Fiction. All characters 18+.

Part 1 here

I’m Léo. I’m 24. Mr. Ben Malik had told me his son would be joining the board. I didn’t understand what that meant until I walked into the office and found both of them waiting.

Salim sat behind the desk, still, hands folded. Hicham stood. Taller than his father. Broader. Shirt stretched across a chest that looked like it had been built for something other than meetings. Leather and smoke reached me before his eyes did. He looked at me the way a man looks at a car he might want to take apart just to see how it’s made.

“You’ll assist my son on the Falcon Initiative,” Salim said.

Hicham didn’t smile. “He’s efficient?” he asked his father, as if I weren’t there.

Salim didn’t answer. He just leaned back.

“I’ll find out,” Hicham said.

I was being handed over. Not for training. For testing. Salim dismissed us without another glance, as if I had already changed hands.

In the elevator Hicham watched me in the reflection. “Are you here to work hard? Or just look obedient?”

“I’m here to deliver results.”

He smirked. “We’ll see.”

His office was darker. Wood. Leather. A framed photo of him shaking hands with a prince. He pointed at the chair across from his. I sat. He slid a thick dossier toward me with two fingers.

“Summarize the entire brief by tomorrow. French and English. One formal. One to pitch. You’ll present both at nine. Printed. Memorized. I don’t like excuses. And I don’t like lazy men.”

He walked around the desk and leaned against it, close enough that I could smell the salt on his skin. “Do you know why I’m letting you work on this?”

I shook my head.

“Because I want to see how far you’ll go to stay here.”

I left with the file and the certainty that he was right. I wanted to impress him. I didn’t know yet if it was for the project or for the way his voice had twisted something low in my stomach.

I was at his door at 8:58 the next morning. He walked past me without greeting, hair still damp, shirt tight. He didn’t look at the documents.

“Follow me.”

He led me to a lounge I hadn’t seen. Black walls. Low light. A long marble table and one leather chair. He pointed at the floor.

“Sit.”

Not the chair. The floor. I lowered myself. Crossed my legs. Kept my back straight. He took the chair, opened a tablet, and ignored me. Ten minutes. Twenty. My legs began to ache. At thirty he stood, walked behind me, and closed his hand around the back of my neck. Not squeezing. Just holding.

“You came early. Not everyone listens the first time.”

His thumb moved along the side of my throat. Then he let go, sat again, and reviewed the files in silence. Five minutes later: “Your English draft needs a stronger close. Rewrite it by noon.”

He tapped the tablet. “You’ll come back tonight. After the floor is clear. Bring both versions. I want to hear them from your mouth.”

I stood when he stood. He stepped close, lifted my chin with two fingers, and held my eyes.

“Do you belong to anyone?”

My pulse spiked. “No, sir.”

“Good.”

That night the floor was empty. His door was open. He stood shirtless by the window, phone in one hand, whisky in the other. His back was massive. Not refined like his father’s. Thick. Raw. A trail of black hair disappeared into his trousers.

“Lock the door.”

I did. He didn’t ask about the documents. He walked until we were chest to chest.

“You came back.”

“Yes, sir.”

He circled me once. His hand brushed my arm. I jolted. He smiled.

“I could make your name matter here. Fly you business class. Hand you projects that’ll make your classmates cry. But that only happens if I want it.”

He set the glass down. “My father thinks you’re good. He doesn’t see you like I do.” His voice dropped. “I bet you moan when you’re filled. I bet you hold back tears not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t hurt enough.”

He reached for my belt. Slow. Certain. I didn’t stop him.

“Get on your knees.”

I dropped. The rush was immediate and ugly and wanted. His belt hissed. He pushed his trousers down just enough. What he took out was thicker than Salim’s. Not longer. Wider. Obscene. Veins coiled like rope under the skin. The head swollen, blunt, a bead already shining at the tip. My body flinched before my mind caught up.

He gripped the base and slapped it once against my cheek.

“You know what to do.”

I opened. It barely fit. He fed it in anyway, slow and forceful, wanting the resistance. My jaw burned. My throat convulsed. He locked a hand in my hair and used my mouth. No rhythm. No praise. Just thick flesh forcing its way deeper while spit and tears ran and the wet sounds filled the quiet office. I gagged. I stayed. I needed to take it. When he pulled out, saliva and precum strung from my chin to the head of his cock.

“Turn around.”

He shoved me onto the leather couch, face down, ass up. Spit. Fingers spreading me. Then the blunt head, slick and hot, pressing. He didn’t wait. He pushed. The pain was immediate. Too thick. The ring of muscle burned and fought. I gasped into the cushion.

“Open up.”

It gave. He sank in, steady, unrelenting, until he was buried to the root and I whimpered into the leather. He grabbed my hips and started to move. Short, brutal thrusts. Heavy. No finesse. Every push deliberate. I felt his balls slap against me, heard the wet sound of my body taking him. The pain morphed. My hole stretched and pulsed around the girth. I moaned, broken.

“You like that, Frenchie? Say whose cock it is.”

“Yours, sir.”

He grunted and fucked harder. My cock throbbed against the couch. I came without touching it, hard, spilling onto the leather while he kept moving, using the clench. He roared once, slammed deep, and came. Hot. Thick. Unprotected. I felt every pulse. He stayed inside me, breathing hard, then pulled out slow. I stayed open. Leaking. Shaking.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “I really opened you up. That’s mine now. Keep it ready. Clean and shaved.”

He tossed a tissue box beside me and left. I lay there, ruined, and thought of home. Of the friends who said I was too soft for Dubai. I wasn’t crying. I was still here. Still wanting more. And for the first time I wondered what it would mean to belong to both of them.

The next morning I shaved in the shower. Carefully. Between my cheeks. The skin was already tender. I checked twice. My heart beat harder than it should have. Not exactly aroused. Just aware. I knew they would touch me. I wanted them to.

Salim called me in before the floor filled. He stood by the window with Arabic coffee. He didn’t ask how I had slept. He set the cup down, walked behind me, and rested a hand on the small of my back. Then lower. He turned me, undid my belt, pushed my trousers to my knees, and bent me over the edge of his desk.

Cool air. Wood under my palms. His fingers slid between my cheeks and found the smooth skin. A quiet, satisfied hum.

“You shaved for me. Good boy.”

He didn’t ask. He assumed. In his world that made it true. He spat, spread it, and entered me in one long push. The soreness from his son was still there, dulled, almost welcoming. He filled me completely. Heavy. Warm. Like the space had been waiting. He moved slowly at first, then deeper, grip firm on my hips. I smelled his cologne. My cock leaked onto the desk, forgotten. He groaned once, low, and spilled inside me. No thank you. No kiss. He pulled out, wiped himself, and straightened his shirt.

“You may go.”

I pulled my trousers up, still open, still leaking, and went back to my desk. Every shift in the chair reminded me. People talked about budgets. I nodded and pretended my body wasn’t already used.

Just before lunch the message came. Conference Room B. Bring the Falcon dossier. Hicham’s name. I knew the tone.

He was alone, shirt open halfway, sleeves rolled over thick forearms. He didn’t look up.

“Close it. Did you clean up after this morning? Or are you still leaking?”

My breath caught. “No, sir. I haven’t had time.”

He smiled, cold. “Good. I want to taste what he left in you.”

He took the dossier, tossed it, gripped my jaw, and turned me. Hands on the table. He dropped to his knees behind me, parted me, and licked. Unhurried. Eager. Again and again. I gasped.

“Filthy little thing. The old man filled you well.”

He stood. Belt. He didn’t warn me. He pushed in. Brutal. Deep. I cried out. My body remembered. It split for him more easily now, still loose from the morning, still sore. His cock was wider. His thrusts meaner. Less control, more proof.

“That fucker thinks you’re his. This hole listens to me.”

My face pressed into the folder. My cock rubbed the wood. I came again, hard, spurting onto the dossier while he pounded through it. He held deep and emptied inside me. Another load on top of Salim’s. He pulled out, slapped my ass once, and zipped up.

“Next time, clean up better. Or I’ll make you do it with your mouth.”

He took the folder and left. I stayed bent, dripping onto the conference table.

That evening the message came again. No signature. I didn’t need one. His door was half-open. He was seated this time, watching me the moment I entered. Not indifferent. Hungry.

He didn’t tell me to close the door. I did it anyway. He curled two fingers. I stepped forward.

“Take off your clothes.”

I obeyed. Folded everything. Stood naked. He looked at me for a long moment.

“You’ve been good today. Turn around. Wider. I want to admire what’s left of this morning.”

I parted my feet. He stood, walked behind me, and said something I hadn’t expected.

“You’re learning, Léo. But I don’t want an obedient intern anymore. I want something permanent.”

His thumb grazed the smooth skin. Two fingers spread me. He hummed, satisfied, then pressed one inside. I gasped. My body gave too easily. He added a second, twisting.

“You’re loose. You stayed open for me all day.”

He withdrew his fingers. “Lie down.”

I lay on the leather couch. He knelt between my legs and pushed them open. He saw it. The sheen. The slow drip of cum slipping from me, wetting the leather. He inhaled. Long. Slow. His fingers parted me further.

“You kept me inside. You held it all day.”

He didn’t ask. He believed it. I let him. He leaned in and kissed the flushed, leaking entrance. One reverent kiss. Then he scooped some onto his thumb, stared at it, and smeared it back inside me.

I nearly moaned. Not from the touch. From the knowledge. It was Hicham’s. His son’s. The thickness he had just kissed and pushed back into me belonged to the man who had bent me over a conference table hours earlier. Father and son. Both inside me. The father believing he was the only one.

He stroked himself and pressed the head to my hole.

“This time you’ll feel it deeper.”

He pushed. Slow. Thick. My body wasn’t just open. It was waiting. He sank until his hips met me and stayed there, buried, breathing. Then he pulled halfway out and slammed back in. The couch creaked. I gasped. He fucked me like a man leaving a mark. Deep. Deliberate. Inevitable. My legs wrapped around him before I decided to. He bit the edge of my neck hard enough to bruise.

“You want to make it in this country? I don’t promote men who don’t obey. Good boys get rewarded.”

He hit the spot again and again. I came untouched, back arching, vision white at the edges. He held my hips and fucked me through it, rhythm faltering, then drove in one last time, so deep I thought I might break, and came. Heat. So much of it. Mixing with what was already there. His son’s. His own.

He stayed inside me, panting, for almost a minute. Then he pulled back just enough to watch the slow drip. He smiled like a man looking at a finished job. He brushed my hair from my forehead and kissed my temple.

“You’re going far. As long as you don’t forget who brought you there.”

He stood. Zipped up. Left me naked and leaking.

I lay there, chosen, and the cold thought arrived anyway. What if he found out? Not about the pleasure. About Hicham. About the way his own son had stretched me open with that thick cock only hours before. About the fact that I hadn’t said no. That I had come back. That I had let both of them fill me and believed, for a moment, that I could keep the secret.

He could ruin everything. And still I hadn’t stopped. Because somewhere under the ambition and the fear, I liked it. I liked being full of them. And that terrified me more than anything else.

 

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Then he grabbed my hips and lifted me off him like I weighed nothing and threw me back down on my stomach in the wet spot.

I barely had time to gasp before he was on top of me. He spread my legs with his knees, laid his whole heavy body down along my back, and drove his cock back into me. All of his weight pushed me down into the mattress. His hairy chest was plastered to my sweaty back. His breath was hot on my neck. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything at all but lie there and take it.

He fucked me flat, his hips pounding down into my ass, burying my face in my pillow and my cock against the sheets. It was the most helpless I'd ever felt in my life.

"Clock," he grunted in my ear.

"T-twelve... thirty... eight..."

"Fifty-some minutes on my dick." He laughed, breathless. "And look at you. Still beggin' for it. You're a fuckin' cumdump in training, you know that, faggot?"

"Yes sir... yes... please..."

"Please what?"

"Please let me cum... please, please, I can't..."

"Please let me cum, sir. Please. I'll do anything."

"You already are doin' anything." He laughed against my neck, low and mean, and gave me three hard, deep strokes that drove the breath out of me. "Look at you. Flat on your belly, face in your pillow, fuckin' your own sheets with that little dick 'cause it's the only thing you're allowed to rub it on. That's what you are now, Jakey. A desperate little bitch."

"Yes sir..."

"Say it."

"I'm a desperate little bitch, sir... please..."

He stopped moving.

He stayed buried in me, all of him, his weight crushing me into the mattress, his hairy chest heaving against my back. I could feel his heart hammering through my ribs. For a second I thought he was going to make me wait more. I thought I might actually start sobbing for real.

Then he hooked his arm under my chest and hauled me up.

He pulled me straight up off the mattress with his cock still inside me, until I was kneeling upright on the bed with my back plastered against his front, my knees spread wide over his, sitting all the way down on his dick. The new angle shoved him so deep I saw stars.

"Hhhhaaaaaahhhh... ohhh fuck... ohhh fuck, sir..."

"There you go." His arm wrapped tight across my chest like a seatbelt, his big hand clamped on my pec, holding me up and holding me still. His mouth was right at my ear. "Now. You wanna cum, Jakey?" His emphasis on my name felt caring and domineering at the same time.

"Yes sir!"

"Then you're gonna cum on my dick. You ain't touchin' yourself. I'm touchin' you. You understand? That load belongs to me same as the rest of you."

"Yes Tom. Yes sir, please..."

His other hand slid down my sweaty stomach, through the mess of precum smeared all over my belly, and wrapped around my cock.

"OHHHHH..."

His fist swallowed me. His palm was rough and callused from twenty years of busted knuckles and engine blocks, and he gripped me tight and slow, from the root all the way up, squeezing a fat bead of precum out of the tip and smearing it back down with his thumb.

Then he started fucking up into me again.

He drove his hips up off his heels, short, hard, deep, every stroke slamming the fat head of his cock right into that spot, and his fist jerked me in time with it. Up into me. Down on my dick. Up. Down. Up. Down. He bounced me on his lap like I weighed nothing, and every time I came down, I came down onto his fist and his cock at the same time.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Uhhh! Ahhhh!"

Smack. Smack. Smack.

"Look down," he growled. "Look at it. Look at your little dick in my hand."

I looked down. His huge hairy forearm was flexing across my stomach, his fist pumping my cock, the head poking out the top of it red and swollen and drooling all over his knuckles. Behind me I could feel his balls slapping up against my ass every time he thrust.

"Look how small it is in my hand," he said. "Cute. That's a pussyboy dick. Ain't ever gonna get used for nothin' but leakin' while a real man fucks you."

"Ohhh God... fuck Tom..."

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Yes... yes sir... I'm close, I'm so close..."

"Then cum, bitch. Cum on your dad's buddy's dick. Cum all over the bed you sleep in."

He slammed up into me and squeezed my cock and twisted his fist over the head, and that was it.

"AHHH FUCK! SIR! TOM! OHHH GOD, OHHH GOD, I'M CUMMING!"

It tore out of me. I'd been on the edge so long that it didn't feel like cumming. It felt like something breaking open. My whole body seized up around his cock, my pussy clamping down so hard he cursed, and my dick erupted in his fist. The first shot went so high it hit me in the chin. The next one splattered across my chest. Then another and another, pumping out of me in long, thick ropes that splashed all over my pillow and my headboard and my sheets, and he kept jerking me through every one of them, milking it out of me, his cock still grinding into that spot until I thought I was going to pass out.

"Hhhuuuuhhh... uhhhh... uhh... ah..."

"That's it. Give it to me. All of it. Every fuckin' drop."

He squeezed one last fat glob out of the tip with his thumb and let it drip onto the sheet. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. My pussy kept spasming around him, little aftershocks, squeezing and fluttering, and every time it did, he groaned into my neck.

"Holy fuck," he breathed. "Holy fuck, Jakey. You just about milked me dry with that pussy."

I couldn't talk. I just sagged back against him, limp, gasping, my cum dripping off my chin and running down my chest.

He brought his hand up in front of my face. It was coated. My cum was dripping off his fingers, strung between them, pooled in his palm.

"Clean it."

I didn't even hesitate. I opened my mouth, and he shoved his fingers in, and I sucked my own load off him. It tasted different than his. Thinner. Sweeter. I licked between his fingers and lapped his palm clean while he watched me over my shoulder, breathing hard against my ear.

"Good faggot," he whispered. "Now it's my turn."

He shoved me forward.

I fell face first onto the pillow, right into my own cum, and before I could even catch myself, he grabbed my hips and yanked my ass back up into the air. He didn't go slow anymore. He didn't ease into me. He gripped my hips so hard I knew there'd be bruises, and he started fucking me like he was trying to put his cock through the mattress.

The air caught in my lungs at his assault on my hole. "AHH! AHHH!"

"Shut up and take it!"

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

It was so much harder than before. Now that I'd cum, everything was a hundred times more sensitive, and every stroke over that spot inside me felt like being electrocuted, too much, way too much, and I was clawing at the sheets and crying into my cum-soaked pillow and pushing my ass back at him anyway.

"Fuckin' take it," he grunted, every word a thrust. "Take it. Your pussy's mine. You hear me, faggot? Mine!"

"Yours! It's yours! It's yours!"

"Whose bitch are you?"

"Yours, sir! I'm your bitch!"

"Fuckin' right you are. And I'm gonna fill you up. Gonna breed this little cherry pussy so deep you'll be leakin' me for a week."

The headboard was slamming the wall. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Something fell off my shelf. Sweat dripped off him onto my back like rain. His breathing went ragged, then turned into this deep animal grunting, and I could feel his cock swelling inside me, getting even thicker, even harder, throbbing against my walls.

The clock said 12:44.

He'd been fucking me for almost an hour.

"Here it comes," he gasped. "Here it comes, Jakey. I'm going to claim his pussy like I claimed your mouth. Fuck, here it fuckin' comes..."

He slammed in one last time, buried himself all the way to the root, grabbed my hips and dragged me back onto him so hard my knees came off the bed.

"FUUUUUCK! UNNNGHHH! TAKE MY FUCKIN' LOAD!"

I felt it.

Oh God, I felt it. His cock jerked inside me, and I felt the heat of it, this hot wet flood blasting deep up inside my guts. Then again. And again. Every pulse of his dick pushed more of him into me. He was grinding into me in slow tight circles while he unloaded, like he was trying to push it even deeper, like he wanted to make sure not a drop of it went to waste.

"Uhhh... uhhh... fuck... fuck, that's it... take all of my cum faggot..."

"I can feel it... I can feel you..."

"Good. Feel it. That's me in you now. This pussy's..." He gave one more weak thrust, and one more pulse twitched out of him.

"...mine."

He collapsed on top of me.

All two hundred and something pounds of him came down on my back and flattened me into the wet sheets, his cock still lodged deep inside me, his face mashed into the back of my neck. Neither of us moved. Neither of us said anything. We just lay there, panting, sweating, his chest pressed against my back and both of our hearts going like jackhammers.

The ceiling fan clicked around. The lawnmower down the street had stopped. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing like nothing in the whole world had happened.

I don't know how long we lay there. Long enough for my breathing to slow down. Long enough for his cock to soften inside me, slowly, until it finally slid out on its own with a soft, wet shhhlp. I felt a warm trickle follow it right away, running out of me and down over my balls onto the sheet.

"Don't you push that out," he mumbled into my neck. "Clench."

I tightened my pussy as best I could. Fuck. My pussy... not my hole anymore...

