fisting the sheets.

"I can take it," he gasped. "Give me more. I remember how thick you are."

I added a third finger, and his whole body trembled. I could feel him relaxing, opening up, his hungry hole swallowing my fingers like it couldn't get enough. I found his prostate and pressed against it, and he nearly came off the bed.

"Fuck! Right there, oh god, right there—"

I pulled my fingers out, and he whimpered at the loss. But only for a second, because then I was pressing the head of my cock against his entrance, and he was pushing back to meet me, and I was sliding inside.

He was hot and tight and perfect. I went slow, inch by inch, giving him time to adjust, but he was having none of it. He shoved his hips backward, impaling himself on my cock in one smooth motion, and we both groaned as I bottomed out.

"Fuck," I said through gritted teeth. "Slow down."

"No." He turned his head to look at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark with want. "You’re gonna fuck me. You've been thinking about pounding my ass all day, haven’t you? I saw you watching me, saw you staring at my ass every time I turned around."

I grabbed his hips, my fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in. The force of it drove him into the mattress, and he let out a sound that was half moan, half scream.

"Like that?" I demanded.

"YES," he screamed.

I fucked him just how he wanted. Long, deep strokes that made the headboard bang against the wall, that made the bedsprings creak in protest, that made him claw at the sheets and sob into the pillow. I watched my cock disappear into that perfect ass over and over, the slick sound of our bodies meeting filling the room along with his moans and my grunts.

"You like that?" I slapped his ass, watching the flesh jiggle, leaving a red handprint on his cheek. "You like getting fucked by a man twice your age?"

"Yes," he whined. "Yes, god, yes, I love it, I love your cock, I love—"

His words dissolved into incoherent sounds as I picked up the pace, driving into him relentlessly. I leaned over his back, my chest pressed against his shoulders, my mouth against his ear.

"You know, I've been thinking about this for years," I growled. "Thinking about that mouth, that ass, what it would feel like to fuck you properly. You've grown up nice, Zack. Real nice."

He shuddered beneath me, his hole clenching around my cock, and I could tell he was getting close. I reached around to find his cock, hard and dripping, and stroked it in time with my thrusts.

"Come for me," I ordered. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

It only took a few more strokes. His whole body seized up, his back arching, his hole clamping down on me like a vice, and he came with a shout that probably woke the closest neighbors half a mile down the road. Thick ropes of cum shot over my hand, over the sheets, over his own stomach, and I fucked him through it, prolonging his orgasm until he was trembling and oversensitive.

I wasn't far behind. The feeling of him coming around my cock, the sight of this beautiful specimen sprawled out beneath me, wrecked and satisfied, pushed me over the edge. I slammed into him one last time, burying myself as deep as I could go, and came inside him with a groan that came from somewhere deep in my chest.

I stayed there for a moment, catching my breath, feeling my cock soften inside him. Then I pulled out slowly, watching my release drip from his well-fucked hole, and collapsed onto the bed beside him.

He turned his head to look at me, his eyes half-closed, a satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Wow."

"Yeah."

"I always regretted not doing that a long time ago, but now I know what I was missing out on."

I laughed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Give me a bit and we can go again."

He shifted closer, his body warm against mine, and I could feel his heart still racing. Outside, the night was quiet except for the crickets and the distant bark of a dog.

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

I just nod. There’s no need for words at this point. We've had this nonconversation three times this week, always finding ways to justify it. We’re just touch-starved. Months without anyone's hands on us, without that basic human thing that keeps you from feeling like you're dissolving into nothing. Nothing gay about needing human contact. Nothing weird about two buddies who work out in the sun all day, who lift and sweat together, finding some comfort in each other when the nights get long. It’s what friends do. We’re not gay.

His arm drapes across my shoulders. The weight of it—dense, solid—makes my breath catch. I don't say anything. Neither does he. We just sit there, side by side. And then we’re on top of each other, every inch of skin that can reach skin pressing together. My thigh slotted between his, the coarse hair catching and pulling. My hand on his stomach, feeling the ridges of muscle contract as he breathes. His hand flat against my back, palm wide, fingers spread, holding me like I might float away.

We're both in underwear. That's the rule we never stated but always follow. Dicks covered. That boundary matters, even if I can feel his cock thickening against my hip, even if mine's doing the same thing against his. It’s not sex. We’re not gay.

Scott turns his head toward mine. His breath hits my chin, warm and quick. His nose bumps mine. Once. Twice. Our lips brush, dry and chapped, and then his mouth opens against mine and I feel his tongue wrestling against my own. That’s fine. Kissing isn't sex. Kissing is just...more contact. More skin. More of that thing we're starving for. I’m swallowing his tongue, not his load. We’re not gay.

His hand moves up my spine, fingers digging into the muscle beside my vertebrae. I groan into his mouth and he groans back, the vibration passing between us like current. My hand finds his chest, palm pressing flat against the hair, feeling his heart slam underneath.

We rock together. Slow. Unhurried. His hips press forward; mine press back. The friction runs through the cotton, my dick sliding against the fabric, against his hip, against the seam that's riding up between my legs. His cock's rigid against my thigh now, that thick shape impossible to ignore as it’s barely contained by the pouch of his jock strap. God, I love that strap on him. It makes him look so fucking huge. But we don't touch each other’s dicks. We don't cross that line. We just grind and kiss and hold on, two men who aren't gay and aren't fucking, just two friends filling the hollow places where loneliness lives.

