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"So, whataya wanna watch?" he asks as he runs a hand down your naked back. You stifle a sound, feeling a shiver run through you. After all this time, you still haven’t gotten used to it—the feeling of his leather gloves against your exposed skin. 

“I don’t know, Sir,” you reply, hoping he will drop it. “I don’t watch porn.”

He's not hard. Sometimes it takes him some time to get there. You never comment on it, of course, afraid that he will lash out, that he will blame you. Still, he’s a warm, unsettling presence inside you. You can feel yourself dripping around him, aching for movement, for stimulation of any kind. You hate it.

“Yeah, yeah, all women say that. I wonder what I would find if I searched your browser history, though. Bet there’s some freaky stuff there.” Homelander takes the remote from the coffee table and turns on the TV. It’s almost obnoxious looking, large enough to cover the entire wall. The type of purchase men only make to flex and show off wealth. You had never seen him use it before. You’re not surprised to learn he bought it with the exclusive purpose of watching porn. 

Homelander paused, then, as if something had just occurred to him. “You ever starred in a sex tape, Becky?”

You clench your teeth, struggling not to snap at him. He keeps calling you that, no matter how many times you remind him that’s not your name. “No, Sir,” you reply curtly.

“Aren’t you a dream? ‘Sir, this,’ ‘Sir, that.’ They sure trained you well when you first got hired.” Homelander said, placing a hand around your hips, as if to keep you in place. You bite into your lip, struggling not to grind against him, not to search for contact. “You called me something else the other time, though. You haven’t forgotten, right? When I was fucking your ass raw against the dinner table?”

No more, master. Please, no more.

Just the memory has tears of shame and anger flooding your eyes. You refuse to let them spill. Over time you’ve come to learn that only arouses him more. “Master?” you repeat with a frown. You don't even know where that came from. You'd just been trying to appeal to his ego, to get him to stop hurting you.

“That’s the one! Love the sound of it, you say it so prettily,” he states, and you know he’s mocking you, that he doesn’t mean a word. If there’s something you’ve learned in your time working at Vought is that there’s always a double-meaning in Homelander’s praise. “You’re gonna call me that from now on.”

“Yes, master,” you say, cringing. There’s really no end to the humiliations this twisted pervert can come up with.

“Now, I won’t ask again. What are we watching?” he asks, pushing the remote into your hand. There’s no point in fighting him and you know it. You turn your head towards the TV Screen, quietly examining the adult website he’s chosen. It’s a catalog of his favorite videos. You struggle not to roll your eyes. What kind of loser catalogs his porn? God, he’s fucking pathetic. 

As you scroll down the list, heat builds in your lower stomach. You don’t like what you’re seeing. Porn is violent and demeaning and you’ve never liked it. You’ve been aroused for some time now, though, and you can feel your judgment slipping. It’s been over an hour since Homelander ordered you into his bedroom, forcing you to abandon your domestic chores to attend to more pressing matters. An hour since he had you undress and sit on his lap, warming his limp cock while he lounged about on his leather armchair. You know he’s teasing you, leaving you aroused, wet and unfulfilled on purpose. It’s a game he likes to play.

“I like this one,” you say, opening a random video. Homelander huffs out a laugh.

“Ohhh, would you look at that? Girl on girl action? I knew you were into weird stuff,” Homelander says, and he sounds amused, almost gleeful, but there’s an edge to his voice—an underlying irritation that lets you know you’ve committed a mistake. He grabs you by the throat, then, fast, roughly and without warning. “You’re not a lesbian, are you, Becky?”

“No, master,” you say, trying to stay calm, to not let your fear show. That only makes things worse. “I like men.”

I like you, it’s what he wants to hear, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. 

“Good. Didn’t feel like watching that, anyway,” he says, taking the remote from you. You struggle not to make a face. Of course he asks you to choose, only to have the chance to say no to you. He’s such a manchild. “Oooh, this one’s better. Girl gets gangbanged at local billiard. That will get us in the mood.”