He rolled off me onto his back with a heavy groan, and the whole bed bounced. I stayed where I was, face down, my cheek in a cold wet spot on my pillow I didn't want to think about.

And slowly, like waking up from a dream, I came back.

It was a weird feeling. For the last hour, my whole world had been his voice and his cock and the next thing he told me to do. Now there was space in my head again, and all the normal stuff came rushing back into it at once. My sheets were soaked. My room smelled like a locker room. There was cum on my headboard. My ass hurt. My throat hurt. My hat was somewhere behind my bed. Mrs. Patterson was gardening just down the street from my open window.

And Tom was lying naked next to me in my bed.

Tom. Who coached my T-ball team. Who taught me to change a tire. Who was going to be at the Fourth of July barbecue next month, standing at the grill next to my dad, with pictures of his cock in my ass on his phone.

"Oh my God," I said into the pillow.

Tom laughed. It was his normal laugh, the big easy one, which somehow made it worse.

"There he is."

I rolled over onto my side, wincing as my ass twinged, and looked at him. He was lying on his back with one arm tucked behind his head, his hairy stomach rising and falling with clenched abs, his soft dick lying fat and wet against his thigh. He looked completely relaxed. He looked like he'd just finished mowing a lawn.

"Tom," I said. "Did we... I mean... what did we just..."

"Sir."

I stopped.

He didn't say it loud. He didn't even look at me. He just said it, flat, to the ceiling, the same way you'd correct a kid who said "ain't."

"I... we finished, though," I said. "Sorry, I mean, I just thought..."

He turned his head on the pillow and looked at me, and I stopped talking.

"You thought when I came, it was over," he said. "You thought you'd get your old Uncle Tom back. That we'd both just get dressed, and I'd go home, and we'd never talk about it, and next time I came over for football I'd mess up your hair and ask about school."

I didn't say anything. That was exactly what I'd thought.

"That ain't how this works, boy." He reached over and put his hand on the back of my neck. It wasn't rough. He just put it there, warm and heavy, and his thumb rubbed slow behind my ear. "You think I'd wait with a shower enema in my truck for three weeks for one afternoon? As soon as your dad told me you came out as gay, I pieced together what you were. You always following around your coaches, doing your best to please the adult men in the room. Your face would go red every time a guy took off his shirt at the lake." His thumb kept moving. "Today wasn't me gettin' lucky. Today was me collecting what's mine."

My throat was tight. "What about my dad?"

"What about him?"

"If he finds out..."

"He ain't gonna find out. Not unless I want him to. He will always be you dad, just like now I'll always be your daddy." His grip tightened just a little. "And that's another thing that's mine to decide now. Not yours."

"And the... the pictures, sir...?"

I didn't even notice I'd said it. Sir. It just came out. I saw him notice, though. That slow grin spread over his face.

"Look at that. Don't even need remindin' anymore." He let go of my neck and reached over me to the nightstand, his big hairy arm dragging across my chest, and picked up his phone. He thumbed it open and held it up so we could both see.

There I was.

It was a photo, taken from right above. My hands were holding my own cheeks open, my fingers pale where they were digging in, and his cock was buried in me all the way to the root, his dark bush mashed right up against my spread ass. You couldn't see my face. You could see my back, and the blue of my sheets, and the edge of my pillow, and the little Bulldogs logo on the pillowcase my aunt bought me when I got into State.

He swiped. Another one, the head just pushed in, my rim stretched pink and shiny and tight around it.

He swiped again, and it was the video. He hit play without asking me.

His cock, sliding out slow. My rim clinging to it. Then sliding back in, inch by inch, and my voice, high and broken and tinny through the phone speaker:

"It's... it's a pussy, sir..."

"Whose pussy?"

"Yours! It's your pussy, sir!"

I made a sound I'd never made before and shoved my face into the pillow.

Tom laughed so hard the bed shook.

"Oh, I'm gonna get some mileage outta that one." He paused the video and tapped the screen, and I heard it whoosh. "Private folder. Locked. Nobody sees it but me. That's the moment I took what's mine, and I'm keepin' it forever. Some guys frame their first deer. I got that."

"What if somebody sees it?"

"Nobody's gonna see it, 'cause I ain't showin' it to nobody. You're my faggot, Jakey. I don't share." He set the phone face down on his chest. "As long as you keep bein' a good boy, that's just for me to jerk off to when you ain't around. Got it?"

As long as you keep bein' a good boy.

He said it so casual. He didn't make it sound like a threat. But it sat in my stomach right next to his load, warm and heavy, and I couldn't tell anymore if the twist in my gut was fear or something else.

"Yes, daddy."

"Good boy." He slapped my ass, hard, right on the bruised spot, and I yelped. Then he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. "Now go get your jock."

"My jock?"

"Your jock. The one you left on the bathroom floor like a slob. Go get it and put it on."

I blinked at him. "Shouldn't I... I mean, shouldn't I shower first?"

He turned around on the edge of the bed and looked at me, and his face did that thing again, the flat patient look, like he was waiting for me to hear what I'd just said.

"You ain't showerin'."

"But I'm..."

"You're covered in my sweat and your own cum and you got my load in your pussy." He shrugged. "Yeah. That's the point, faggot. You ain't washin' me off. Not today. You don't wash me off till I say you do."

My face went hot again. Under it, my cock gave a weak, sore twitch against my thigh, which was impossible. I'd just cum harder than I'd ever cum in my life.

"Go on. Get the jock. And take a piss while you're in there, 'cause you ain't gonna get another chance for a while." He stood up and stretched, his arms way up over his head, and his whole body pulled tight, his hairy pits wide open, his soft cock swinging. "Clench the whole time. If I see a drop of my load on that bathroom floor, you're lickin' it up."

"Yes, sir."

I got off the bed slow. My legs felt like wet noodles, and my ass ached deep inside, a hot stretched throb that I felt every time I moved. I walked down the hall bow-legged, clenching so hard my cheeks hurt, holding his cum inside me like he told me to.

Behind me I heard my bed creak as he stood up, and then I heard the soft scrape of my dresser drawer sliding open.

He must be looking for a towel or one of my t-shirts to wipe his dick off. I was thinking about my ass, and the stinging spank marks on it, and the fact that I'd just been fucked for over an hour by a man who used to buy me Slurpees after T-ball.

The bathroom was a mess. There was water all over the floor and the tub, the lube bottle sitting tipped over on the counter, the shower shot hose still coiled in the tub like a silver snake. His towel was lying in a damp heap where I'd dropped it. His shorts were wadded in the corner next to the hamper. My jockstrap was right where I'd stepped out of it, a crumpled little pile of white cotton and elastic, the pouch still stiff and yellowed from all the precum I'd soaked into it that morning.

I sat down on the toilet and pissed, slow, my cock so sore and sensitive that it stung a little. I kept my hole clenched the whole time, which was harder than it sounds. When I was done, I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror again.

I looked wrecked.

My hair was sweaty and flattened. My lips were swollen and chapped. My chin was crusted with dried cum, and there was more of it dried in streaks across my chest. There were red finger marks on my hips, and a pink bite mark on my shoulder, and a beard burn on my neck. When I turned around and looked over my shoulder, both my ass cheeks were blotchy and red with the outlines of his hand.

I looked used.

I looked like his.

I picked up my jock and stepped into it and pulled it up. The pouch was cold and clammy where it had dried, and when it closed around my sore balls and soft dick, I let out a little whimper. The straps framed my ass, pushing it up, and I could feel the cool air against my well-fucked hole.

I stood there for a second longer than I needed to.

Then I went back down the hall.

My bedroom was empty.

I stopped in the doorway. The sheets were a wrecked, twisted, soaking mess, the pillow stained dark where my face had been, a drying white streak of my cum running down the slats of the headboard. My comforter was still in a heap on the floor. The dresser drawers were all shut. His phone was gone from the nightstand. So were his shorts, which had been lying on the floor by the closet since round one.

He wasn't there.

"Tom?" I said. Then quieter, because it felt wrong. "Sir?"

Nothing.

For one awful second I thought he'd left. I thought that was it, that he'd gotten what he wanted and walked out the front door, and I'd be standing here in my cum-stiff jockstrap with my ass full of his load forever. My heart jumped into my throat.

Then I heard the side door downstairs bang shut, and the slap of the big trash can lid out by the garage, and heavy footsteps coming back up the stairs.

Tom walked in barefoot, in nothing but his shortss, the waistband hanging low enough that his bush showed above the zipper. He was wiping his hands off on his thighs.

"Where'd you go?" I asked.

"Out." He walked right past me without explaining, picked my backpack up off my desk chair, and dumped it upside down. The book I was reading hit the carpet with a thud. My laptop charger. A half-eaten bag of pretzels. Three pens and a crumpled parking pass for State orientation.

"Hey..."

He tossed the empty backpack at my chest. I caught it.

"Pack your shit, boy. Whatever you need for the night. You're sleepin' over."

"Sleeping over? At your place?"

"Did I say my place?" He grinned. "I said you're sleepin' over. Toothbrush. Phone charger. Your wallet. Your meds if you got any. Whatever you need that you can't live without for a night or two."

"A night or two?"

"Your dad is gone for the week til Sunday night, right? He told me himself. Asked me to keep an eye on you." His grin got wider. "So I'm keepin' an eye on you."

I stared at him. My mind went straight to my dad's voice at breakfast on Friday morning, cheerful, pulling his cooler out to the truck: Tom'll check in on you, bud. Call him if you need anything.

He sure was checking in.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. Let me just grab some clothes and..."

"Nope."

I looked at him.

"You don't need clothes," he said, like it was obvious. "Where you're goin', you won't be wearin' 'em."

"But... I... what am I supposed to wear to get there?"

He looked me up and down, slow. My bare chest with the dried cum still crusted on it. My bruised hips. The dingy pouch of my jock. My bare legs. Then he bent over, reached behind my bed, fished around for a second, and came up with my backwards hat. He brushed a dust bunny off it and set it on my head himself, adjusted it, and tugged the bill down at the back of my neck so it sat just right.

"That," he said. "That's what you're wearin'."

"I can't..."

"You can, bitch."

"But... daddy... the neighbors... Mrs. Patterson's out front, you said so..."

"Yep." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And you're gonna walk right past her."

My stomach dropped through the floor. My dick throbbed in my pouch. Both at the same time. I didn't know which one I hated more.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, sir. Just a pair of shorts. Just let me..."

"You know what you sound like right now?" he said. "You sound like a pussy. And you know what, you got one. You got a sopping wet pussy full of my cum right now. That's what you are, Jakey, a pussyboy. And a pussyboy don't get to decide what he wears." He stepped in close. I could smell him again, sweat and sex and his pits, and my knees went weak all over again. "You got about five minutes to fill that backpack, or I'm walkin' you out there without the hat, too."

I packed.

My hands were shaking. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, my phone charger, my wallet, my phone. I stood in front of my dresser with my hand on the top drawer, thinking about grabbing one pair of boxers, one, just to have them, just in case, and I looked back over my shoulder and saw him leaning in the doorway watching me with his arms crossed and one eyebrow up.

I took my hand off the drawer.

"Good boy," he said.

I zipped the backpack and pulled it onto my shoulders. The straps sat right on my bare skin. Then I followed him down the stairs, still clenching, each step sending a little throb up through my ass.

At the bottom of the stairs, right by the front door, he stopped and turned around.

"One more thing." He pulled his phone out of his back pocket. "Turn around. Bend over."

"Sir..."

"Bend over, fag."

I turned around and bent over and grabbed my ankles right there in my front hallway, under the family photo of me and Dad at Disney World when I was twelve, the backpack sliding forward onto the back of my neck. He hooked a finger under my jock strap and tugged it aside, even though it wasn't really in the way, and I felt his thumb press right against my hole. I was so sore I hissed.

"Push out," he said. "Just a little."

I pushed. I felt it right away, warm, a slow thick trickle, his load easing out of me and starting to run down toward my balls.

Ch-chk.

"There we go. Cherry pussy, all bred and leakin'." Ch-chk. "Okay. Clench it back up. That's all you get to lose. Rest stays in."

I clenched. He scooped the drip off my taint with his finger and held it in front of my face, and I sucked it off without being told.

"Fuckin' learnin'," he said, almost proud. Then he opened the front door.

The sunlight hit me like a slap.

It was one in the afternoon on a Saturday in June, and the whole neighborhood was out. I could hear a sprinkler going somewhere. Somebody's radio playing country. Kids shrieking on a trampoline farther up the street. The air was hot and smelled like cut grass, my own cut grass, from this morning, from back when I was just Jake.

Tom walked out first, barefoot, his shorts loose and tank top in his hand, totally unbothered. He walked down the steps and stood on the front walk and turned around and waited.

I stood in the doorway.

My whole body was shaking. My hands were gripping the backpack straps so hard my knuckles had gone white. My face was on fire.

"Come on, Jakey." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "Don't make me come get you."

I stepped out onto the porch.

The concrete was hot under my bare feet. The breeze hit my exposed ass, my bare hole, and I knew that from the street, from the sidewalk, from anywhere, anybody could see me. Straps and nothing. Red handprints and bruises. My jock pouch hanging there, stained and filthy, everything I had barely held in by a little triangle of dingy cotton.

I went down the steps.

I walked down the front walk, past the flower bed my mom planted, onto the grass I'd just mowed. Tom fell in beside me, slow, matching my pace, one big hand resting on the back of my neck like he was walking a dog.

"Chin up," he said. "Let 'em look."

Up the short street of our cul-de-sac, Mrs. Patterson was kneeling in her flower bed in her big floppy sun hat with a trowel in her hand. She was facing her roses. She didn't look up.

"Afternoon, Barb!" Tom called.

My heart stopped.

She looked up. She shaded her eyes with her gardening glove. She looked right at us, Tom with his hairy, muscular torso gleaming in sweat in his loose shorts and me in my jockstrap and backwards hat and backpack, cum crusted on my chin.

"Afternoon, Tom!" She waved her trowel. "Hot one, huh?"

"Scorcher!" he called back. "Takin' the kid to the lake! Gonna get him all sunburnt!"

"Well, you two have fun!"

She went back to her roses.

I didn't breathe again until we were past the end of my driveway. I don't know if she didn't see. I don't know if she didn't have her glasses on. I don't know if she saw everything and just didn't care, or if she'd gone straight in to call my mother. I'll never know. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering in the ninety-degree heat.

And my dick was so hard it was poking straight out of the top of the pouch.

Tom looked down at it and laughed.

"Look at that. Little exhibitionist faggot I see." He squeezed the back of my neck. "You fuckin' loved that."

"I didn't," I said, and I sounded like I was about to cry.

"Your dick says different."

Tom's house was just next door, a pretty typical two-story house and his big black F-250 parked in the driveway, the tailgate still dusty from whatever job site he'd been on Friday. I'd been in that house a hundred times. Super Bowl parties. Poker nights with my dad where I'd sit on the arm of the couch and he'd let me hold his cards. I'd never once walked up to it in a jockstrap with a man's cum leaking out of me.

It felt like two miles to go not even a hundred feet.

Then we were on his lawn, and up his front walk, and he was punching the code into his door lock, and I was standing on his welcome mat with my ass hanging out to the whole street, waiting on him like a dog waiting to be let in.

The door swung open. Cool air from his AC rushed out over my sweaty chest. I almost cried from relief.

"Stay," he said.

I stopped.

"Right there. On the mat." He stepped inside and looked back at me. "I'll be two minutes. You don't come in, you don't sit down, you don't cover nothin' up. You stand there with your hands on those straps and you wait for me like a good little bitch."

"Sir, please, somebody's gonna..."

"Then somebody's gonna see a faggot in a jockstrap waitin' on his man." He shut the door in my face.

I stood there.

It was the longest two minutes of my life. The sun beat down on my bare shoulders and my bare ass. Sweat trickled down my spine and ran right into my crack, stinging my sore, swollen rim. A car went by on the street behind me. I heard it slow down. I heard it speed back up. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped my backpack straps and clenched my hole as tight as I could, his load sloshing warm and heavy inside me, and my dick stayed so hard it ached the whole time.

Behind the door I could hear him moving around. Drawers. A closet. Something heavy getting dragged. The fridge opening and closing. The clink of glass bottles.

When the door finally swung back open, he had a big black duffel bag over one shoulder and a cooler in his other hand, and he'd put a t-shirt on. Just a plain gray one, sleeves cut off, his hairy arms sticking out. He swapped out another pair of athletic shorts now. He had a pair of beat-up work boots on his feet. His keys were hooked on one finger.

He was dressed. I wasn't.

That was the point. I knew it was the point. It still made my face burn.

"Truck," he said, and walked right past me.

I followed him down the steps to the driveway. He tossed the duffel in the back seat of the cab, and it landed with a heavy thunk. He set the cooler on the floor behind the driver's seat. Then he walked around and opened the passenger door for me, like a gentleman, like it was a date.

"In you go, pussyboy."

I took off my backpack and climbed up into the cab. The leather seat had been baking in the sun all morning, and when my bare ass hit it, I yelped and practically jumped back out.

"Fuck! It's hot."

Tom laughed so hard he had to lean on the door.

"Sit down."

"It's burning, sir..."

"Sit. Down."

I sat. I bit my lip and lowered myself all the way down onto that scorching black leather, and the heat bit into my red, spanked cheeks and pressed right up against my sore hole, and I sat there whimpering with my backpack hugged against my chest. He watched me the whole time. Then he reached in and pulled the backpack out of my arms and tossed it on the floor at my feet.

"Nope. Ain't hidin' behind that. Hands on your thighs."

I put my hands on my thighs. My cock was standing straight up in the pouch, the tip poking out over the waistband, wet and red and right there in the sunlight for anybody walking by to see.

"Good faggot." He shut the door.

He walked around the front of the truck and climbed in behind the wheel, and the whole cab rocked under his weight. He started it up. The engine roared, deep and loud, and the AC blasted hot air in my face before it slowly started to cool. He backed out of his driveway with one arm slung over the back of my seat, looking over his shoulder, and his fingers brushed the back of my neck on the way.

We rolled down our street. Right past my house. My freshly cut grass. My bedroom window on the second floor, still wide open, the curtains moving a little in the breeze, my wrecked sheets right on the other side of it.

Mrs. Patterson looked up from her roses again and waved.

Tom honked twice and waved back.

I sank down in my seat so far I was practically on the floor mat.

"Sit up," he said, not even looking at me.

I sat up.

We turned out of the neighborhood onto Route 9, and he opened it up, the big engine growling, the trees and mailboxes whipping by. Every time we passed another car, I felt my whole body go rigid. Every pickup that pulled up beside us at a light, every minivan, every SUV sitting up high enough to look down into the cab. At the light by the Walgreens, a guy in a landscaping truck pulled up right next to my window and glanced over, and I stared straight ahead through the windshield with my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest. I don't know if he saw. Tom did. Tom grinned and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Sir," I finally said, when the light turned green and we pulled ahead. My voice came out tiny. "Where are we going?"

"The lake. Nobody around for miles. Nobody to hear you."

Nobody to hear you.

He said it the same way he'd said "Afternoon, Barb." Easy. Friendly. His thumb rubbed little circles on the inside of my thigh.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

He didn't answer. He just smiled at the road and turned the radio up.

I turned back around fast and stared at the dashboard.