When Scott comes, I feel it—the bite of his nails against my skin, the tension of his muscles as they press against mine, the wet spreading through the cotton of his jock strap, hot against my skin. That's what pushes me over. I bury my face in his neck and shake, spilling into my own underwear, cock pulsing against soaked cotton.

We stay tangled together afterward. Neither of us mentions the mess. Neither of us mentions anything. There’s nothing to talk about when you didn’t even have sex. 

The first three tapes were exactly what he expected. His sister's seventh birthday, the cake lopsided with pink frosting. Christmas 1998, the tree drooping under cheap ornaments. He labeled each file dutifully, watching his younger self tear wrapping paper with frantic hands.

The fourth tape started the same way—a summer barbecue, his father standing at the grill in cargo shorts, smoke curling into the blue sky. Then the image stuttered, vertical lines slicing through the frame, and the audio warped into a hiss before cutting to static.

When the picture returned, the backyard was gone.

Two men filled the screen, both deeply tanned, their skin gilded under harsh studio lights. They lay on their sides on a nondescript set, the one behind pressing slowly into the one in front with his turgid cock. The camera quality was poor—grainy, the colors oversaturated—but the motion was unmistakable. The top's hand gripped the other's thigh where he held his legs open, fingers dimpling that brown skin as he thrust with steady, deliberate rhythm. The bottom's mouth hung open, his breath audible even through the degraded audio, a low repeated sound that rose and fell.

Eric's hand froze on the mouse. The tape continued.

The angle shifted slightly, catching the point where their bodies joined—where the top's cock slid glistening into the other's hole, the flesh there stretched and slick. Dark hairs gripped the shaft as it moved in and out in a steady rhythm. The bottom reached back, curling his fingers behind him to grip the top's head, pulling him closer. Their bodies moved together with the practiced ease of professionals, but something about the poor recording quality made it feel stolen somehow. Voyeuristic. Real.

Eric's throat went dry. His pulse thudded in his ears. He shifted on the couch, suddenly aware of warmth pooling low in his stomach, the unmistakable heaviness building between his legs. On screen, the top leaned in and bit the curve of the bottom's shoulder, and the bottom's moan crackled through the speakers—broken by static but still unmistakably hungry.

The scene cut to static, then back to the barbecue—his father laughing at something off-camera, completely oblivious.

Eric pressed pause. His breathing was shallow. He stared at the frozen image of his dad flipping burgers while his own erection pressed insistently against his jeans.

Someone in his family had recorded gay porn over this tape. Someone had watched it—maybe many times, given how the image had degraded—and then left it here, tucked between Christmas morning and birthday cake.

He ejected the tape and turned it over in his hands. The label read "Summer ‘99" in his mother's handwriting, but the plastic casing felt warm from the VCR, almost alive. 

Eric slid the tape back into its case, his thumb catching on the cracked plastic edge. The image of those two men—their bodies slick, moving together—burned behind his eyelids. He set it aside and reached for the next cassette.

The fifth tape: "Christmas 2004." He fed it into the deck, watching the digitization software capture frame after frame of wrapping paper and forced smiles. Nothing. The sixth tape: "Easter 1996." His younger self hunting eggs while the adults chatted off-camera. His father's voice drifted through the speakers, loud and confident. Eric's jaw tightened.

His father. The barbecue footage had been his father's—his camera, his laugh. Had he recorded over his own family tape? The thought curdled something in Eric's stomach. He pictured his old man hunched over the VCR late at night, finger hovering over the record button, replacing his son's birthday with two strangers fucking. The degradation on that tape spoke to repeated viewings. Rewound. Watched. Rewound again.

He abandoned the tapes temporarily and climbed the stairs to the storage closet. Cardboard boxes crowded the narrow space, their labels in his mother's handwriting: "Garage Sale Items," "Old Electronics," "Den Stuff." Eric pulled down the last box and dug through tangled coaxial cables, a broken remote, and a camcorder—battery long dead, its side sticky with age.

A smaller box nestled beneath. Photographs, mostly. But wedged between them: a receipt from a video store downtown, dated 2003. "Rental: Private Collection." The store's name meant nothing to him, but the date seemed right.

His brother's handwriting scrawled across the back of the receipt—Return before 9pm or late fee. Eddie had been eighteen that summer, home from his first year of college. Eric remembered Eddie spending hours in the basement, claiming he needed quiet. Had Eddie rented the original and copied it onto the family tape? The tech knowledge matched—Eddie had always been the one to program the VCR, set up the recording schedules for his parents back in the day.

Eric shoved the receipt into his pocket and kept searching. A worn day planner fell open to June 2001. Appointments, shifts at the hardware store—and his uncle Ray's name, circled twice. "Ray—pick up tapes." Ray, who'd lived with them that summer between apartments. Ray, who'd always been too comfortable walking around in just his boxers, who'd left his bedroom door cracked open more than once.

Eric's throat went dry. Three suspects. Three men who'd had access, opportunity, motive he couldn't fully parse. He stared at the planner, the receipt, the dead camcorder. Someone in his family had recorded that scene—had watched those two men fuck and then hidden the evidence among Christmas pageants and Easter egg hunts. And Eric had watched it too, his cock hard against his thigh, his breath shallow.