You can feel heat rising up your throat, and force yourself to take a deep breath. It abates the nausea, to an extent. It’s not a stretch to say that vomiting right now could very well be the death of you. He skips the video forward, seemingly too impatient to power through the foreplay. He stops at a frame of the woman laying on a pool table, surrounded by at least 15 men, her legs spread and completely naked. You swallow hard. She looks like you.

He doesn’t strike you as the type who likes sharing, and he’s much too fixated on power to be a cuck. Still, you hope he’s not getting any ideas. The video starts rolling. The woman moans, loud and shamelessly, those fake high-pitched sounds only porn actresses make. A man is fucking her on the front, another in the ass, and a third one is using her throat like a fleshlight, unbothered by the spit and the gagging sounds. The other men are masturbating to the sight, waiting for their turn, ready to cum all over her. It’s disgusting, and you have to look away. 

Homelander is pulling you by the air in a second, forcing you to look. You don’t fight him. You stare towards the screen, unblinking, unseeing. He’s finally getting hard. That’s a good thing. The sooner this torture ends, the better. 

When he’s done, he comes inside you. That’s a given with him, although he never bothers to use a condom. You fish some wet wipes from your purse and clean yourself up as best as you can. His eyes are on you as you put your mandatory pink uniform back on, along with the tag with your name on it. You don’t stare back. Not until he addresses you first.

“What do you say?” he asks, a twinkle in his eyes. 

You swallow your pride, as you’ve done so many times in the past. “Thank you, master. I’m always glad to assist you.”

He shook his head, the muscles of his abdomen flexing as Patrick’s hand moved faster and faster. A strangled moan slipped past his lips, eyes squeezing shut as Patrick brought him closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m just doing what he asked,” Patrick said with a grin. The sounds of his hand was slick as it moved up and down on the blond’s cock.. “He wanted me to touch him, and I’m touching him.”

You pressed a soothing kiss to his jaw and grinned down at Patrick. The brunet was a co-conspirator in the agonizing, delicious torture you put Art’s poor body through. You were just nicer about it.

“Close,” Art whimpered, his lips spit slick and bitten pink. “I— fuck— I’m close”

Patrick smirked like the cat who got the cream, but you just ran a soothing hand over the plane of his chest, teasing his nipples, making him whine pitifully.

“Yeah, baby? You’re close, huh?” Your teeth tugged slightly at his earlobe and he moaned, loud and pretty. “Be polite and ask Patrick if you can cum.”

Patrick’s hand didn’t let up— slick and relentless. He raised an eyebrow expectantly and Art nearly sobbed.

“Please—“ was all Art could manage.

“Please, what, Donaldson? You’re a big boy, you know how to ask the right way.”

He groaned, shifting so he could squirm away from Patrick’s relentless touch. It was futile, though. Art was strong, but with your legs pinning his thighs and Patrick’s hand slung across the blond’s torso, all he could do was take it.

“Lemme cum— please let me cum,” he was practically begging, eyes shining with crocodile tears. It was so fucking cute. You wished your camera was nearby so you could’ve snapped a picture of how desperate he’d gotten.

Patrick met your gaze and smiled, like he’d just gotten the best fucking idea in the world. “Okay, baby,” he said in an unusually gentle voice. “You can cum.”

You could feel Art’s heart hammering against your palm, the surprise evident in his eyes.

“Hurry before Pat changes his mind, yeah?” You cooed in his ear. He nodded, face scrunched slightly as Patrick brought him closer and closer to finishing.

And god, Art could get loud. He had his tells here, just like in tennis. As soon as he went silent, you knew he was right on the precipice, ready to tumble over.

The second Art’s orgasm hit, Patrick moved his hand off of him completely. It was different than it usually was— Art was always messy. He’d shoot ropes of thick cum up to his chest, or his face if he was particularly backed up.

But then, he just whimpered pathetically as cum oozed out of his tip, leaving a puddle at the base of his cock. And— holy fuck— he stayed hard.

Art practically sobbed, his head lolling back against your shoulder. Tears of frustration welled in his pretty blue eyes. “What the fuck, Patrick?” He groaned pathetically.