I thought about my phone in the backpack at my feet. I thought about how easy it would be to text my dad. I thought about how I wouldn't, and how both of us knew I wouldn't. I thought about my bed back home, soaking wet and stinking of him, and how I was going to have to sleep on it Sunday night. I thought about the pictures on his phone. I thought about the word "pussy," and how it didn't even sound weird to me anymore.

Tom's hand slid up my leg. His fingers slipped under the edge of my pouch and wrapped around my balls and squeezed, firm, just enough to make me gasp.

"Hhhn..."

"Still leakin' my load into my seat, fag?"

I could feel it. A warm, slick little wetness spreading under me on the leather. I'd been clenching so long my ass was cramping.

"...Yes, sir."

"That's alright." He gave my balls one more squeeze and let go, patted my thigh twice, the way he'd pat the dash of his truck after it started up on a cold morning. "Gonna be a lot more of it by tomorrow."

He hit the turn signal. Click. Click. Click.

We left Route 9 behind and swung onto a narrow county road I'd only been down a few times, and the houses got farther apart, and then there weren't any houses at all, just cornfields and trees and the long gray strip of road shimmering in the heat ahead of us. Tom cranked the radio louder, rolled his window down, and hung his hairy elbow out of it, singing along off-key to some old Alan Jackson song like it was any other Saturday afternoon.

I sat beside him in my jockstrap and my backwards hat with my hands on my thighs, his cum seeping out of me into the leather, my dick throbbing against my stomach, and I watched the road unroll in front of us into nowhere.

Years ago, I was in a band. And me and the drummer would routinely stay later and drink, get stoned and watch or listen to different bands.

One night, somehow the topic went to porn and women. And how much he enjoyed a good slutty woman. We started picking different videos. And def noticed his growing bulge.

I was drunk and high… so when he mentioned he liked girls that can deep throat… I took my cue lol. I said, ‘well… I can do that… I’m good at it lol’.

He was taken back at first. But after a few minutes, and some reassuring it’s just getting off, his pants unzipped, and out plopped a 7” and thick cock.

I immediately dropped to my knees and took him to the balls down my throat. It had been a while since I had a nice cock, so I savored it.

After teasing and sucking his head and then slowly deep throating him several times (as he said he liked that… and he sure did), I picked up my rhythm and could feel him tensing rather quickly. So I cupped his balls as I took him balls deep and felt him explode down my throat.

We had several other fun adventures over the years. And even sometimes to this day.

Maybe I’ll tell another story soon

I stood there dripping in the tub for a few seconds after he left, listening to his heavy footsteps going down the hall and the creak of my bedroom floor when he stepped through the door.

Two minutes.

I climbed out and picked up his towel off the bathmat. It was damp from his body, warm in the middle, and when I pressed it against my face to dry off, it smelled like him. Soap and sweat and something underneath that was just Tom. I dried my chest and my arms and my legs, and then I reached back and dried between my cheeks, and my fingers brushed my hole. It was still slick. Still soft. It twitched against my fingertips like it knew what was coming.

I almost lost my nerve right then.

I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. My lips were puffy and red. There was a pink mark on my chest where his knees had been. My cock was standing straight up, bobbing every time my heart beat, the head shiny and leaking. I looked like somebody I didn't know.

Eighteen years old. Valedictorian. Headed off to college in August. And in about a minute and a half, my dad's best friend was going to fuck me for the first time in my own bed.

"Clock's ticking, boy."

His voice came down the hall, calm and low, and my feet were moving before I even decided to move them.

My bedroom door was wide open. Tom was standing beside my bed, naked, his cock jutting straight out in front of him, so hard it was bouncing a little with his pulse. He had the lube bottle in one hand. His phone was lying face down on my nightstand next to my alarm clock, and the red numbers said 11:41.

He'd pulled my comforter all the way off and thrown it in a heap on the floor. It was just my sheets now. My plain blue sheets, wrinkled from where I'd been pinned down on them earlier with his cock in my throat.

"Not on top of the blanket," he said, like he could read my mind. "On the sheets. Right where you sleep."

He patted the middle of the mattress.

"Every night from now on, you're gonna lay your head down on this bed, and you're gonna know. This is where you lost your mouth to me. This is where you lost your ass to me. And you're gonna smell it, too, 'cause I'm gonna sweat all over these sheets and leak all over 'em, and you ain't washing 'em. Hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Face down. Ass up. Show me what I'm taking."

I crawled onto the bed. I pushed my face down into my pillow, the same pillow I'd slept on last night thinking about nothing, and I pulled my knees up under me and pushed my ass up in the air. I spread my knees wide. The air from the ceiling fan hit my wet hole, and I shivered all over.

Tom didn't touch me. I could hear him breathing behind me. I could feel him looking.

"Reach back," he said. "Both hands. Spread it for me."

My face burned against the pillowcase. I reached back and grabbed my own cheeks and pulled them apart, and I felt my hole open up a little in the air, felt it flutter, exposed and pink and empty.

"Goddamn, Jakey."

The mattress dipped hard as he climbed up behind me. His knees pushed between mine and shoved my legs even wider. Then I felt his hands on top of mine, big and rough, squeezing my fingers into my own ass, holding me open.

Then I felt his tongue.

"Ohhh! Ohhh fuck, Tom... sir... oh God..."

He didn't tease. He buried his whole face in my crack and licked me from my balls all the way up, slow, his 5 o’clock shadow scraping the insides of my cheeks, and then he went back down and pressed his tongue flat against my hole and just held it there, hot and wet and heavy. Then he started working it. Circles. Little flicks. Then he pointed it and pushed, and it slid inside me, and I swear my eyes rolled back.

The sounds he was making back there were filthy. Wet, sloppy, slurping sounds, like he was eating a peach. He groaned into me, and I felt the vibration all the way up my spine. My cock was trapped against my stomach, throbbing, dripping a puddle onto my sheets.

He ate my ass for what felt like forever, until I was pushing back against his face and grinding on his tongue without even meaning to, until I was babbling stuff into my pillow that didn't even make sense. Then he pulled back and spit right on my hole.

"Listen to you," he said, and I could hear the grin in it. "Grinding on my face like a little slut."

The word hit me like a slap. Nobody had ever called me that. Nobody had ever called me anything except Jake, or Jakey, or the smart one. My face got hotter, and my cock jerked against the sheet, and Tom laughed, because of course he saw it.

I heard the pump of the lube bottle. Two fingers pressed against me, cold and slick, and he didn't stop at the tip this time. He pushed both of them in slow, steady, all the way to his knuckles.

"Ahhh! Ungh... it's... it's big..."

"That's two fingers, boy." He laughed, low. "You think two fingers is big, you got a real long afternoon ahead of you."

He scissored them. He twisted them. He curled them down and found that spot again, the one from the shower, and pressed it until my whole body jerked and a long string of precum dribbled out of me onto the sheet. Then he pulled them almost out and slid a third one in with them.

"Ohhhh God... ohhh fuck, Tom, it burns..."

"Breathe through it. Push out. Same as your throat. Same as the nozzle. Your body knows what to do, Jakey, you just gotta quit fighting it." He gave the back of my head a light smack and the distraction made me open up easier, showing me it’s just in my head.

And slowly, so slowly, the burning faded into this deep stretched ache, a fullness that was almost good, and then it was good, and then I was rocking back on his three fingers and moaning like a whore.

"There it is." His voice had gone rough. "There's my little slut. Fuckin' himself on my fingers. Listen to you."

He slid his fingers out. My hole gaped for a second and clenched on nothing, and I whimpered into my pillow.

"Please..."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

"Louder."

"Please fuck me, sir!"

"Hell yeah. But remember you asked for it." I could hear the smirk on his face.

The mattress shifted. I heard the lube bottle pump twice, then the slick, wet sound of him working it over his cock, slow and heavy. Then there was a quieter sound, the little scrape of his phone sliding off my nightstand. I didn't think anything of it. I didn't think anything of anything, because a second later I felt the fat, blunt head of his cock press right up against my hole, and every single thought I had went straight out of my head.

It was so much bigger than his fingers. Even after three of them, even after all that stretching, it felt like he was pressing a fist against me. He didn't push. He just rested it there, hot and slick, and slid it up and down my crack a few times, letting the head catch on my rim every time it passed over.

"Look at that," he muttered. "Look at that little hole kissing my dick. It wants me, Jakey."

"Yes, sir... please..."

"Reach back and hold yourself open. Don't let go till I tell you."

I grabbed my cheeks again and spread myself as wide as I could. His one hand settled on my hip, heavy and hot. I couldn't feel his other hand anywhere on me. I'd find out later exactly what it was doing.

"Push out for me, boy. Big breath. Push."

I pushed.

He leaned in.

"Ahhh FUCK! Ohhh God, ohhh God, Tom, it's too big, it's too..."

The head popped through my ring, and the whole world went white. It burned. It stretched me so wide I thought I was going to split down the middle, this huge thick blunt thing wedged inside the tightest part of me, and my whole body locked up around it. I was squeezing so hard I could feel his pulse.

He didn't move. He held perfectly still with just the head inside me and let me shake.

"Breathe," he said, real quiet. "Just the head, boy. Just the head. You're doing so good. Breathe for me."

"Hhhuh... hhhuh... hhhuh..."

"There you go. Feel it. That's my cock in you. Nobody's ever been in there, and now I am. That's forever, Jakey. That's mine now. Nobody gets to be first in this ass but me, and here I am."

I don't know why, but that was what did it. Hearing him say it. Something in my chest let go, and my hole let go with it, and I felt myself loosen around him just a tiny bit.

He felt it too.

"Good boy," he breathed, and he started to sink in.

Slowly he pushed forward. So slow. One inch, then he'd let me breathe, then another. Every inch was bigger than the last. His cock was so thick it was pushing my insides out of the way, filling places in me I didn't know could be filled, and I could feel every vein, every ridge, the foreskin bunched up behind the head dragging against my walls as he slid deeper.

"Ohhhh... ohhhh... ohhhh my God..."

"Halfway, boy."

"Halfway?!"

He laughed. It was a deep, dirty laugh, and I felt it through his cock. He kept going. Deeper and deeper, until I was sure he had to be in my stomach, and then I felt his wiry pubes press against my spread cheeks, his heavy balls settle against mine, and he stopped.

"That's all of it." His voice was rough and shaky now. "Every fuckin' inch. You took it, Jakey. Took all of my big dick on the first try."

I was crying a little. It hurt, but that wasn't why. It was so much. I was so full I couldn't think, and my cock was so hard it hurt, and my dad's best friend was buried balls deep in my ass on the bed I'd slept in since I was a kid, and I'd never wanted anything more in my whole life.

I thought I heard a soft clicking sound but my mind must have been playing tricks on me because I quickly felt Tom’s hand slid up my back and pushed my face deeper into the pillow.

There it was again.

Ch-chk. Ch-chk.

My face went so hot. He was taking pictures. Of his cock, buried in me. Of my hands holding myself open for him. Of me.

"Gotta remember this," he murmured, and I heard a different sound, a soft little ding, and I knew that one too. He was recording. "Gotta remember the day I claimed it. Your virginity is mine. Look at your pussy stretched around my thick cock."

"My... my what?"

He pulled back slow, almost all the way out, and I felt my rim grab at him, clinging to the head like it didn't want him to leave. Then he slid all the way back in, slow and smooth, till his balls kissed mine again.

"Fuuuuucccckkkkkkkkk..."

"Your pussy." He did it again, slow, long, deep. I could picture the phone in his hand, angled down, watching his cock glistening as it disappeared into me. "That's what it is now. A hole's just a hole, boy. It's a one way thing. A pussy's for taking cock. And that's all this is ever gonna be for from now on, ain't it?"

He pulled back and slammed in, one hard stroke.

Unnnph. His cock battering into my guts, knocking the air out of me in shock. My hole tightening at the shock.

"Say it for the camera. What is it?"

The camera. Oh God. My voice was going on there. My voice and my ass and his cock.

"It's... it's a pussy, sir..."

"Whose pussy?"

"Yours. It's your pussy, Tom."

"Goddamn right it is." Another soft ding. "That's for me. Nobody else ever sees it. Just me, any time I want to watch that little cherry pussy swallow my cock."

The phone clattered back onto the nightstand. Both of his hands grabbed my hips.

"Grab the headboard boy, it’s time for you to learn how a man fucks."

I let go and reached out and wrapped my fingers around the wooden slats of my headboard, and Tom started to fuck me.

Long, deep strokes, all the way out to the head and all the way back in, so I could feel every inch every time. The burn was fading. What was left behind was this deep, heavy, stretched-out ache that throbbed every time he bottomed out, and under it something warm was building. Every time he pulled out, my pussy clung to him. Every time he pushed in, the head of his cock rubbed right over that spot inside me, and I'd jerk and squeal into my pillow.

Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.

The lube was loud. The bed was louder. My headboard started knocking against the wall, soft at first, then harder as he sped up.

"That's it," he grunted. "Loosening up. Your pussy's learning what it's for now."

He picked up speed. His hips started slapping my ass, smack, smack, smack, and my cheeks jiggled every time like he'd said they would. He grabbed my ass and squeezed, kneading the meat of it while he pounded into me, and then he spanked me, hard, right on the cheek, and my pussy clenched around him so tight he hissed.

"Fuck! You like that, pussyboy? Do that again."

Pussyboy. My brain snagged on it. He'd made it up on the spot, or maybe he hadn't, maybe he'd been saving it. Either way it went straight down my spine and into my dick.

He smacked the other side. I clenched again.

"Hnnngh! Yes sir!"

"There you go. Good little pussyboy. Squeezin' that dick like you were born to."

I don't know how long he fucked me like that. My knees started sliding apart on the sheets. My back arched so low my face was mashed sideways into the pillow, and I could see the red numbers on the alarm clock past my own arm. 11:52. My cock was swinging under me, slapping my stomach, leaving wet streaks all over my belly and the sheet.

He reached under me and wrapped one big fist around it. One stroke.

"Ohhhhhh..."

He let go.

"Not yet. Told you. You don't touch it, and you don't cum till I say."

"Please, sir, please..."

"Beg all you want, bitch. Ain't gonna change nothing."

Bitch. He said it so easy. The same voice that used to yell "Nice hit, Jakey!" from the bleachers at my Little League games. The same voice that called his buds or my dad "brother." Now it was calling me his bitch with his cock in my ass, and I was moaning into my pillow like I'd waited my whole life to hear it.

He pulled out all the way.

The emptiness was awful. My hole gaped and clenched on nothing, and I actually reached back for him like an idiot, whining, and he just laughed and grabbed me by the hip and flipped me over onto my back like I didn't weigh anything.

"I wanna see your face," he said. "Wanna see what your face does when I'm inside you."

He grabbed my ankles and pushed my legs up and back until my knees were by my ears and my ass was tilted up off the mattress, wide open for him. Then he grabbed his dick, lined it up, and sank back in, all the way, in one long smooth slide.

"Uuhhhhhhhhhhh..."

It was different on my back. Deeper somehow. He was hitting something way up inside me that made my legs shake. And I could see him now. I could see all of him.

He was huge over me. His big hairy chest was shiny with sweat, his stomach flexing every time he thrust, his arms bulging where he was holding my legs back. His face was red, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked right onto mine. I'd known that face my whole life. I'd seen it at every Thanksgiving, every Fourth of July. I'd seen it lean over the grill and tell my dad a dirty joke. I'd never seen it look like this, hungry and mean and owning me.

"There it is," he growled. "There's that face. Look at you. Little fag's eyes rollin' back in his head."

Fag.

I flinched. I couldn't help it. That word had been thrown at me in a hallway exactly once, sophomore year, and I'd gone home and cried about it in this same bed. Tom saw the flinch. He slowed down, his cock buried to the root, and he leaned his face right down over mine.

"Look at me."

I looked.

"You know who'd pin a kid against a locker and call him that?" he said, real low. "Some little prick who's scared of what you are. That ain't me. I ain't scared of what you are, Jakey. I'm balls deep in what you are." He ground his hips into me, slow, and the head of his cock pushed right against that deep spot, and my whole body arched.

His worry pubes scratched at my pussy as his moved his hips. "When I say it, I mean you're mine. I mean you're a faggot who just found out what he's for and it’s something you should be proud of. Look how well you are taking my big cock on the first try. Now you tell me what you are."

My throat closed up. My cock was so hard it was leaking straight onto my stomach in a steady drip.

"I'm... I'm a faggot, sir."

"Whose faggot?"

"Yours."

"That's right." He leaned down, folded me in half, and kissed me.

I didn't expect it. He hadn't kissed me once all morning. His stubble scraped my face, and his tongue shoved into my mouth, and he kissed me hard and sloppy with his cock buried in me. . His fingers and cock had been in both holes already, but his tongue hadn’t claimed my mouth yet. His final claiming. I moaned into his mouth and wrapped my arms around his thick neck and held on.

"Mmmph... mmmnnh... mmmm..."

When he pulled back, a string of spit stretched between our lips. He let it fall onto my chin and didn't wipe it off.

Then he really started fucking me.

He pinned my legs to the mattress with his forearms and drove into me fast and hard, his whole weight behind every thrust. The bed was creaking like it was going to break. The headboard was banging the wall so hard I thought it would leave a dent. His balls were slapping my ass, wet, loud, smack-smack-smack-smack, and every time he slammed home, I got pushed a little farther up the mattress, until my head was mashed up against the headboard.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Uhhh! Fuuuck!"

"Take it! Take my fuckin' cock, faggot! That's what you wanted, ain't it? Laid in this bed every night wishin' some big man would come wreck your pussy?"

"Yes! Yes sir!"

"Say it!"

"I wanted it! I wanted to get fucked by a big cock!"

"Wanted your daddy's buddy to fuck you." His hips hammered down. "Dirty little fag."

Sweat was dripping off him onto me. It ran down his chest and splashed onto my stomach. It dripped off his nose and landed on my lips, and I licked it off. It was soaking my sheets under us. I could smell him everywhere, his pits, his crotch, the sweat pouring off him, the thick funky smell of sex filling up my whole room, and I knew it was soaking into the bed. I knew I'd be lying in it tonight.

He fucked me on my back until I lost track. Then he pulled out again, and my pussy made this awful wet sucking sound, and he flipped me onto my side and climbed in behind me, spooning me. He hooked one arm under my knee and hiked my leg up in the air and slid back in from behind, and this time he went slow again, long lazy strokes, his mouth right against my ear.

"You know what time it is?"

I looked at the clock. 12:14.

"Twelve-fourteen, sir."

"Been fuckin' you over half an hour, slut. Know why I ain't cum yet?"

"N-no, sir..."

"'Cause I already gave you one load this morning. Pumped your belly full. So this one's gonna take its sweet fuckin' time." He bit my earlobe, and I gasped. "You're gonna be on this dick a real long time, pussyboy."

He fucked me on my side for a while. Slow and deep, then fast and hard, then slow again, grinding his hips in circles with his cock buried in me, until I couldn't tell where my body stopped and his started. He licked my neck. He bit my shoulder. He reached around and pinched my nipple and twisted it, and I yelped, and my pussy squeezed down on him, and he groaned right into my ear.

"Fuck, you're a natural. Squeeze it again."

I squeezed.

"Ohhh, that's it. That's my good little pussy." He kissed the back of my neck, almost sweet, then whispered right into my ear. "Born cocksucker. Born bottom. Smartest kid in the class, and the only thing he's really good at is bein' a hole for a man."

I should've hated that. Instead I moaned so loud he had to clap his hand over my mouth.

