I love cocks

You grind your hips down, pinning Julian to the rug as the climax hits, the coarse weave of the living-room carpet scraping your knees while his legs grip your hips, pulling you flush as he takes the steady, pulsing finish. He arches into it, letting out a sharp, appreciative groan, his body tense and responsive under your weight.

You ride it out, the slick friction of your stomachs sliding together until you’re completely spent.

Panting, you pull back. The wet sound of suction fills the space between you as you slide out. You strip off the heavy condom with trembling fingers, tossing it aside.

You collapse onto your back next to him on the rug, your lungs burning, feeling heavy and satisfied. Your hand falls onto his bare chest; his skin is hot and flushed, his heart thumping against your palm.

Julian lets out a long, slow exhale. While you are still pulling in jagged, open-mouthed breaths, his chest is already rising and falling in an even, measured rhythm. He wipes a smear of sweat from his stomach, turning his head with a pleasant, easy smile.

“That felt great,” Julian whispers, his voice smooth and entirely steady. “You’ve got a really good rhythm.”

A rush of pride hits you, but before you can fully settle into the afterglow, the sound from the other side of the coffee table lands like a physical blow.

A wet, heavy, percussive thud echoes off the walls, again and again, loud enough to rattle the wineglasses on the living-room shelves.

You turn your head, and the afterglow you just shared with Julian is instantly absorbed into the heavier rhythm across the room. On the far couch, your brother’s broad, sweat-slicked back bows over the cushions, his shoulder blades cutting deep, corded lines under his skin. The rhythm isn’t careful. It’s something else. He drives his hips forward in a relentless, brutal cadence, dropping his entire weight into Leo with an overpowering force that makes the sofa frame groan.

“God—fuck, David, it’s so deep,” Leo sobs into the cushion.

Your boyfriend is folded entirely under David, thighs forced up against his own ribs, his body violently jolting forward with every impact. His hands claw uselessly at the upholstery, his knuckles white as his breath breaks into sharp, helpless sounds.

Julian’s breathing, so steady a moment ago, suddenly hitches. The polite smile vanishes.

“He’s in the zone,” Julian murmurs. He breaks away and sits up slowly. He reaches for his silk robe, tying the belt tight, his movements precise, but his eyes never leave the heavy, straining flex of David’s thighs. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, a dark, dilated hunger settling over his flushed face as he watches the absolute wreckage happening ten feet away. “Once he gets like that, he doesn’t really hear anything else.”

Julian walks over to the kitchen island to pour two glasses of Cabernet, returning a moment later to hand one to you. His fingers brush yours, warm and steady. Julian takes a sip, his gaze fixed over the rim of the glass, completely mesmerized.

On the couch, the momentum suddenly shifts, escalating from a relentless rhythm into a frantic, punishing sprint. David’s chest heaves, his guttural grunts syncing with the heavy slap of skin. He hauls Leo back, locking him in place, and delivers a bone-jarring thrust that buries him to the absolute hilt.

Leo lets out a sharp, choked gasp, his spine locking rigid, his eyes rolling back as the impact rips a violent shudder through him. David stays buried, hips pressed hard against him, grinding forward again instead of easing off, breath coming out in thick, guttural bursts as he keeps the same punishing rhythm.

Leo’s fingers claw into the cushions, his whole body trembling as he tries to catch up to it, breath breaking into short, helpless sounds that turn from shock into something deeper, more desperate. He can’t recover before the next thrust lands, and the next, and the next, David’s weight still driving him down, still chasing that same depth.

Only after several more heavy, relentless drives does David finally drag himself back with a slick, wet sound, shifting his grip to haul Leo up onto his hands and knees for a steeper angle.

As David clears Leo’s body, the lamplight flashes across them.

You squint. Beige ribbons hanging loose.

The latex is shredded, hanging in useless strips around the thick base of David’s cock. The shaft is bare, flushed dark red, and coated in a thick, pearlescent layer of white cum. More of it is actively dripping from Leo’s hole, sliding down his inner thighs.

“Hey, the con—” you start, raising a hand.

A heavy, wet thwack cuts you off entirely. David hooks an arm under Leo’s stomach and drives his hips forward, burying himself raw.

Leo’s spine bows sharply. A novel sound tears from his throat—a deep, wet moan that vibrates with a completely new, overstimulated pleasure. His knuckles turn white against the fabric, his hips stuttering for a fraction of a second before, helplessly, he pushes back against the unshielded friction, answering the brutal rhythm anyway.

Julian takes a slow drink of his Cabernet.

He doesn’t flirt; he breaks. He’s the one who finds the “good” ones and opens up their guilty tight cheating hole. He teaches rhythm: short, heavy strokes that make I shouldn’t become deeper.

He likes the sound of cheating when it’s breath, likes how shame makes a hole cling tighter, likes ending it the same way every time—breeding them quiet and holding them plugged on the base while the whimper turns into relief. Word gets around: Dan sets them on his lap, makes them say it, finishes raw, and they stillcome back because guilt screams when he’s gone and shuts up when he’s in.

So when you show up—new to the circle—he’s patient but fast. A laugh. A steady hand. A door that doesn’t close. He lines you up and pushes, inch by inch, until he’s bottomed out in your bed, hips glued to yours, your hole milking around all of him, needing more. He keeps you there—deep, still—thumbs stamping you down that last inch until your breath breaks.

Dan’s mouth touches your ear, voice low and sure, the reputation distilled to a question he’s asked a hundred times and always gets the real answer to:

“Be honest,” he murmurs, grinding you flat at the deepest point.