“What the fuck did you do?” You asked with wide eyes.

Patrick sat back and shrugged, wearing a shit-eating grin. “I saw someone do it in a porn. He got to cum, he just didn’t get the good part.”

“Switch spots,” you said quickly. Patrick let you settle between Art’s thighs, eye level with his aching cock. It was red at the tip, aching for a real release.

When you wrapped a hand around him, he whimpered and squirmed in an attempt to escape the stimulation.

“You good, baby?” You asked, pressing your lips to his thigh.

Before Art could respond, Patrick sighed. “Stop babying him— he’s fine.”

You met Art’s gaze, and he gave a tiny nod. His chest was heaving as he drew breath after shaky breath.

The mess of cum surrounding his base made each slick pass of your hand sound pornographic. Almost as debauched as the whimpers and moans that were escaping Art’s lips.

“Mmm… fuck, fuck— ah!” Like a goddamn pornstar.

“Shhh… let me clean up the mess Patrick made, yeah?”

You pressed a soft kiss to his tip, and his thighs twitched with the need to buck into the warmth of your lips. Your mouth trailed down, peppering the hard length of him with wet, slow kisses. You could taste his release, salty on your tongue.

“Jesus, baby— please—“ Art, desperate and wanting, was your favorite thing in the world. Besides maybe Patrick, desperate and wanting in a completely opposite way.

“Quit whining, Art, or she’s gonna stop.” Patrick murmured in the blond’s ear. You could already see a collection of red spots on Art’s throat that would turn into bruises.

You definitely weren’t going to stop. You loved every single depraved noise you could wring out of him. You took mercy on him, easing his sensitive cock into the wet warmth of your mouth.

You’re too soft on him. He likes when you make him work for it. You could hear Patrick’s complaints already.

It didn’t matter. You liked taking care of your boy.

He pulsed against your tongue as you took him deeper, his thighs tensing where your hands rested against him. He bucked slightly, brushing the back of your throat. When you gagged around him, he made the same whimpery noise that he made on the tennis courts.

“Tell her thank you,” Patrick said in Art’s ear.

You moaned softly around Art’s length as you felt Patrick’s fingers grip onto your hair, guiding your mouth up and down, faster and faster.

“Art, I’ll make her stop. Say thank you.” Patrick’s voice was firm, no trace of any sympathy. The same way he’d bark corrections that Art needed to make when they practiced together.

“Thank you,“ Art gasped out, like it took all the effort in the world. Patrick used his free hand to rake his nails over Art’s abs, and the blond cried out and bucked into your throat. “Fuck—“

You knew he was close to finishing— still so pent up from the orgasm that Patrick had ruined for him. So sensitive that it wouldn’t take much more effort to have him spilling onto your tongue.

You pulled off slowly, jerking him off with slow, firm strokes. “You wanna cum, baby?” You asked, lips just brushing the sensitive head of his cock.

“Yes! God, need t’ cum so bad,” he cried, desperate and aching for release.

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ greedy, Art,” Patrick goaded. The hand that was in your hair had moved to your cheek, where he stroked along your skin sweetly. “You think you deserve it?”

“Yes, you asshole,” Art groaned. Patrick laughed, a smile spreading across his lips. You raised a brow, looking at the brunet expectantly for permission. He nodded and you smiled.

“Go on, baby, I’ve got you,” you said, hand moving faster. “I won’t be mean, I’ll let you get what you need.”

He cried out as he finished, painting your tongue with thick spurts of cum. You worked him through it, taking every drop he could offer you, until the feeling of your touch became too much.

“Don’t swallow, c’mere,” Patrick said. You joined him at the top of the bed, kissing him deeply, passing Art’s cum between your mouths with slow laves of your tongues against each other.

Art whined, reaching for your faces, wanting you to include him. Patrick leaned down, kissing him deeply, so he could taste the efforts of both of your attentions. You leaned in, tongue brushing Patrick’s, and Art’s, and you felt warmth flutter in your chest.

“You’re too nice to him,” Patrick said after he pulled away. “I would’ve made him beg for it.”