"Easy. Mrs. Patterson's out gardening, and that window's open." He laughed when my eyes went wide over his fingers. "Or don't. Let the whole street hear what you are. Your call, fag."

He pulled out and rolled onto his back in the middle of my bed, his cock standing straight up, purple and shiny and slick with lube.

"Climb on."

I was shaking so much I could barely move. I crawled over him and straddled his hips, and he grabbed his dick and held it straight up, and I looked down at it, at the size of it, and couldn't believe it had been inside me.

"Sit down on it, bitch. Show me how bad you want it."

I reached back and lined the head up with my hole and sat down.

It went in so naturally now. My pussy just opened up for him like it had been made for it, and I sank down and down and down until I was sitting on his lap with all of him inside me, my hands flat on his hairy chest.

"Ride it."

I'd never done anything like it before. I didn't know how. I lifted up, clumsy, and sat back down, and the head of his cock rammed right into my spot, and I nearly fell over.

"OHHH FUCK!"

"There you go. Again."

I did it again. And again. I found a rhythm. Bouncing on him. Grinding. Rolling my hips the way he showed me with his hands. He lay back with his hands behind his head and watched me fuck myself on his dick, grinning up at me, his pits wide open, the sweat glistening and dripping onto both of my pillows.

"Look at you. Two hours ago you were mowing the lawn. Now you're bouncing on my dick like a two-dollar whore." He reached up and slapped my chest, right across my pec. Smack. "Faster, fag."

I went faster. My thighs were burning. My cock was flopping up and down, slapping his stomach and mine, leaving trails of precum in his belly hair. Bed creak. Ass slap. My own voice, high and whiny and breathless.

"Uhn! Uhn! Uhn! Ahhh! Sir! Sir, please, I need to... I need to cum, please..."

He watched my face for a long moment. Then he reached over without looking and picked his phone back up.

"Keep ridin'. Look right here."

He pointed it up at me. I could see the little red dot in the corner of the screen.

"Tell the camera what you are."

I almost stopped. My whole body went hot and cold at once. He smacked my thigh, hard.

"Didn't say stop."

I kept bouncing. I looked right into the lens, my face soaked with sweat and spit and tears, my cock bobbing in the frame.

"I'm... I'm your fag, sir."

"Louder."

"I'm your faggot! I'm your pussyboy! My pussy's yours!"

"Good boy." He stopped recording and tossed the phone on the pillow. "Gonna watch that one a lot."

So when I was 19 I had my first experience with a man. I was working this closing shift in the super market and was working with this older dude 32m broad shoulders always used to pick on me and tell me I was lazy at work. But the same time had obession with touching me, like shoving or lightly push me to do stuff. I thought he was hot but he could never know, he would just pick on me more. I have always been with women but the way he was kinda dominating me, turned me on. Anyway we are closing and we were kinda in a hurry cause we needed to close quickly to not go overtime. He called me into the office and I was complaining on my way in there cause I was already behind on my stuff. He told med to shut up and sit down. Then he said - “your too late again, ur always on these closing shift and if it doesn’t stop I may have to tell our manager” I turned to go on with my work. He walked between me and door and closed in my head. “I can close this place in 10 minutes by myself why am I slower with you”

I don’t know I answered. I tried to go past him. But he took hold of me and dragged me towards him.. he kissed me and I was so shocked I just kissed back I didn’t know what to do.. he grabbed my ass and moaned in my mouth while kissing me..

I was getting so hard in my pants and he felt that… oh somebody likes it, he growled in my ear.

He pushed me on my knees. I was so horny I wanted this for so long but didn’t know till now. He pulled down his pants and said “lick you slut” a 8 inch cocked popped out his underwear and I started licking his balls and shaft till he couldn’t wait anymore and put it in my mouth facefucking me. There was saliva everywhere and I took him as good as could.. I was so horny. 10 min after he started fucking me mouth quicker and he called me slut and said take daddy’s baby’s.. that send me over the edge and I cummed in my pants and at the same time he came in my mouth… 5-6-7 long strokes and he came so much…

He told me to go home and that he would close alone.. and he spanked my ass on the way out.. to this day.. I’m still unhappy that we didn’t do more and cause I would have loved to feel him inside… and I’m still a anal virgin..to this day.

All true.. Hope you enjoyed…

Im a straight male, I would love to be taken, stripped, tied up, and thrown into a room of gay horny men

So for the longest time I stopped buying toys because it was just a hassle to hide at one point and I never really needed it anymore. Getting a job with god awfully boring men as coworkers changed that really quick.

My first two days were horrid, because it was just straight men who all had some level of homophobia, did NOT give an ounce of manliness, and overall just lame. As boring as it is, me being me always somehow manages to get horny and whenever I get a 20 minute break idk what to do with it except talk to horny men online and get riled up.

I decided Im getting a dildo no matter what and take it to work for the third day and so I did. I kept my toy in my locker for emergency uses and never take it home, and for the past week my breaks have been amazing, and even when everyone leaves for 5 minute smoke breaks, I go for my dildo break and I love it!!

Just wanted to let that out into the universe x

Everyone is over 18

Quick recap: Ethan, my straight college roommate, came back horny after a canceled date, and I helped him relieve some tension. After our first night together, he couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. A few days later, while we watched porn and jerked off together, he found himself more interested in me than the screen. Eventually, he took the initiative and made me come for the first time.

After that night, Ethan could not pretend as well as before.

That did not mean he suddenly became brave. He could still spend half the day acting as if nothing between us had changed. He went to class, came back from the gym, tossed his bag under the bed, and answered my questions in the same short tone as always.

But there was something new in him.

It was no longer only about the shame of letting me touch him. I knew that. I had seen it after the first night, when he did not know what to do with the fact that my hand and my mouth had given him so much pleasure.

Now it was different.

Now Ethan knew that he had also liked doing something to me.

I saw it in his glances. In the way he sometimes looked at my hands, as if he was remembering his own hand on my body. In the way his eyes lingered on my mouth a little too long, then quickly darted away, as if he was afraid he had given too much away.

He did not ask anything directly.

And I think that said the most.

A few times, he looked like he wanted to say something. He would sit on his bed with his phone in his hand, not even looking at the screen. He would open his mouth, take a breath, and then only shake his head and go back to pretending everything was normal.

I did not push.

Partly because I liked watching him get there on his own. Partly because I knew that if something happened this time, it had to come from him.

Because for the first time, his curiosity was not circling around the question of what I could do to him.

Now it was about something else.

I could see him slowly starting to wonder what he could do to me.

And I knew that sooner or later, Ethan would find a way to look for the answer.

The answer came sooner than I expected.

Two days later, I came back from class earlier than usual. The dorm hallway was loud, someone was laughing behind the wall, someone was slamming doors, but when I reached our room, it was surprisingly quiet inside.

I thought Ethan was not there.

I opened the door without knocking.

And stopped in the doorway.

Ethan was sitting on his bed with his laptop in front of him. He was so focused on the screen that for the first second, he did not even notice me. Only then did I see what he was watching.

Two guys. One kneeling between the other's legs. Mouth, tongue, hand, slow rhythm.

An oral scene.

But it was not the screen that stopped me the most.

It was Ethan.

He was leaning slightly forward, his face red with tension, one finger at his mouth. It did not look like a random gesture. He had it between his lips, slowly, uncertainly, as if he was trying to understand the movement he had just been watching. As if his body was learning something before his mind had managed to admit it.

"Practicing?" I asked calmly.

Ethan froze.

Then everything happened at once. He jerked, nearly slammed the laptop shut on his own fingers, and looked at me with such terror that it was as if I had caught him doing something much worse than being curious.

"It's not..." he started quickly. "It's not like that."

I walked into the room and closed the door behind me.

"No?"

"No. I mean... I was just..." He rubbed his face with his hand. "Fuck."

I did not laugh. I did not want him to feel humiliated. I could see how embarrassed he was, but beneath that shame, there was something else. Something that had not disappeared even now that the laptop was closed.

I stepped closer.

"You could have just asked."

Ethan only looked at me after a moment.

"I didn't know how."

That one sentence stayed between us longer than it should have.

It sounded different from an excuse. There was no joke in it, none of that nervous defense Ethan usually tried to hide behind whenever he could not name something. This time, he simply looked like someone who had genuinely tried to find the answer on his own because he was afraid to ask me directly.

I sat beside him on the bed.

"You don't have to make it into a huge thing," I said.

Ethan huffed quietly, but without conviction.

"Easy for you to say."

"I didn't say it was easy. I said it doesn't have to be huge."

For a moment, he looked at the closed laptop.

"It's not like I want to become an expert or something."

"No," I replied calmly. "You just want to know why you keep watching it."

That hit.

I saw it in the way his jaw tightened for a second and his eyes darted away. He did not deny it. Not this time.

"After that night..." he started quietly. "When I touched you... I couldn't stop thinking about the way you reacted."

I did not move.

"And?"

Ethan swallowed.

"I wanted to know if I could do something more."

The words came out of him almost as a whisper. As if admitting it was harder than everything he had done before.

I turned more toward him.

For a moment, Ethan looked as if he wanted to pull back again. But then his gaze slid to my mouth, lower, to my body, and back to my eyes.

"Can I try it on you?" he asked quietly.

My heart beat harder.

"You can," I said.

I undressed slowly.

Ethan sat on the bed and watched. This time, he did not look away as quickly as before. He was embarrassed, of course, but beneath that embarrassment was focus. The same focus I had seen when he had his finger at his mouth and was trying to understand something he could not yet name.

When I stood in front of him, his breathing changed immediately.

"You don't have to rush," I said.

He nodded and slowly slid off the bed onto his knees. The sight alone did more to me than I wanted to show. Ethan, my straight roommate, the same guy who had come back frustrated a few days earlier after a canceled date with a girl, was now kneeling in front of me because he wanted to learn my reactions.

First, he placed his hands on my thighs.

They were warm. A little uncertain.

"So what now?" he asked quietly.

"Slowly at first," I answered. "Don't try to do everything at once. Watch how I react."

Ethan nodded. He leaned in and touched me with his lips carefully, almost too lightly. I sucked in a breath, and he immediately looked up, checking if he had done it right.

"Yeah," I said.

He tried again.

This time longer. Slower. His tongue moved uncertainly, but carefully, as if he was truly memorizing every breath I took. At first, he was clumsy, too cautious, tense at moments. But there was something incredibly arousing about it. It was not about perfection. It was about the fact that Ethan wanted to learn.

"Breathe," I said quietly.

He listened.

The longer it went on, the more confident he became. He started to understand when to slow down, when to use his tongue, when to add his hand. He reacted to my body the way I had reacted to his before.

At one point, I had to rest my hand on his shoulder.

"Ethan, I'm close," I said heavily. "You don't have to finish it."

I was about to pull away, but his hands tightened more firmly on my thighs.

He lifted his eyes.

"But I want to."

Those words went through me like electricity.

I did not have time to answer, because Ethan came back to me, more certain now than before. This time, he did not look like someone who was only practicing. He looked like someone who had made the decision himself.

I came in his mouth.

Ethan froze for a second, surprised by the intensity of the moment, but he did not pull away immediately. Only when it was over did he draw back slowly and sit on his heels, breathing hard, his eyes wide open.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Finally, Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at me, still breathing heavily.

"That was different than I thought," he said quietly.

"Worse?"

He immediately shook his head.

"No."

He hesitated, and then his eyes drifted down to my body again.

"More real."

I did not answer.

Ethan swallowed and added more quietly:

"I think that's why I wanted to try it so badly."

This happened a few weeks ago.

My mom left for work and my gf went home.

I was alone bored and horny so I decided to have some fun.

I took a bit of cocaine and looked through my gfs clothes.

I put on a red string a black leather bra with the matching skirt and tied my tiny clit and balls with rope.

I also put in the biggest plug I had.

I hopped on a dating app and one guy messaged me. He wasnt far from me about 5 minutes. I already met him a few times but only sucked him till then. We tried anal once but it hurt so we stopped. He has an 19 cm long and 5 cm wide cock.

Well something in me decided that Ill go full whore today. So I took another line, smeared some on my asshole and wrote the following to him:

When I come over I want you to let me suck you hard. Then you tie my hands togheter and tape my mouth shut so that I cannot say stop no matter what.

He instantly said come right now.

So I took another big line covered myself with a hoodie and pants and drove over to him.

I went inside and instantly to the bathroom. I undressed, snorted another big line and felt a bit scared but really horny knowing he is gonna use me like a cheap toy.

My vision was already blurry and I couldnt really think straight anymore. We went to the bedroom and he took of his pants, his cock instantly shot out in my face.

I started to lick his tip and make it wet, I took it in my mouth as far as I could. I gagged and could not breathe but I did not care and neither did he.

He let me suck him a bit until he told me to stand up.

He took the tape I had and started to tie my hands behind my back. Next he taped my mouth shut and pushed me onto the bed.

I laid there unable to fight back, unable to scream or tell him to stop if it hurts. I was so horny and so nervous at the same time. And also I was to high on coke to plan all through in my head.

He climbed on me and slowly took out my plug and pushed it back in a few times. He spat on my hole and on his massive dick. He yanked out the plug and put his tip right on my hole.

He pushed slow and I felt him expanding my ass. He pushed in every inch he could. It felt amazing. Once he was fully in he came to my ear and whispered. Now Im gonna use you like the cheap slut you are until I fill your hole with my cum.

Then It started he began to fuck me like an animal. Every push harder and faster.

It hurt and I wanted to tell him to stop but I couldnt. It hurt it felt like my body was about to break from his massive penis. But somehow it also felt good. I wanted him to go deeper, I wished there would be more guys to use me.

He fucked me for about 30 minutes until he pushed even harder and deeper. I could feel him filling up my sissy ass with hot juicy cum. He stayed in me for a few seconds and then he pulled out. He put my plug back in and untied me.

I put on my clothes and went home but not before he told me to come again.

I got home. Took out the plug and masturbated while licking his cum of it.

Im thinking about going again today and ask him to record or stream ;)

Read Part 2 here

--

The back seat of Brad’s car was smaller than it had any right to be.

Liam sat pressed against the door, trying to keep space between him and Oliver, but every time the car took a corner or slowed for traffic, their knees brushed. After the third time, Oliver shifted, just enough that his thigh stayed against Liam’s. His leg was firm, it was warm and this was to Liam, deliberate.

But neither of them moved away.

In the front, Hazel was talking about the new house. “It’s got that big open-plan kitchen. Once you two stop circling each other like cats, it’ll be lovely. We can have proper family dinners again.”

Brad nodded. “Exactly. It’ll be good for everyone once you’ve sorted things out this weekend.”

Liam stared at the back of his mother’s head and tried not to think about the phantom pressure of Oliver’s hand still lingering on his waist from that morning. In the rear-view mirror, their eyes met for half a second. Oliver looked away first, Liam did the same a moment later.

-

At the hire place, the clerk handed over the keys and pointed them toward a dark grey hatchback at the far end of the row. Hazel and Brad waited by their own car, and them waved them off with reminders to call if the cottage was locked or the weather turned.

Liam and Oliver loaded their bags into the boot in silence. Their hands almost touched on the same handle of Liam’s duffel, both pulled back at the same time.

Oliver opened the driver’s door, then paused. “Can you check the glovebox. The lady said it contains a map’s in case the signal goes.”

Liam was already reaching for it. Oliver leaned across him from the driver’s side to grab something from the passenger footwell at the same moment, an old service booklet, or maybe just an excuse. Their chests brushed, Oliver’s shoulder pressed into Liam’s for a beat longer than necessary. Close enough that Liam could feel the heat from him, could smell his deodorant that had clung to his skin.

For a second neither moved.

Then the clerk called across the forecourt, “You’re all set, lads. Any problems, just ring the number on the key fob.”

They broke apart. Oliver slid behind the wheel without looking at Liam. Liam shut the passenger door harder than he needed to.

-

The hire car smelled of air freshener and new plastic. Oliver drove whilst Liam sat in the passenger seat, on his phone and occasionally staring at the road.

They sat in awkward silence and did so until the dual carriageway opened up and the traffic thinned.

Liam broke it first, “You always walk in on people naked, or was that just me?”

Oliver’s hands tightened on the wheel. “I told you, I forgot my deodorant.”

“Bullshit, the door was locked.”

“And yet here we are.” Oliver’s tone was flat, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. “You could’ve said something louder instead of standing there dripping like a…”

“Like a what?”

“Like someone who didn’t exactly rush to cover up.”

The argument flared fast, it got almost vicious, then died just as quickly back into silence. The only sounds were the engine and the tyres on tarmac.

Liam put on the radio.

Oliver’s right hand rested on the gearstick, Liam’s eyes kept dropping to it, the manly knuckles, the short nails, the way the tendons shifted when he changed gear. Liam’s own hand lay on his thigh and he felt Oliver glance at it more than once.

A longer stretch of empty road opened ahead. No other cars, hedge rows and open fields.

Without warning, Oliver’s hand left the gearstick and settled on Liam’s knee.

His hand was firm and claiming. “Making a point,” the touch said, though neither of them spoke.

It stayed there longer than it should have. Oliver’s thumb shifted once, almost absently, the same way it had on Liam’s waist that morning. This caught Liam off guard, his pulse increased. He didn’t push the hand away, he didn’t look at Oliver either. He just stared straight ahead, his pulse loud in his ears, while the weight of that hand felt like it was burning through the fabric of his jeans.

Eventually Oliver moved it back to the gearstick, neither of them mentioned it.

The rest of the drive passed in awareness of every small movement, the flex of Oliver’s forearm when he turned the wheel, the way Liam’s own fingers curled against his thigh. They were both turned on, half-hard and doing a poor job of pretending otherwise.

When the satnav finally announced the last turn, Oliver slowed. The road narrowed into a single-track lane lined with trees.

They were almost there.

Liam kept his eyes on the windscreen and tried not to think about how much longer two full days of this was going to feel, the tension was real and it was sexual.

 --

Follow the link in my bio to read more

So I had just turned 18 and I would hang out at my friends house all the time, I would sleep over and his parents were cool with us drinking and smoking and would often do it with us. Well literally my 18th birthday the other guys are asleep and me and his dad are up in the living room.

I couldn’t tell you how it happened but his dad asked me something to the affect of “are you straight?” And I said I was curious. Well we talk for a while and he ends up putting porn on the tv. We watch for a minute awkward as fuck 😂 till he goes, “I don’t know about you but I’m gonna stroke my cock.” Well I start doing it too.

It was pretty crazy and it’s my first time doing anything close to this and we talk some more, and end up going to the garage to have a cigarette. That’s when we start stroking each other and I sucked cock for the very first time. So there we are taking turns blowing each other in this garage while my high school buddies are asleep down stairs and I’m like “we should take this to the next level”

I have my friends dad bent over the car and I’m about to stick it in… and I absolutely chicken out. He was super cool about it and we have another cigarette and go to bed.

That was 16 years ago now and I’ve had a few other adventures with guys after that but I’ve never told anyone about this one 😂

In my early 20s I met this Latina chick. We actually had sex the first night we met. There was solid chemistry and the sex was some of the best I had. We met up a few more times before we officially started dating. She was freaky and really pushed my boundaries. Public places, road head while I was driving, etc. things were hot, wild, and fun.

One evening she is blowing me and her hands are exploring my body and starts rubbing my asshole. I’m just going along with it and she slowly works her tongue down there and bam she starts eating my ass. It was quite unexpected but it actually felt really good. She’s there for a few minutes and she’s moaning like she’s really in to it. She works her mouth back up to my dick and her fingers are on my asshole again. Except this time with a bit more pressure but doesn’t go in all the way. She keeps blowing me and finishes the job.

Afterwards we were cuddling and she was talking about how much fun it was playing with my ass and I agreed that it felt really good. I could tell this excited her because she said next time she was gonna stick a finger in and give me a crazy orgasm by hitting my prostate. I didn’t think much of it.

This went on for awhile and as she said she fingered my ass while blowing me and it was crazy good. Something about hitting my prostate. Started with one, two, and then three. It felt good and I enjoyed it.

Fast forward a few months, I get home from class and she tells me she got a new toy for us to play with. We head back to the room and there is a strap on laying on the bed. I see it and she comes up behind me and grabs my chest and whispers in my ear “I wanna fuck your ass”. Honestly I was really nervous about it not to mention what it might mean for my sexual identity but after talked about it for a bit i agreed to try it.

I’d preface it by saying she did a fantastic job of getting me relaxed and making the build up something intense. I was super horny. She ate my ass, blew me, etc. finally, she assumed the position. I was on my back on the edge of the bed with my legs up in the air. Comically, she takes the strap on and taps it on my cock and teases my hole like I do to her. I feel a pressure as she presses against me and gets the tip in. It hurt a little bit but not really bad. She took it slow getting inch by inch inside me. Granted it was only like 5 inches but still.

She finally got all the way inside me and we made out for a bit with it inside me. She slowly started pumping her hips and the strap on was hammering my prostate. It started feeling really good. She ws talking dirty to me and it was really turning me on. I was rock hard and leaking precum while she was fucking my ass. It was honestly really hot and I was feeling amazing. She’s grabs my cock like a handle and starts stroking me and I bet I didn’t last but a minute before I erupted all over myself.

I was in ecstasy. She was like “see, I knew you’d like it”. She was right, it was incredible. I had never had an orgasm like that before. We continued having sex like this for a few months. I would fuck her occasionally but mostly it was her fucking me.

She brought the idea of a threesome with another guy playfully. She said she wanted to watch me get fucked by a real cock. I hadn’t told her but all this butt play had gotten me curious about what a real cock would feel like. I wasn’t attracted to men but the idea of a fit guy with a nice cock turned me on. So I played it off like I was hesitant. And she gave me her best convincing. So I agreed.

We found a guy who agreed. He was a discrete bisexual top. He had a killer body. 6’3, 205, very well built. 7.5 inch dick. Well groomed. I was excited.

The night comes abs he actually shows up. We all start on the couch having some wine and conversation. He and I hit it off really well. Eventually we all end up naked and he’s sitting on the couch and I’m on my knees in front of him and my girlfriend is sitting in a chair next to us rubbing her pussy.

I grabbed his cock and it was so warm. I licked it and slapped it on my face. The warmth and scent was amazing, totally different from her dildo. I was so fucking hard and leaking precum from sucking his cock. He told me he wanted my ass and holy shit if I was turned on before that sent me through the roof.

I got lubed up and we started in missionary. It didn’t take me long to get stretched out and he was inside and the warmth of his cock and thickness was crazy. I wasn’t expecting it but he started making out with me while he was fucking my ass. It made it so much more intense. We’re going at it for a few minutes and he tells me he wants to watch me ride him.

We get up to switch positions and i realize my girlfriend is still here. She’s just kind of watching. He lays down and i straddle him and we make out a bit more before insert him back inside me. My girlfriend and I had never done this position before and the angle was incredible. I felt so slutty bouncing in his cock and it was turning me on like crazy.

He grabs my hips and starts pumping from the bottom and sprinkling in spots where I’m just sitting on it and kind of grinding. Hard to describe but my body starts to tingle, get super warm, and I feel this pressure building in my cock and I fucking cum like crazy without ever touching my cock. I shot all over his chest and probably not even thirty seconds later he’s moaning and shoots his load in to my ass. My body is shaking and I just kind of fall off to the side and we lay there for a bit. Feeling his load leak out of my ass was so hot.

When I get up to clean off I remember that my girlfriend is there and she doesn’t look super happy. So after he left I asked her about it and she said it was hot but it looked like I enjoyed it too much. And I told her it was amazing and i thought that was what she wanted. We dated for a bit longer but she broke up with me about a month later saying she couldn’t get past how much I enjoyed it.

Everyone involved with sexual activities is 18+. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy.

It happened after school. I got home, opened Grindr looking for a hookup. No one was really catching my interests until I got a message from Damon. We started talking and exchanged pictures.

That’s when I noticed I went to school with him. He was a year older than me so he was already graduated. I always thought he was cute, but didn’t know he was into guys. Damon is about 6’4 230lbs. Not really muscular but not chubby either. He had hazel eyes and short brown hair.

After a while of talking he sent me his address and I got ready and headed to his place. I was really nervous going over to his house. I pulled into his driveway, got out of my car and knocked on his door. He opened it, invited me in. I walked inside and he offered me a drink. He gave me a glass of water and we sat down on the couch.

After a few minutes of talking, he pulled me in for a kiss. He put his hands on the back of my head keeping me close. I put my hand on his throbbing cock. It felt so big and thick. As I was rubbing his dick, he pulled my head back and said

“You’re gonna suck my dick like a good boy right!”

“Yes, whatever you want sir!”

I replied back with a smile on my face.

He pulled his shorts down and his cock sprung out hitting his stomach. He was huge, 8 inches long and thick. I immediately got off the couch and onto my knees in front of him. Licking my lips and staring at it.

He grabbed my hair and shoved his cock into my mouth. All 8 inches in my mouth, choking and making me gag. He held my head and started fucking my throat. Going fast then pulling out and smacking me across the face with it. Then shoving it back in. I was loving it, even if I couldn’t breathe.

Tears running down my face. Spit all over my chin and chest. He finally pulled his cock out and rested it on my face while I sucked his balls. I sucked them for a good 10 minutes. Hearing him moan made me so horny. He grabbed my hair, forcing me to my feet. He showed me the way to his room.

When we entered his room, he pulled me close kissing me and slapping my ass before throwing me on his bed. I took my shirt off before he ripped my pants off. He grabbed a bottle of lube and slowly massaged my tight hole. I finally felt him stick a finger inside me. I started to slowly jerk myself. I was leaking so much precum.

Then he shoved two fingers in slowly moving them around. He found the spot and made me moan. He smiled and shoved a third in. Slowly focusing on my spot. I told him was about to cum. He pulled his fingers out, leaned forward and kissed me while his hand was exploring my body. His hand met my neck and he choked me a bit as he slid his dick in me.

His tip felt massive inside me and I was in heaven. He asked me if it hurt and I said a little bit. He smiled and went deeper. I put my hand on his stomach, he pushed it out of his way. It wasn’t even half way in before he pulled almost all the way out and slammed it in me.

My legs on his shoulders, one arm wrapped around me and the other still choking me. He fucked me like this for a bit before pulling out and rolling me over in doggy. Once in doggy he slapped my ass and told me to spread my cheeks. I did as he told. He started eating me out before putting his dick back inside me.

He grabbed my hair once again and started going really fast. I completely forgot he didn’t put a condom on. His grip got tighter and I knew he was about to cum. I felt him tense up and he cummed deep inside me. He slowly pulled out and turned me around. I could feel the cum leaking out of me.

He put his dick up to my mouth and I opened and started blowing. Cleaning his cock and trying to get as much cum out as I could. He got soft for a few minutes before grabbing the back of my head and fucking my throat again. I didn’t have to do anything he knew what he wanted. As he was fucking my throat he smacked my ass.

He slowed down letting me do the work while he fingered me. I was stroking him and sucking him while trying to stroke myself.

“I’m gonna cum”

He yelled before pulling his finger out and forcing my head deeper on his cock.

He filled my throat with cum, pulled me off him and rolled me over and told me to stroke myself. He kept his dick in my mouth while I stroked. We kept eye contact as I blew my load all over my chest and face. I was covered in cum and exhausted.

He went and got a shower ready for us! I ended up staying the night and we did a lot more that night!

It’s a story from around half a year ago, it was my almost first time and since then nobody was as good as this.

I met the guy on tinder, I’m 19 and he’s 25, he looked really cute on pictures so, we started texting and he invited me the same day to his place. When I saw him, he charmed me instantly, taller, slim body, and what i liked about him the most was his lethal face card. Like dude looked so damn cute with tiny diamond earrings (I have weakness for guys with earrings). He lived in tiny apartment (like 10m2), had a RGB lamp to set the mood. And it was just so cozy.

When I got there he just went down the staircase and as we entered his flat we almost instantly got to it. He already said on tinder earlier that he’s very dominant which really turned me on as I always fantasized about very rough sex. (We also talked about things we like etc. before meeting).

He started by making me deepthroat him. He was very verbal and called me a whore. I choked so much and it was so Hot, also he showed me what spit kink is and now I’m addicted to it. One thing is that he didn’t want to kiss to not get attached. When he went inside my ass I said that it hurts asking him to go slower he just said „shut up” and started pounding me even faster, which was also insanely hot. I couldn’t stop moaning and he feed me his cum at the end as I beg him to do it. He treated me like a total slut.

I couldn’t think of a better sex than this, and details like giving me a wink with his eye while doing it a few times turned me so much. He was just so confident and visibly experienced.

We also met a few times later and had had a LOT of chill and aftercare, we were cooking pasta after sex and watching YouTube china food vlogs. I kinda started caring about the aftercare more than sex itself…

It was fun but at the end he said that he don’t want to contact me in a very rude way which was sad. But I’m happy that I had this journey with bc I learned a lot of things to be better in bed as a top and I’ve spent some really pleasurable evenings.

All characters are 18+ and fully consenting...

~

I was sitting on the back porch of my parents’ place in Ohio, beer going warm in my hand, scrolling through nothing, when the phone buzzed.

Landed. Pick me up?

Three years. Three fucking years since Logan shipped out. We’d been best friends since sophomore year of high school... same football team, same dumb parties, same late-night drives where we’d talk about everything except the one thing that sat between us like a live wire. I’d driven him to the airport the day he left. He’d hugged me hard, clapped my back, and said, “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, asshole.” I’d laughed it off and watched him walk away in that uniform that made him look like someone else.

I typed back On my way and grabbed my keys before I could talk myself out of it.

The airport was the usual chaos. I spotted him the second he came through the doors... taller somehow, broader in the shoulders, hair cut tighter, that same crooked half-smile that used to make the girls lose their minds. He saw me and the smile got wider. He dropped his duffel and pulled me into a hug that knocked the air out of my lungs. He smelled like something sharper underneath, like he’d been living in places that didn’t smell like Ohio.

“Jesus, man,” he said against my ear. “You got soft.”

“Fuck you. I’ve been hitting the gym.”

He laughed, that low rough sound, and squeezed harder before letting go. His hand stayed on the back of my neck for a second longer than it needed to. I felt it all the way down my spine.

We loaded his bag into the trunk of my truck and headed toward his parents’ house on the edge of town. The radio played some country song neither of us was listening to. He talked about the heat over there, the food, the guys in his unit. I told him about the job I hated and the girl I’d dated for six months who left because I was “emotionally unavailable.” He snorted.

“You always were,” he said. “Even in high school.”

I glanced over. He was looking out the window, jaw working like he was chewing on something.

“You good?” I asked.

He was quiet for a stretch of road. Then he said, “I’m better now that I’m here.”

The way he said it sat heavy in the cab. I didn’t push.

His parents were out of town for the week... some anniversary trip they’d planned months ago... so the house was empty when we pulled into the driveway. The same blue house with the cracked front steps and the basketball hoop that still leaned a little left. Logan stood on the porch for a second just looking at it, then unlocked the door with the key he still had.

Inside smelled like his mom’s lemon cleaner and old wood. He dropped his bag in the hallway and headed straight for the fridge, pulling out two beers like he’d never left. We ended up on the back deck as the sun went down, feet up on the railing, talking the way we used to... easy, overlapping, finishing each other’s sentences.

Somewhere around the third beer the conversation slowed. Crickets started up. Logan stretched his arms over his head and the hem of his T-shirt rode up, showing a hard strip of stomach and the edge of a scar I didn’t recognize.

“You got quiet,” he said.

“Just thinking.”

“Oohhh… that’s dangerous.”

I smirked. “About how different you look.”

He turned his head. The porch light caught the side of his face. “Different how?”

“Bigger. Harder. Like the Army sanded you down.”

He laughed under his breath. “You always did notice shit like that.”

The air between us changed. I felt it in my chest first, then lower. I took another swallow of beer and kept my eyes on the dark yard.

Logan set his bottle down. “Remember senior year? That night after the championship game?”

My stomach flipped. Of course I remembered. We’d gotten fucked up on cheap whiskey in his basement. He’d put his hand on my thigh and left it there while we talked about nothing. I’d almost leaned in. Almost. Then his dad came downstairs and the moment broke.

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

“I thought about that a lot over there.”

I looked at him. He was watching me like he was waiting to see if I’d bolt.

“You did?”

“Every time things got quiet. Every time I needed something to hold onto that wasn’t sand and blood and the next mission. I’d think about that night and how close we got and how I was too chicken-shit to do anything about it.”

My mouth went dry. “Logan... ”

“I’m not chicken-shit anymore.”

He said it quiet, but it landed like a punch. I set my beer down carefully because my hands had started to shake. He stood up, took the two steps to my chair, and looked down at me. For a long second neither of us moved. Then he reached out, grabbed the front of my shirt, and pulled me up.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was three years of held-back want slamming into the present. His mouth was hot and tasted like beer and the mint gum he’d been chewing earlier. His hands went to my waist and yanked me flush against him so I could feel how hard he already was. I made a sound I didn’t recognize and opened for him, tongue sliding against his. He groaned into my mouth and walked me backward until my shoulders hit the sliding glass door.

“Inside,” he muttered. “Now.”

We barely made it. The door slid shut behind us and he had me against the kitchen counter, mouth on my neck, hands under my shirt, dragging it up and off. His palms were rough, calloused from years of work I couldn’t imagine. He scraped them down my sides and I shivered hard.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he said against my collarbone. “Been thinking about this skin… this body…. About how you’d sound.”

I got his shirt off next. The body underneath was all hard lines and muscle packed tight, a few new scars, a dusting of hair that trailed down into his jeans. I ran my hands over his hard chest and he pushed into the touch like he’d been starving for it.

We made it to the stairs somehow, kissing and cursing and pulling at clothes. His childhood bedroom still had the same twin bed, the same posters, the same faint smell of laundry detergent and teenage boy that never quite left. He kicked the door shut and shoved me toward the bed.

I sat and he stood between my knees, looking down at me with eyes that had gone dark. He thumbed the button of my jeans open, dragged the zipper down, and pulled everything south until my cock sprang free, already leaking. He stared for a second like he was committing it to memory, then wrapped his hand around it and stroked once, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Look at you.”

I reached for his belt. He let me. The second his cock was out I forgot how to breathe. Thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip, the kind of cock that looked like it would wreck a person and leave them grateful. I leaned in and took the head into my mouth without thinking. The taste of him flooded my tongue... clean skin and salt and pure Logan. He hissed and threaded his fingers into my hair.

“Fuck, yeah. Just like that. Take it.”

I did. I worked him deeper, tongue flat along the underside, cheeks hollowed, the wet sounds loud in the quiet room. He kept talking, voice low and rough, telling me how good my mouth felt, how many times he’d jerked off thinking about this exact thing, how he was going to fuck my throat until I choked on it. Every word made my cock jump against my stomach.

He pulled me off with a wet pop when I started to gag around him. Spit connected my lips to his cock. He wiped it with his thumb and pushed it back into my mouth. I sucked it clean.

“Get on the bed,” he said. “On your back. Legs open.”

I scrambled up. He stripped the rest of the way and climbed on after me, kneeling between my thighs. He spit into his palm and slicked his cock, then reached lower and rubbed the wetness over my hole. The first press of his finger made me jolt. He worked it in slow, watching my face the whole time.

“Breathe,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

One finger became two. He scissored them, stretched me open, crooked them until he found the spot that made my vision white out. I was panting, cock leaking a steady string onto my stomach, hands fisted in the sheets.

“Please,” I heard myself say. “Logan, please just... ”

“I know what you need… Patience Ryan”

He pulled his fingers free, lined up, and pushed in.

The burn was immediate… Goddd… He went slow, inch by thick inch, until his hips were flush against my ass and I felt stretched around him like I was made for it. He stayed still, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.

“Fuck, you’re tight.. Ryan... So fucking tight around me.”

“Move,” I begged. “Please move.”

He did. Long, deep strokes that dragged over that spot every time. The twin bed creaked under us. His hands pinned my wrists above my head and he fucked me like he’d been saving three years of need for this exact moment. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. I moaned every time he bottomed out, the sound punched out of me.

“You take it so good,” he growled against my mouth. “Look at you. Best friend’s cock buried in your ass and you’re leaking all over yourself… Sooo Filthy.”

I came first, untouched, cock jerking between us and painting both our stomachs. The way I clenched around him dragged a broken sound out of his throat. He fucked me through it, relentless, until I was oversensitive and shaking and still asking for more.

He pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach like I weighed nothing, and shoved back in from behind. The new angle made me cry out. He covered my body with his, chest to my back, mouth at my ear, one hand braced beside my head and the other reaching under to stroke my spent cock back to life.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow when you’re sitting across from my parents at dinner pretending nothing happened. That what you want?”

“Yes... fuck... yes, Logan... ”

He slammed in harder. The headboard knocked against the wall. I pushed back to meet every thrust, greedy for it. When he came it was with a long, low groan against the side of my neck, hips stuttering, cock pulsing as he emptied inside me. I felt every throb, every hot pulse of it.

He stayed buried for a long time after, breathing hard, one hand stroking down my side like he couldn’t stop touching. Eventually he pulled out slow. I felt the warm slide of his come leaking out of me and onto the sheets. He rolled me over, looked down at the mess between my legs, and dragged two fingers through it before pushing them back into my loose hole.

“Look at that,” he murmured. “Staying right where I put it.”

I was still half-hard and overstimulated and floating. He kissed me slow this time, deep, like he was claiming the taste of me. Then he settled beside me on the too-small bed, one heavy arm thrown across my chest.

We stayed like that in the dark, the only sound our slowing breaths and the occasional distant car on the road outside. His thumb traced idle circles on my skin.

After a while he spoke, voice quiet.

“I’m home for three weeks before I have to report back. Three weeks, no one else in this house.”

I turned my head on the pillow. His eyes were open, watching me.

“What are you saying?”

His hand slid lower, over my stomach, down until his fingers brushed the sticky mess still clinging to my cock and the inside of my thighs. He pressed two fingers back into me, easy, like he belonged there, and curled them just enough to make my breath hitch.

“I’m saying,” he said, “that I spent three years thinking about all the ways I wanted to ruin my best friend. And I just got started.”

He added a third finger, stretched me open around them, and leaned in so his mouth was right against my ear.

“Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake you up with my tongue in your ass and my cock down your throat. And after that I’m going to bend you over the kitchen table and make you thank me for every year I waited. You good with that?”

I was already hardening again around his fingers. My voice came out wrecked.

“Yeah. I’m good with that.”

He smiled against my skin  and kept working his fingers deeper.

For Mike and Chen, the last few weeks had followed a similar rhythm of warmth and chaos. They had spent the heart of the Lunar New Year embedded in the vibrant, noisy energy of Tooting, surrounded by a whirlwind of Chinese friends and extended family. There were dinners that stretched across three different tables, the constant clatter of mahjong tiles, and the kind of loud, affectionate arguing that only happens when three generations of relatives are crammed into one living room.

The transition back to normality happened gradually. Mike returned to his shifts at Tesco, sliding back into the routine of stocking shelves and navigating the polite, tired expressions of South London shoppers. He found the familiarity of the supermarket aisles grounding after the high-energy blur of the celebrations.

Chen’s return to work was slightly more hesitant. He had taken an extended break, allowing the festivities to linger long after the red envelopes had been spent. When he finally walked back toward the off-license where he worked, there was a strange, quiet tension in his step. He hadn't seen Mr. Bhose in weeks, and as he approached the shop, he found himself subconsciously scanning the storefront for the older man's familiar silhouette behind the counter.

"You're late," a voice called out, though it lacked the gravelly authority of the man Chen had known. Chen stopped in the doorway, his hand still hovering over the handle of the glass door. Behind the counter sat someone who looked like a blurred, youthful photocopy of Mr. Bhose. It was Jay, the son. He was barely twenty, with a sharp, clean haircut and an oversized hoodie that made him look like he was playing dress-up in an adult’s world. He was leaning back in the swivel chair, scrolling through his phone with a level of casualness that would have earned him a stern lecture from his father.

“My apologies, Jay. The bus was a nightmare,” Chen murmured, stepping quickly into the small, crowded space of the shop. He didn't wait for a response, immediately diving into the routine of the morning shift. He began rearranging the crates of cider and sparkling wine, the rhythmic clink of glass providing a necessary distraction from the eerie silence of Mr. Bhose’s absence.

As Chen knelt to stock the bottom shelf of the spirits aisle, the scent of old cardboard and cheap incense triggered a sudden, violent memory. He remembered the weight of Mr. Bhose—a mountain of a man, thick-set and hairy, with a voice like grinding stones. He recalled the evening, when the shop had been empty of customers. In the narrow gap between the snacks and the soft drinks, Mr. Bhose had cornered him. The memory surged back with a visceral intensity: the rough grip of large hands, the suffocating heat of the older man’s body pressing him against the shelving, and the raw, unrelenting force of their encounter.

He could almost feel it again—the frantic panting, the slickness of sweat gluing his shirt to his back, and the sheer, overwhelming power of Mr. Bhose ravaging him right there among the aisles. It had been a frantic, desperate act, a collision of need and dominance that left Chen breathless and shaking. The memory of being fucked hard, stripped of his composure in the very place he earned his living, made his skin prickle with a ghost of that old heat.

Chen blinked rapidly, his breath hitching. He felt a sudden, hot flush creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks. He gripped the edge of a plastic crate, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself back into the present. The fluorescent lights of the off-license hummed overhead, indifferent to the storm of memory that had just swept through him.

The vibration of the phone in his pocket was a violent jolt, snapping Chen back to the sterile reality of the shop. He pulled the device out, his eyes blurring for a second before they landed on the photo of Mike—beaming, happy, and holding a giant slice of watermelon from their trip to the market. The sight of his husband's smile acted like a cooling balm, easing the frantic pulse in Chen’s throat and pushing the ghosts of Mr. Bhose back into the shadows of the shelving.

"Hey, love," Chen answered, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. He stepped away from the crates, moving toward the small window that let in a sliver of grey London light.

"Just checking in," Mike’s voice was warm, filled with a domesticity that felt like a sanctuary. "Tesco is a madhouse today. Some guy is trying to return a half-eaten rotisserie chicken. I’m thinking about picking up some dumplings for tonight—the good ones from the shop in Tooting. You okay? You sounded a bit breathless."

Chen leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. "Just... rearranging the heavy stuff. I'm fine. I love you."

"Love you more. See you at home," Mike said, and the click of the disconnection felt like a door closing on a chaotic world, leaving Chen in the quiet safety of their shared life.

As he slid the phone back into his pocket, Chen’s gaze drifted toward the doorway where the delivery drivers usually congregated. He realized then that the usual suspects—Hari and Ravi were gone. In their place stood Bish.

Bish was a mystery wrapped in a tight t-shirt, an undocumented migrant from the Punjab who had drifted into the off-license ecosystem as a replacement for the previous crew. Bish was a compact powerhouse. He was short, but his arms were cords of dense, functional muscle, and he moved with a quiet, predatory efficiency that suggested he could lift a full pallet of beer without breaking a sweat.

Bish and Chen often walked home together. They lived very close to each other. The walk from the off-license to their neighborhood was a slow decompression, a thirty-minute migration through the grey-brown veins of South London. The proximity of their homes was a fluke of urban planning that had forged an unlikely friendship. They lived barely a street apart, their modest dwellings acting as small anchors in a city that felt far too vast. By the time they reached the row of terraced houses, the air had grown chill, prompting Bish to tug his hoodie tight.

Bish didn’t believe in the concept of "meeting" someone; he believed in the slow process of recognizing them. He had recognized Mike as a steady presence long before he actually spoke to him, usually spotting the taller man waiting by the lamp post near the shop, leaning back with a relaxed posture that suggested he had nowhere else to be but right there. Their first few encounters had been brief—exchanges of nods and quick questions about the weather—but there was a kinship in their shared silence. Bish had seen the way Mike’s eyes scanned the street for Chen, and the way the tension in Chen’s shoulders vanished the moment Mike appeared. It wasn't a secret, not in a neighborhood where everyone’s business was written in the way they walked together. Bish knew they were a couple not because they had told him, but because the air between them was heavy with a comfortable, established gravity that only comes from years of shared breakfasts and quiet arguments.

Over the course of several months, the silence between Bish and Chen shifted from a wary truce to a shared language. The air in July didn’t just hang; it pressed, a humid, invisible weight that turned the asphalt of South London into a shimmering mirage. Chen had arrived at the shop in the blue-grey light of the early morning, hoping to beat the stifling peak of the day. He pushed through the glass door, expecting the casual, phone-absorbed presence of Jay, but the atmosphere inside had shifted. The space felt smaller, crowded by a sudden, familiar gravity.

There, leaning against the counter with a level of ownership that bordered on the territorial, was the enormous figure of Mr. Bhose. He looked like a mountain carved from mahogany, his bulk filling the narrow gap between the cigarette gantry and the lottery machine. For a heartbeat, Chen simply stood there, paralyzed by the sheer physical displacement of the man. Mr. Bhose didn’t speak immediately; instead, he let a slow, sly smile crease the corners of his eyes, a look of knowing recognition that seemed to bridge the gap of his long absence.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Chen. Don't worry I'll not scare you for long. I'm only here for a day" Mr. Bhose rumbled, his voice a low, grinding stone that vibrated in Chen’s chest.

Chen swallowed hard, the sudden reappearance of the man acting like a physical blow to his solar plexus. The shop, which had felt manageable and modern under Jay’s slack leadership, suddenly felt like a claustrophobic cage. The same scent—stale tobacco and something heavy, like old leather—seemed to radiate from Mr. Bhose, claiming the air around them.

"I thought... Jay said you went to India," Chen managed to stammer, his voice sounding fragile against the backdrop of the humming refrigerators.

Mr. Bhose didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself off the counter with a slow, deliberate grace that belied his massive frame, stepping into Chen’s personal space. The movement was predatory, a calculated encroachment that forced Chen to lean back against a display of energy drinks. The plastic bottles rattled behind him, a frantic percussion to the sudden silence of the shop. Mr. Bhose stopped inches away, his presence an oppressive heat that made the air-conditioned room feel stiflingly hot.

The heavy silence was shattered by the chime of the door and the sudden, energetic presence of Bish. He entered the shop like a whirlwind of purpose, hauling a crate of mineral water with an effortless heave of his shoulders. The timing was surgical; the moment Bish’s boots hit the linoleum, Mr. Bhose retreated, the predatory tension in his shoulders dissolving back into the persona of a stern employer. He stepped back with a slow, knowing nod toward Chen, a silent promise that the conversation was merely paused, not finished.

The rest of the day vanished in a frantic, kinetic blur. It was a "whizz" of mindless activity—the constant beep of the scanner, the rhythmic thud of crates being stacked, and the endless stream of customers seeking last-minute essentials. For Chen, the hours were a haze of anxiety and muscle memory. Every time he caught Mr. Bhose’s eye from across the aisle, he felt a jolt of electricity, a reminder of the man's suffocating gravity. He worked with a frantic intensity, hoping the physical labor would scrub the lingering feeling of Mr. Bhose’s proximity from his skin.

As the clock ticked toward 9 pm, the frenetic energy of the South London street outside began to settle into a low hum. Mr. Bhose, standing by the entrance, gave a sharp, singular nod. "Shutters," he commanded. The metallic clang of the security shutters descending sounded like a guillotine, sealing the interior of the shop off from the world. The sudden enclosure turned the off-license into a vault, the air growing thick and stagnant as the external light was sliced away, replaced by the harsh, flickering hum of the overhead fluorescents.

Outside the shutters, Bish waited. He leaned against the brickwork, his silhouette dark against the streetlamp, patiently waiting for Chen to clock out so they could begin their slow, meditative walk home. Through the gaps in the metal slats, Bish could see the shapes of the men inside, but he couldn't hear the sudden, heavy stillness that had fallen over the shop.

Inside, the atmosphere had shifted. Mr. Bhose turned to Bish, his voice returning to that low, grinding stone. "Go on, Bish. Get home. I'll handle the closing."

"Alright, Boss," Bish replied, his voice a neutral hum. He didn’t question the sudden change in routine; in the precarious world of undocumented labor, questioning the boss was a luxury he couldn't afford. He turned away from the shop, his boots striking the pavement in a steady, rhythmic beat. For ten minutes, he walked in the direction of his flat, the cool night air settling into his lungs, but a strange, nagging intuition began to pull at him. It was a flicker of concern for Chen—a sense that the silence left behind by the closing shutters was too heavy, too deliberate.

The pull became an itch he had to scratch. Bish didn't turn around and walk back the same way; instead, he took a detour through the narrow alleyways, moving like a shadow through the architecture of the neighborhood. He approached the shop not from the street, but from the rear, gliding silently toward the boundary of the adjacent property. With a practiced, athletic spring, he vaulted over the neighbor's weathered cedar fence, landing softly on a patch of damp grass. He crept toward the brickwork of the off-license, finding a small, jagged hole in the mortar—a secret window into the vault of the shop.

Bish pressed his eye against the gap in the mortar, the world narrowing to a jagged frame of flickering fluorescent light. He froze, his breath hitching in his throat, as he witnessed a scene that defied the sterile order of the shop. There, amidst the crates and the scent of laundry detergent and stale tobacco, Chen and Mr. Bhose were completely naked. The contrast between them was visceral, almost sculptural. Chen’s skin, a smooth, milky white and devoid of hair, seemed to glow under the harsh lights, slick with a shimmering layer of sweat. Beside him, Mr. Bhose was a mountain of coarse, dark hair and weathered flesh, his bulk an oppressive, earthy weight against Chen’s porcelain fragility.

The air in the shop felt heavy, saturated with a raw, animal urgency. Chen was on his knees, his expression one of desperate hunger as he greedily sucked Mr. Bhose’s veiny, hairy member. They were both drenched, their skin sliding against one another with a wet, rhythmic friction. The silence of the closed shop was gone, replaced by the guttural sounds of exertion and the frantic, wet noises of their encounter.

Suddenly, the dynamic shifted. With a grunt of effort, Mr. Bhose reached down and hoisted Chen up, his massive arms locking around Chen's thighs. He slammed him upward, driving himself home with a forceful, unrelenting thrust. Chen didn't recoil; instead, he clung to the older man, kissing him back with a greedy, starving intensity. As Mr. Bhose began to fuck him hard, the impact was audible—a rhythmic slapping of skin on skin. Chen’s pale, rounded buttocks bounced violently against Mr. Bhose’s heavy frame with every drive. Chen’s head snapped back, his mouth opening in a series of loud, echoing screams and guttural moans that bounced off the metal shutters.

Bish pulled back from the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like an intruder in a sacred, violent ritual. The sheer physicality of it—the sweat, the noise, the raw dominance—left him feeling lightheaded. He stepped away from the brickwork, moving carefully back toward the alley, the sounds of Chen’s release still ringing in his ears.

He walked for a while in silence, the cool night air finally clearing the fog of the scene from his mind. He thought of Mike, waiting at home with those dumplings from Tooting, completely unaware of the storm of passion and power that had just unfolded in the narrow aisles of the off-license. Bish realized that the shop was no longer just a place of business; it was a place of secrets, and Chen was carrying a weight—and a hunger—that Mike might never fully understand.

****************End of Part 3 *****************************************

 The following morning, the thought of the off-license—the smell of the office, the sound of Mr. Bhose’s voice—triggered a visceral wave of nausea. Chen didn't get out of bed. He told Mike his throat was raw and his head was spinning, claiming a sudden, violent onset of the flu. For the first two days, the guilt was a dull hum. But as the days blurred together, the hum became a roar.

By the fourth day, Chen was staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic *drip-drip-drip* of the leak, while Mike’s absence from the flat became a suffocating presence. Mike was working relentlessly, pushing himself into fourteen-hour shifts at Tesco to cover the gap in their finances, coming home so exhausted that he would fall asleep in his clothes, his broad shoulders sagging with a fatigue that Chen knew he had caused.

Chen spent those hours curled in a fetal position, the warmth of the duvet feeling like a shroud. He wasn't actually sick; he was haunted. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of a calloused hand on his neck. He felt the injustice of it: the way he was hiding while Mike labored until his bones ached, all because Chen couldn't face the man who had bought his silence with three hundred and fifty pounds.

On the sixth morning, the silence of the flat became unbearable. Chen looked at his own pale, trembling hands and realized that his avoidance was becoming a different kind of prison. He couldn't continue to be a ghost in his own home while Mike worked himself into exhaustion. He needed to face the shop, not because he wanted to, but because the guilt of seeing Mike’s exhausted face had become more painful than the fear of Mr. Bhose.

"Be careful with the edges, they're still sharp," Mike murmured, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep. He pressed a lingering, warm kiss to Chen’s forehead, a gesture that felt like a lifeline being cast. Chen leaned into him for a second longer than usual, inhaling the scent of laundry detergent and old pillows, before stepping out into the biting Tooting air. The walk to the shop felt like a march toward a firing squad, each step echoing the rhythmic thud of his own anxiety.

When Chen finally pushed open the glass door, he braced himself for a roar. Instead, he was met with a startling, low-frequency hum of productivity. Mr. Bhose was there, but the mountain of a man wasn't erupting; he was leaning over the counter, chatting in a surprisingly modulated tone with Ravi. There was no shouting, no dramatic gestures, and most shockingly, no "little bird" or "porcelain" being hurled across the room.

"Ah, the prodigal son returns from his sickbed!" Bhose exclaimed. The volume was still high—he was, after all, Mr. Bhose—but the edge was gone. As the day unfolded, Chen watched in a state of quiet bewilderment as the regime shifted. Mr. Bhose wasn't just tolerable; he was almost benevolent. He brought in a tray of hot samosas for the staff, praising Ravi's efficiency in restocking the spirits aisle and treating Hari with a level of patience that bordered on the miraculous. It was as if the man had undergone a spiritual recalibration during Chen's week of absence, replacing his usual volatility with a strange, focused kindness.

The shift ended not with a crash of the shutters and a demand for overtime, but with a casual wave of a meaty hand. "Seven o'clock, and you're out," Bhose grunted, checking his watch. "Go home. Spend time with your partner. Life is too short to spend it scrubbing linoleum."

Chen didn't wait for a second invitation. He and Ravi practically bolted from the shop, the sudden gift of two extra hours of freedom feeling surreal. As he walked home, the weight of the secret—the memory of the office and the blood money—still simmered beneath his skin, but it was tempered by a desperate need to provide something for Mike.

The kitchen was a sanctuary of steam and scent, the air thick with the caramelized sweetness of hong shao rou. Chen had spent two hours coaxing the pork belly into a mahogany glaze, the rhythmic bubbling of the pot acting as a meditative balm for his frayed nerves. He plated the food with a precision that bordered on the sacred—piles of fluffy white rice acting as a snowy landscape for the rich, glistening meat and a side of stir-fried bok choy that retained a crisp, vibrant green. For Chen, this meal wasn't just sustenance; it was an apology in ginger and soy for the secrets he was keeping and the exhaustion he was witnessing.

Mike entered the flat not so much as a man, but as a ghost of himself, his frame sagging under the invisible weight of a twelve-hour shift. He didn't speak for the first ten minutes; he simply stood in the hallway, his shoulders slumped, breathing in the aroma of the food with a look of profound, weary gratitude. When he finally sat at the small, chipped table, he ate with a focused hunger, the colors of the meal vivid against the drab grey of their living space.

As the last bits of sauce were swept up with the rice, Chen felt a surge of tenderness that eclipsed his lingering anxiety. He leaned across the table, his movements fluid and soft, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Mike’s lips. It was an invitation, a silent plea for connection and the kind of intimacy that could erase the grime of the day. Chen’s hand slid to the nape of Mike’s neck, his fingers tangling in the short hairs there, his body humming with a sudden, desperate need to be close, to be known, and to lose himself in the safety of Mike’s strength.

Mike stirred, his eyes fluttering open, though they remained clouded with a heavy, impenetrable fatigue. He leaned into the kiss for a moment, his breath warm against Chen’s cheek, but as he pulled back, the smile on his face was fragile.

"I wish I could, love," Mike whispered, his voice a raspy shadow of its usual self. "But my brain is offline. I think if I move any faster than a snail, I'll actually collapse."

He didn't pull away, though. He simply let his head fall back against the chair, his eyelids drooping. The desire that had sparked in Chen didn't vanish, but it softened, transforming into a protective ache. He understood this bone-deep exhaustion; he had felt it himself just days prior. He didn't push for more. Instead, he helped Mike stand, guiding his unsteady frame toward the small, sagging bed that served as the center of their universe.

The rhythmic, guttural rattle of Mike’s snoring acted as a metronome for Chen’s movements in the kitchen. It was a comforting sound, one that usually signaled the safe end of a long day, but tonight it felt like a fragile barrier against the memories trying to breach the surface. Chen scrubbed the mahogany glaze of the pork from the pan with a focused, almost aggressive intensity, the soapy water swirling down the drain in a grey vortex. He focused on the mundane: the samey-grey tiles, the flickering fluorescent tube, the same dull clink of cutlery.

But as the kitchen grew quiet, the silence became a canvas for images he couldn't scrub away. Despite the exhaustion, a sudden, electric jolt shot through his abdomen as he remembered the feeling of the sofa’s coarse fabric against his bare skin. He saw the flicker of the overhead light reflecting off the veiny, reddish-purple expanse of Mr. Bhose’s member, and he felt the ghost of that massive, blunt force driving into him. It wasn't a memory of love, but of a raw, animalistic hunger that had left him breathless and shattered.

The visions were intrusive, pulsing with a rhythmic heat that mirrored the heartbeat thudding in his ears. He could almost smell it again—the cloying mix of old tobacco and salt-tang sweat—and he felt the phantom pressure of a calloused hand gripping his neck, forcing his world to narrow down to a single, suffocating point of contact. The contrast was dizzying; here he was, in the sanctuary of his home, while his mind was dragging him back to that grimy office in Tooting, trapped in the memory of a body that had overwhelmed his own.

The morning air was a brittle, crystalline thing that seemed to shatter with every step Chen took toward the shop. For Mike, the day was a rare, golden sanctuary of an off-day, a slow unfolding of hours spent drifting in and out of a heavy, restorative sleep. Chen had watched him for a moment—the peaceful rise and fall of his chest, the way he looked devoid of the world's weight—before slipping out the door with a quiet click. He felt like a traitor to the silence, carrying the secret of the previous week’s trauma and the blood money like a hidden bruise beneath his clothes.

The off-license, however, was not a sanctuary. Upon arrival, the atmosphere was thin and strained. Ravi had called in sick, leaving a void of productivity that made the shop feel cavernous and exposed. Hari, the only other soul on the floor, was a ghost of a man, counting down the minutes until his half-day expired. When 4:00 PM arrived, Hari vanished with a hurried nod, leaving Chen alone in the fluorescent glare with the mountain of a man.

For the rest of the shift, Chen practiced a disciplined invisibility. He focused on the geometry of the shelves, the barcodes of the crisps, and the rhythmic beep of the scanner, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Mr. Bhose. He treated the man like a storm system—something to be monitored from a distance but never looked at directly. However, Bhose seemed to thrive on the tension. He drifted through the aisles, his heavy footsteps echoing, occasionally leaning in too close to whisper remarks that weren't quite professional.

"You've regained your color, Chen," Bhose murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum as he passed him in the narrow drinks aisle. "A week of rest has made you look... softer."

Chen didn't respond. He simply tightened his grip on a crate of mineral water, his knuckles turning white. Every flirty comment felt like a probe, a reminder that the boundary of their relationship had been violently rewritten. Mr. Bhose didn't shout today; instead, he used a predatory kind of patience, his gaze lingering on the curve of Chen's neck or the slope of his shoulders with a possessiveness that made Chen’s skin crawl.

The hours dragged with a suffocating slowness. By the time the clock struck 9:30 PM, the shop was finally silent, the shutters drawn tight against the Tooting night. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum. For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the refrigerators, a stark contrast to the heavy, expectant silence between the two men.

The sound of the shutters locking into place was the final signal. The world outside vanished, replaced by the claustrophobic intimacy of the aisles and the oppressive hum of the refrigerators. Before Chen could even take a step toward the exit, a massive hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he was yanked backward into the shadow of the confectionery shelf. Mr. Bhose’s bulk collided with him, pinning him against the cold metal racking. The familiar, cloying scent of old tobacco and salt-tang sweat washed over him, an olfactory trigger that sent a shiver of dread and unwanted heat racing down his spine.

Then came the tongue—wet, insistent, and demanding. It swept across Chen’s lips with a predatory focus, claiming his mouth in a way that felt less like a kiss and more like a conquest. For a few minutes, Chen fought it; he pressed his palms against the man's broad chest, his head shaking in a frantic, silent *no*. But the resistance felt brittle and futile against the sheer mass of Mr. Bhose. As the man’s weight crushed him further into the shelving, the fear began to warp, sliding into a familiar, traitorous surrender. Chen stopped pushing. He let his eyes close, and as he did, he felt the tension snap. He leaned in, his mouth opening to meet the invasion, kissing back with a desperate, rhythmic intensity that felt like a scream for release.

Seeing the surrender, Mr. Bhose shifted his focus. His tongue began a slow, humid descent, licking a path from the hollow of Chen’s throat up to the sensitive curves of his neck. He didn't stop there, his breath hot and ragged as he pushed Chen’s arms upward, exposing the pale, damp skin of his armpits. The sensation of the rough tongue against such a vulnerable spot sent a jolt of electricity through Chen’s nerves. A soft, broken moan escaped his lips—a sound of genuine pleasure that felt like a betrayal of everything he knew to be right.

The air between them grew thick and humid. With a sudden, decisive movement, Mr. Bhose freed himself from his trousers, exposing the monolith of veiny, reddish-purple flesh. It loomed before Chen, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic heat. Without thinking, driven by a primal compulsion he couldn't name, Chen reached out. He gripped the massive organ with both hands, his fingers barely able to meet around the circumference. He leaned forward and began to suck, his movements active and hungry, his jaw aching to accommodate the sheer scale of the man.

As he worked, a wave of profound shame washed over him, coating the pleasure in a layer of bitterness. He thought of Mike, of the quiet safety of their flat, and the sheer incongruity of his current position—kneeling in a dim aisle of an off-license, consumed by the man who had bought his silence. He felt small and degraded, yet he couldn't stop. He continued the active, rhythmic suction, his body responding to the raw power of the encounter even as his mind wept for the loss of his own dignity.

Mr. Bhose’s hands were no longer mere tools of management; they were heavy, demanding anchors. He gripped Chen’s waist, hoisting him upward with a guttural grunt of effort, pivoting his body until Chen was draped across a sturdy shelf of imported biscuits. With a slow, predatory deliberation, he peeled away the fabric of Chen’s trousers, exposing the pale, peachy curves of his backside to the flickering fluorescent light. In the sterile vacuum of the aisle, Chen’s skin looked luminous, a stark, beautiful contrast to the industrial grey of the shelving and the dusty cardboard of the stock.

The first intrusion was an agonizingly slow stretch. Bhose entered him with a tentative, almost cruel gentleness, allowing Chen’s body a few seconds of deceptive peace before the onslaught began. But as soon as Chen’s breath hitched, the gentleness vanished. The rhythm shifted into something raw and mechanical, a punishing drive that pushed Chen forward, his chest pressing into the cold metal of the shelf. The impact was a heavy, wet thud that echoed through the empty store, vibrating through the crates of soda and the rows of candy.

Chen reached back, his fingers clawing at Bhose’s thick arms, and as the man’s weight crushed him further into the shelving, Chen turned his head to find Bhose’s mouth. He kissed him with a desperate, stifling intensity, using the contact to swallow his own screams. He wanted to be quiet, to maintain some shred of the professional boundary that had been obliterated, but the sheer, unrelenting force of the penetration broke his resolve. The pleasure was too violent, the friction too intense to be contained by a kiss.

"Fuck me, lover!" Chen finally shouted, the words ripping from his throat in a jagged, uncontrolled surge of surrender. He didn't care who heard him—the ghosts of the night shift or the silent witnesses of the CCTV cameras. He only knew the feeling of being filled and owned, the raw power of Bhose’s bulk driving him into a state of sensory overload. He arched his back, his voice echoing off the linoleum, welcoming the same relentless, unyielding pace that threatened to split him open.

When the climax finally hit, it wasn't a gentle wave but a crashing tide. Bhose let out a low, animal growl, his muscles locking like iron as he delivered a final, crushing thrust that left them both gasping for air. For a long moment, they stayed locked together in the middle of the food aisle, the only sound being the distant hum of the refrigerators and the frantic, synchronized beating of two hearts. The silence that followed was heavy, charged with a transactional intimacy that left Chen feeling both seen and utterly erased.

The silence that followed was thick, almost tactile, as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving behind a cold, clinical void. Chen moved with a slow, deliberate precision, his fingers trembling slightly as he retrieved his trousers from the floor. He dressed in a sequence of small, robotic movements—the slide of fabric over skin, the tug of a belt, the fastening of a button—each action a brick being laid back into the wall of his professional persona. He felt the dampness of the encounter clinging to him, a secret residue that made his clothes feel heavy, as if the fabric itself were saturated with the shame and pleasure of the last hour.

Mr. Bhose did not let him leave in silence. Just as Chen reached for his coat, the man’s large, calloused hand wrapped around his waist, hauling him back with a sudden, proprietary strength. He didn't speak; he simply tilted Chen’s chin up and claimed his mouth in a kiss that was unexpectedly long and lingering. It wasn't the frantic, predatory hunger of the encounter, but something slower—a claim of territory. Chen found himself kissing back, his eyes fluttering shut, caught in the strange, magnetic pull of a man who had just dismantled his dignity. For a few heartbeats, the off-license disappeared, and there was only the heat of the man’s breath and the rhythmic thrum of a shared, illicit secret.T hen, the grip loosened. The spell broke with the sound of a heavy sigh. Chen stepped back, the sudden distance feeling like a physical chill. He didn't look back as he walked out of the shop and into the biting air of the Tooting night.

***********. End of Part 2 **********

"Do you think the landlord actually believes the leak is just condensation?"Chen leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Mike poke a damp patch on the ceiling with a chopstick. Their flat in Tooting was small, and the air always smelled faintly of old carpets and the spicy stir-fry they had for dinner. The ceiling of the bedroom had developed a slow, rhythmic drip that sounded like a ticking clock whenever it rained, which, given their location in South London, was nearly every day. Mike sighed, pulling the chopstick back, and looked at Chen with a tired but affectionate smile.

They had spent the last two years carving out a quiet existence in the city, a far cry from the rigid expectations of the village they had left behind in China. Back home, life had been a series of carefully maintained masks and hushed conversations. Here, in a dingy apartment where the heating barely worked, there was a profound, liberating sense of peace. They could wake up, kiss each other without fear, and argue about whose turn it was to take out the rubbish without wondering if a neighbor was listening through the wall.

Chen and Mike live in a dilapidated Tooting flat where they deal with persistent leaks and a lack of heating. Despite the poor conditions of their home, they find solace in the freedom of their new life in the UK, contrasting their current independence with the restrictive social expectations they faced in their home village in China.

Chen’s shift at the off-license started at eight, which meant his mornings were a blur of hurried coffee and checking the bus timetable. Mike’s job at Tesco was more chaotic, involving the relentless hum of the warehouse and the frantic energy of the evening rush. He usually came home exhausted, his shoulders slumped, but he always had a story about a particularly eccentric customer or a misplaced pallet of oranges. Despite the exhaustion, there was a shared pride in their independence. Every paycheck was a brick in the wall they were building around their new life, a safeguard against the possibility of ever having to go back to a place where they didn't fit.

For the next three weeks, their lives became a grueling cycle of fluorescent lights and alarm clocks. Chen volunteered for every overtime slot the off-license owner offered, staying late to stock heavy crates of beer and scrubbing the floors until his lower back throbbed. Mike took on the grueling 4 AM starts at Tesco, navigating the frozen warehouse where the air felt like a walk-in freezer. They were operating on a deficit of sleep, fueled by instant coffee and the singular, shimmering goal of a celebratory Lunar New Year.

As mid-January brings a brutal cold to London, Chen and Mike push themselves to the limit, taking on as much overtime as possible at their respective jobs. Despite the physical exhaustion and the bleakness of their environment, they are driven by the desire to save money for a special Lunar New Year celebration.

Chen and Mike reside in a dingy Tooting flat, finding solace in their UK-based independence after escaping the restrictive expectations of their home village in China. Both men work demanding low-wage jobs, viewing their employment as the essential foundation of their freedom. During the cold month of January, they push themselves through excessive overtime to save money for the Lunar New Year.

The goal wasn't just about the festivities—it was about the dignity of the gesture. They wanted to buy the high-quality red envelopes, the kind with gold-embossed dragons, and fill them with crisp notes. Since they were estranged from their parents, the money wouldn't be going to a family dinner in a village they no longer called home. Instead, it was a fund for their own "chosen" family—a group of fellow expatriates and queer friends they'd met in South London. They planned to rent a small space in Chinatown, buy the most expensive cuts of pork and fish they could find, and create a sanctuary of tradition that belonged entirely to them.

By the second week of January, the exhaustion had become a shared language. They would collapse onto the sofa together, not speaking, just listening to the rhythmic *drip-drip-drip* of the ceiling leak, which had slowed as the temperature plummeted, nearly freezing the pipe solid. In those quiet, frozen moments, the dinginess of the flat seemed less oppressive. They looked at each other—eyes bloodshot, skin pale—and felt a fierce, protective warmth. Every extra hour of labor was a brick in the wall of their independence, a way of proving that they could create their own traditions, and their own family, from scratch, regardless of how cold the winter was.

Chen and Mike decided to use their overtime earnings to host a lavish Lunar New Year celebration for their chosen family of fellow expatriates. This act of generosity served as a way to reclaim their traditions and celebrate their independence from their biological families. Despite the dismal state of their flat and their extreme fatigue, they found strength in their partnership and the shared goal of building a new life together.

Chen spent ten minutes every morning in the cracked mirror of the bathroom, carefully applying a touch of concealer to hide the dark circles that had become permanent residents under his eyes. With his short, bleach-blonde hair styled into a soft, wispy fringe and his naturally large, luminous eyes, he often looked more like a porcelain doll than a man who spent ten hours a day hauling crates of lager. His skin was pale and flawlessly smooth, almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, giving him a delicate, ethereal quality that contrasted sharply with the grime of the Tooting flat.

Mike, by contrast, was the grounding force, the physical anchor in their small world. He moved through the apartment with a protective, heavy-set presence, his shoulders broad from years of manual labor and his voice a deep rumble that could soothe Chen’s anxiety in a single sentence. In the quiet architecture of their relationship, Mike was the shield, the one who dealt with the aggressive delivery drivers and the stubborn landlord, while Chen provided the softness and the emotional glue that kept them from fracturing under the pressure.

"Put your back into it, doll-face! These crates aren't going to walk themselves into the chiller!"

The contrast between the couple is evident in their appearance and roles within the home; Chen is delicate and ethereal, while Mike is the strong, protective anchor of the relationship. Despite his fragile appearance, Chen works hard alongside Mike, who handles the more aggressive aspects of their daily life. The narrative concludes with a sudden shift to Chen's workplace, where he is being urged to move crates of beer into the chiller.

The voice belonged to Mr. Bhose, and it didn't so much fill the room as it did assault it. He was a mountain of a man, a loud, expansive Punjabi presence who seemed to occupy eighty percent of the shop's floor space. Unlike the gentle, rhythmic management of Mrs. Singh, Mr. Bhose operated via shout and gesture. He was perpetually sweating through a linen shirt that struggled to contain his girth, his thick, salt-and-pepper arm hairs bristling as he waved a meaty hand toward the delivery bay. He didn't believe in "please" or "thank you"; he believed in volume and the immediate execution of his whims.

For Chen, Ravi, and Hari, the transition had been a shock to the system. Mrs. Singh had retired to her children's home with a series of warm hugs and promises that the shop would remain a sanctuary of mutual respect. Now, her brother had descended upon Tooting like a localized storm. Ravi and Hari, both undocumented and acutely aware of their fragility in the UK, had retreated into a state of permanent, wide-eyed obedience. They moved like ghosts through the aisles, their heads bowed, working twice as hard for the same meager minimum wage, terrified that one loud outburst from Mr. Bhose might somehow alert the authorities.

The management of the off-license shop has shifted from the gentle Mrs. Singh to her overbearing brother, Mr. Bhose. This transition has created a stressful environment for the staff, particularly for Ravi and Hari, who are undocumented migrants. Fearing potential exposure to the authorities, they have become overly obedient and hardworking to avoid drawing any negative attention from the volatile and loud-spoken Mr. Bhose.

The couple used their savings to host a Lunar New Year celebration for their chosen family, reclaiming their cultural traditions in a supportive environment. Their relationship is characterized by a balance between Chen's delicate nature and Mike's protective strength. Meanwhile, the atmosphere at Chen's workplace has soured due to the arrival of Mr. Bhose, who has replaced Mrs. Singh. This change in management has put the undocumented employees, Ravi and Hari, under intense pressure to be overly compliant to avoid deportation.

Chen found the new regime exhausting. While Ravi and Hari blended into the background, Chen’s pale, delicate features made him an easy target for Mr. Bhose’s brand of "encouragement." The man had a habit of clapping Chen on the shoulder with a force that nearly dislocated his clavicle, calling him "little bird" or "porcelain" in a voice that rattled the bottles of premium gin on the shelves. There was no malice in it, purely a lack of boundaries and a total absence of tact; Mr. Bhose simply existed at a higher decibel than everyone else.

The air in the shop was vibrating before Chen even crossed the threshold. It wasn’t a sound so much as a physical frequency, a low-grade tremor that usually preceded a structural collapse or a volcanic eruption. As the bell chimed, Chen caught the tail end of a roar—something about "unreliable blood"—that seemed to ripple the very bags of crisps lining the counter. Mr. Bhose was paced in a tight, furious circle, the phone pressed so hard against his ear that his skin was bunching. "Sick! Both of them!" Bhose bellowed into the receiver, though it was unclear if he was talking to the phone or the empty air. "The plague has hit Tooting, apparently! A double-pronged attack of the sniffles!"

Chen struggles under Mr. Bhose's aggressive and tactless management style, which is characterized by loud outbursts and physical clumsiness. Upon arriving at work, Chen finds Mr. Bhose in a state of rage, shouting into the phone. It becomes clear that Bhose is furious because two other employees have called in sick, leaving the shop severely understaffed.

He slammed the phone onto the counter with a crash that made the nearby display of artisanal chocolates shudder. Ravi and Hari, the two ghosts of the warehouse, had vanished into the fog of a shared sick day, leaving the shop as a desolate wasteland of unstocked shelves and mounting chaos. Mr. Bhose looked at Chen—pale, slight, and blinking in the harsh light—and let out a sigh that sounded like a deflating tire. For the first time, the mountain of a man looked genuinely defeated, his bravado replaced by a frantic, sweating desperation.

The day became a blur of repetitive motion. Chen didn't just work; he operated in a state of fugue, his mind retreating to a quiet place while his body performed a series of grueling tasks. He hauled crates of sparkling water that felt like lead blocks, scrubbed a sticky spill of cola from the linoleum, and served a relentless stream of irritable commuters who didn't care that he was the only pair of hands on deck. By four in the afternoon, his lower back felt like it had been fused together with rusted iron, and his fingertips were numb from the damp cardboard of the delivery boxes.

After Ravi and Hari called in sick, Mr. Bhose was left overwhelmed and desperate. This forced Chen to handle the entire workload of the shop alone. Throughout a grueling day, Chen performed physically demanding tasks and dealt with impatient customers, leaving him utterly exhausted and in physical pain by the afternoon.

Mr. Bhose didn't offer praise—that wasn't his way—but the shouting stopped. He hovered in the background, occasionally barking a direction or throwing a confused customer’s problem onto Chen’s plate, but there was a newfound, silent acknowledgment of the effort. He watched Chen move through the aisles, a small, determined figure battling a tide of inventory, and for a few hours, the usual noise of the shop was replaced by the rhythmic *thump-slide-thump* of Chen’s tireless hustle.

It wasn't until 9 PM that the frenzy finally ebbed. The street outside had grown quiet, the neon sign of the off-license casting a lonely, buzzing pink glow onto the wet pavement of Tooting. There were no more customers, only the humming silence of the refrigerators and the lingering scent of cleaning fluid. Mr. Bhose looked at the clock, then at Chen, whose white shirt was now translucent with sweat and dusted with cardboard lint.

The metal shutter came down with a definitive, bone-shaking crash that echoed through the empty shop, sealing out the damp London night. For a moment, the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the dying hum of the refrigerators. Chen let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since eight that morning, his muscles beginning to seize the moment the tension broke. He turned to leave, his mind already drifting toward the warmth of the flat and the sight of Mike, but Mr. Bhose’s voice cut through the quiet.

Mr. Bhose recognized Chen's hard work and stopped his shouting, though he continued to delegate problems. After a long day, the couple’s work finally ended at 9 PM. As Chen prepared to leave for the warmth of his home, Mr. Bhose interrupted the silence of the closing shop.

"Not yet, mate. One more thing. A small favour for a big day's work."

The request wasn't a suggestion; it was an invitation wrapped in a command. Mr. Bhose led him toward the back of the shop, past the stacks of discounted toilet rolls and the lingering scent of old cardboard, into an office that felt more like a storage closet with a desk. It was a claustrophobic space, smelling of stale tobacco and old ink, dominated by a heavy wooden desk and a sofa that had seen better decades. The upholstery was a muddy brown, stained with years of coffee spills and the grey dust of the city.

"The folders," Bhose grunted, pointing a thick finger toward the ceiling. "Top shelf, far left. Can you get them for me ?"

He gestured for Chen to step up onto the sofa to reach the towering shelves that brushed the ceiling. As Chen climbed onto the sagging cushions, the sofa groaned under his slight weight, the springs protesting with a metallic shriek. From this height, Chen could see the layers of grime coating the top of the shelving unit—a thick, grey pelt of dust that had settled over years of neglect. He stretched his arm upward, his fingertips grazing the cold plastic of a lever-arch folder.

As Chen reached higher, the fabric of his chinos strained, pulling tight across his backside. He was unaware of how the light from the overhead fluorescent tube caught the curve of his hips, or how the slight gap at the waist of his trousers exposed a sliver of pale, smooth skin. He was focused entirely on the folder, his fingers brushing against the dusty plastic, when the atmosphere in the cramped office shifted. The air grew heavy, the silence no longer peaceful but predatory.

Suddenly, a large, calloused hand clamped onto Chen’s thigh. The touch was slow and deliberate, sliding upward toward the inner thigh with a possessiveness that made Chen’s heart hammer against his ribs. He froze, the folder still out of reach, as Mr. Bhose leaned in. The man’s breathing was heavy, a rhythmic huffing that smelled of strong tobacco and cloves, and as he looked up at Chen, he openly licked his lips, his eyes dark with an opportunistic hunger.

"Stop! Please stop!" Chen gasped, his voice cracking as he tried to recoil. He scrambled to find his balance on the sagging sofa, but he was trapped between the shelving unit and the bulk of the man.

Mr. Bhose didn't listen. With a sudden, forceful movement, the giant of a man gripped the waistband of Chen’s trousers and yanked them down. The fabric gave way with a sharp snap, exposing Chen’s pale, rounded backside to the cold, stagnant air of the office. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the distant hum of the shop's refrigerators, the vulnerability of the moment hanging heavy between the delicate youth and the towering man.

The sudden shock of the cold air was immediately replaced by a heat that felt violently out of place. Before Chen could even register the loss of his trousers, Mr. Bhose leaned in with a predatory efficiency. The man’s tongue was large and muscular, moving with a focused, rhythmic intensity as he pressed himself against Chen’s exposed skin. When the first wet, hot lick struck the center of his backside, Chen’s entire body jolted. He had never experienced a sensation so invasive yet electrifying; it was a sensory overload that made the world around him blur.

For a moment, Chen saw stars, his vision swimming in a haze of white light and sudden, sharp pleasure that felt like a betrayal of his own fear. He tried to push Mr. Bhose away, his small hands pressing against the man's broad, sweating shoulders, but it was like trying to move a mountain. The sheer mass of Mr. Bhose pinned him against the shelving unit, leaving Chen suspended in a state of helpless vulnerability. Despite the terror and the confusion of the assault, Chen’s body reacted instinctively. His small, four-inch member stirred and hardened, reacting to the raw, primal stimulation of the tongue working relentlessly against his most private space.

The silence of the office was replaced by the wet, rhythmic sounds of the encounter and Chen’s own ragged breathing. He felt a strange, terrifying duality: a desperate need to escape and a traitorous, pulsing heat gathering in his groin. The contrast was overwhelming—the grime of the Tooting off-license, the smell of stale tobacco, and this sudden, illicit intimacy that felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside.

Despite his terror, Chen experienced a physical reaction to the assault, his body responding with arousal as he was pinned against the shelves by Mr. Bhose's strength. He found himself caught in a conflict between his desperate need to escape and a primal, physical pleasure. This confusing experience occurred amidst the dingy setting of the office, blending a sense of violation with an unexpected, overwhelming intimacy.

The clock on the office wall seemed to stutter, the seconds stretching into an agonizing, wet eternity. For ten minutes, the world narrowed down to the rhythmic, insistent pressure of Mr. Bhose’s tongue against Chen’s skin—a relentless, humid exploration that left Chen shaking and breathless. The sensory assault was total; the air was thick with the cloying scent of old tobacco and the sharp, salt-tang of the man's sweat. Every time Chen tried to find a foothold on the sagging cushions to push himself away, his movements were swallowed by the sheer mass of the man, who held him pinned with an effortless, crushing strength.

As the friction reached a fever pitch, Mr. Bhose shifted, his heavy frame sliding upward. In a sudden, suffocating movement, he bridged the gap between them, his lips crashing against Chen’s in a forceful, demanding kiss. The taste was overwhelming—bitter nicotine and the stale warmth of a long day's labor. Chen’s eyes flew open, staring into the frantic, dark hunger of the man’s gaze, his own breath hitching in a throat that felt too tight to scream.

For ten minutes, Mr. Bhose subjected Chen to a relentless and overwhelming sensory assault, pinning him against the sofa with crushing strength. The experience was a suffocating blend of physical pressure and the cloying smells of the office. The encounter culminated in Mr. Bhose forcing a harsh, nicotine-flavored kiss upon Chen, leaving the youth breathless and trapped by the man's intense, dark hunger.

Then, with a speed that contradicted his bulk, Mr. Bhose’s hands became a whirlwind of motion. There was a frantic tugging, the sound of fabric straining and giving way, and in a flash, the remnants of Chen’s modesty were stripped away. The clothes—the humble uniform of the off-license worker—were cast aside like useless scrap. Chen stood there, shivering and exposed, his pale skin luminous against the grime of the rickety, dirty sofa. He felt small, fragile, and utterly seen, his nakedness a stark contrast to the stained brown upholstery and the grey dust motes dancing in the fluorescent light.

The air of the office bit into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from Mr. Bhose. The man stepped back for a heartbeat, his eyes traveling slowly over the porcelain curves of Chen’s body, from the delicate slope of his shoulders to the trembling line of his thighs. There was a predatory satisfaction in the man's expression, a sense of ownership that made the small office feel even more like a cage.

Chen looked down at his bare feet pressing into the coarse, scratchy fabric of the sofa. He felt a strange, dizzying disconnect, as if he were watching this happen to someone else. The silence of the room returned, heavier than before, punctuated only by the distant, muffled sound of a car horn on the Tooting high street. He was trapped in a pocket of illicit intensity, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs, caught between the terror of the unknown and a visceral, pulsing response to the man who now stood before him, stripped of all pretense.

Mr. Bhose stepped back, the sudden movement of his bulk creating a gust of air that smelled of old sweat and desperation. With a series of impatient, heavy tugs, he stripped away his remaining clothes, shedding them like a skin he had outgrown. He stood before Chen, an expansive landscape of coarse, dark hair and undulating flesh. He was a man built of excess—broad-chested, stomach overhanging his waist, and covered in a thicket of salt-and-pepper hair that clung to his torso like a bramble. In the harsh, flickering light of the office, his physicality was overwhelming, a raw and unpolished force of nature.

Then, Chen saw it. Emerging from the chaos of the man's anatomy was an organ of terrifying proportions, an eight-inch monolith of veiny, reddish-purple flesh that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heat. It was an ugly thing, devoid of grace, scarred by the intensity of its own blood flow and looming with a predatory weight. Chen felt a wave of genuine petrification wash over him; he had never seen anything so imposing, so violently singular in its purpose. He stared at the monstrous architecture of it, his breath hitching in his throat, feeling smaller and more fragile than he ever had in his life.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across Mr. Bhose’s face. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping the back of Chen’s neck with a firm, inescapable pressure. With a sudden, decisive tug, he pulled Chen’s face forward, guiding his open mouth toward the looming shadow of his member. Chen felt his jaw stretch to a breaking point, his lips straining and parting wide to accommodate the massive intruder. As the head of the organ pressed against his teeth, Chen’s world narrowed down to a single, suffocating sensation—the feeling of being completely consumed by a force far larger than himself.

The world reduced to the rhythmic, suffocating pressure of Mr. Bhose’s weight. Chen’s jaw ached, strained to its absolute limit as he was forced to accommodate the sheer scale of the man. There was no grace in the movement, only a blunt, industrial force. Every time the massive organ slid deep into his throat, Chen felt a surge of visceral disgust—not just at the act, but at the smell of old sweat and the abrasive texture of the man's skin against his cheeks. He was a passenger in his own body, his eyes watering, his breath coming in ragged, stifled gasps that were swallowed by the oppressive bulk of his employer.

The tenderness of Chen’s life with Mike felt like a distant memory, replaced by this raw, transactional violence. Mr. Bhose didn't want intimacy; he wanted submission. He gripped the back of Chen’s head with a hand like a vice, his fingers digging into the scalp, and began to drive himself forward. The pace shifted from a slow exploration to a frantic, punishing rhythm. It was a face-fucking that bordered on the athletic, a relentless piston motion that left Chen breathless and gagging, his head snapping back and forth against the crushing weight of the man's thighs.

Chen closed his eyes, trying to mentally retreat to the quiet of his bedroom in Tooting, to the sound of the leaking ceiling and the warmth of Mike’s shoulder. But the sensory assault was too great. He could feel the heat radiating off Mr. Bhose, the guttural, triumphant grunts of a man who knew he held all the power in the room. Each thrust felt like a claim of ownership, a reminder that in this small, grimy office, Chen was not a person, but a tool for satisfaction.

The shift in position was abrupt and clinical. Mr. Bhose gripped Chen’s hips with a strength that felt like iron shackles, flipping him over with a suddenness that left Chen disoriented and gasping. He was pulled backward, his backside pressed firmly against the man’s towering frame. In the harsh, flickering light of the office, the remnants of the previous assault were visible—strings of glistening saliva still clung to Chen’s pale skin, a visceral marker of the degradation he had just endured.

There was no preamble, no soothing word to bridge the gap between fear and pleasure. Mr. Bhose positioned himself, the massive, veiny head of his member pressing against the tight, trembling entrance of Chen's anatomy. As the man began to push inward, the invasion was slow and deliberate. Chen let out a sharp, guttural cry of pain that echoed off the cramped walls; the sensation was an overwhelming stretch, a feeling of being torn open by something far too large for the space it occupied. He clawed at the fabric of the sofa, his knuckles white, as his body struggled to accommodate the brutal scale of the intrusion.

Once the initial barrier was breached, the hesitation vanished. Mr. Bhose transitioned from a slow, agonizing creep to a relentless, rhythmic drive. The tempo increased with a mechanical precision, turning the encounter into a display of raw, merciless power. It was no longer about intimacy or even desire, but about the sheer force of impact. Each thrust was a heavy blow that jolted Chen’s entire frame, sending a shockwave of sensation from his lower back through his skull.

The thin, plywood walls of the office began to shudder. The rhythmic *thwack* of flesh meeting flesh vibrated through the partitions, rattling the audit files on the top shelf and shaking the very foundations of the small room. Chen felt as though he were being hammered into the sofa, his breath coming in fragmented sobs that were drowned out by the guttural grunts of the man behind him. The world narrowed to the shaking of the walls and the crushing weight of a man who viewed him as nothing more than a vessel for release.

The clock on the wall had ceased to be a measure of time and had become a metronome for the violence of the act. For twenty grueling minutes, the office had been a centrifuge of sweat and friction, the air thick enough to taste. When the end came, it wasn't a release so much as a collapse. Mr. Bhose let out a guttural, animal grunt that seemed to vibrate through Chen’s very marrow, his entire bulk shuddering as he emptied himself into the smaller man.

For five long minutes, the mountain of a man simply lay there, pinning Chen into the sagging cushions of the sofa. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise had been, broken only by the synchronized, ragged gasps of two people who were no longer working together. Chen stared at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, feeling the warm, viscous trickling of semen escaping his body—a slow, indignity that felt like the final punctuation mark of the encounter.

When Mr. Bhose finally shifted, the sudden absence of his weight felt like a vacuum. The man rose slowly, the process of dressing himself a series of methodical, uncaring sounds: the zip of trousers, the snap of a belt, the rustle of a linen shirt being pulled over damp skin. Chen moved with a robotic precision, avoiding the man's gaze entirely. He focused on a single, peeling strip of wallpaper near the door, his fingers trembling as he tugged his clothes back into place. The intimacy of the act had vanished, replaced by a cold, professional distance that felt almost more jarring than the assault itself.

As Chen reached the door, his hand hovering over the handle, the sound of rustling paper stopped him. He turned just enough to see Mr. Bhose reaching into his wallet. Without a word, the man extended a thick hand, pressing a wad of cash—three hundred and fifty pounds—into Chen’s palm. It was a staggering amount, a windfall that felt like blood money, intended for the Lunar New Year celebrations they had spent weeks dreaming of. The money was crisp and smelled of old tobacco, a physical weight that felt far heavier than its numerical value.

Chen didn't thank him. He didn't look up. He gripped the notes in a white-knuckled clutch and bolted. He burst through the shop door and into the freezing London night, his legs moving in a frantic, desperate sprint toward the bus stop. He ran until his lungs burned, the cold air of Tooting stinging his face, trying to outrun the feeling of the man's touch and the crushing weight of the money in his pocket. He didn't stop until he reached the door of their dingy flat, where the sight of the leaking ceiling and the thought of Mike’s warm embrace felt like the only things keeping him from shattering.

The water was almost too hot, turning Chen’s pale skin a vivid, angry red as he leaned his forehead against the cold tiles of the shower. He scrubbed himself with a frantic intensity, using the coarse soap to scour away the invisible residue of Mr. Bhose’s touch. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the water wasn’t just cleaning his skin, but bleaching the memory of the office—the smell of tobacco, the crushing weight, the transactional silence. Only when his fingers were pruned and his breath finally steadied did he step out into the humid air, wrapping himself in a towel and bracing for the world outside the stall.

In the kitchen, the air was thick with the comforting, briny scent of instant noodles. Mike was there, a silhouette of warmth and domesticity, humming a tune that sounded like a lullaby. When Chen entered the room, his face was a carefully constructed mask of exhaustion, the kind that comes from a long shift rather than a shattered spirit.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, love," Mike said, glancing up with a tired but genuine smile.

Chen forced a laugh, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. "Just a mad day. But," he paused, pulling the wad of cash from his pocket and laying it on the table, "Mr. Bhose paid me for all the overtime. A bonus for the hard work."

Mike’s eyes widened, and he let out a celebratory whoop, pulling Chen into a rib-crushing hug. "Seriously? Chen, this is incredible! We can actually get those gold envelopes now. We can do it properly!" He beamed with a pride that made Chen’s stomach churn. The money felt like a lead weight in the room, a silent witness to a bargain Chen hadn't wanted to make.

******* End of Part 1 *********

Happened my Jr year. I was spending the night at my uncles house because we has been really close and when it had got late, he came to the living room couch where i was sleeping and did it. He grabbed me and forced me to the edge of the couch (in a doggy style position) while i was fighting him back. I remember how one hand was pinning down my back and the other was pulling down my pants, then he started trying to put it in my shii. Ofc i was tight (still am) so it was taking him a few tries but he literally was lubed up or whatever because eventually it went in. His tip was fat so it was already stretching me before it went in, then he started fuckin me. It was really slow deep strokes and it was wet because of the lube. I kept reaching back to stop him but he was just spank my ass when i did. Eventually, he put both of his hands on my hips and started drilling my lil shii. I was tryna stop him and get up but he kept slamming me back on the couch. I remember my mind went blank and all i could think about was how my ass was bouncing when he was stroking me. Really made me feel like a bitch. Then I couldn’t help but getting creamy and i eventually started leaking. When he nutted, he did it on my back and i questioned myself and trust for others for like a month. Eventually he got me again and each time after i just accepted it more and more until eventually i asked him to come over before the end of the jr year. I was actually wanting to take control for myself. Bruh i was questioning ts so hard but when he came over i was telling him i wanted to see if i like ts so i had him lay back and i was gon ride him. I remember how big his dick was in my hands when i was putting the Vaseline on him. Then when i got on top and put it in, it fuckin clicked right then and there. Ever since, its been consensual but since im in college now, im far away and yearning for new dick lol. Ik it sounds like

I was mostly into straight porn, especially milfs.

I would love watching them getting fucked and sucking cocks.

Slowly my interest went onto watching the sucking parts of video only I would skip the fuck and watch blowjobs only and especially the end where the guy is unloading his cum on face.

From there I started watching only bbc porn with white girls, my favourite part is the blowjobs.

Watching those monster dicks getting sucked turned me on.

One time just out of curiosity I searched gay porn and watched.

It became a daili thing slowly

Watching gay porn, curiosity came into the real world. I started chatting with gays to know how it feels to suck a cock.

One day I actually sucked a dick and got cum on my face. I thought my curiosity was over. I was normal for a few days until a night when I searched for gay porn again and texted the guy for meeting me.

Slowly cock sucking turned into a proper fuck. And now I fuck cocks like there's no tomorrow.

Everyone is 18+ and all acts are consensual

The Airbnb Zach rented for his birthday sat on a quiet street just outside the city, the kind of place with a big backyard, a sparkling blue pool, and enough open space that the neighbors wouldn’t complain until well after midnight. I pulled up in the early afternoon and could already hear the music thumping from the street. Cars lined both sides of the road. Laughter and shouting spilled over the fence. Zach had invited the usual crew plus a bunch of people from work and some old college buddies, so the place was already packed when I walked through the side gate into the backyard.

The pool was full of people. Miles and Sophie were in the shallow end with a couple of Zach’s work friends, tossing a foam football back and forth. Zach himself stood on the diving board in bright orange swim trunks, beer in one hand, the other waving around while he shouted something about being the birthday king. Kara stood nearby rolling her eyes but smiling, already used to his chaos. Music blasted from speakers set up near the house. Someone had set up a long table with chips, burgers, and a cooler full of drinks. The air smelled like chlorine, sunscreen, and grilled meat.

I spotted Colton almost immediately.

He and Taylor were lounging on two of the chairs by the far side of the pool. Taylor wore a simple black bikini and sunglasses, looking relaxed and happy as she scrolled on her phone. Colton sat next to her in a white linen shirt left half-unbuttoned and a pair of blue shorts that sat low on his hips. The linen was thin enough that the sun cut right through it, showing the heavy curve of his pecs and the faint lines of his abs every time he shifted. The sleeves were rolled up, veins standing out along his forearms. His legs were spread in that casual alpha way of his, one ankle resting on the other knee. He looked like he belonged on the cover of some fitness magazine, not at a backyard birthday party.

The second I saw him my mind flashed back to the garage the week before. The way his cock had felt thick and heavy in my hand. The way he had groaned when I twisted over the head. The mess he had left on my fingers. I forced the memory down and kept walking.

Colton looked up at the exact same moment. Our eyes met across the pool. He gave me that easy half-smirk of his, the one that said he remembered everything too, then raised his beer in a casual hello like nothing had happened. Taylor waved and called my name. I waved back and forced a normal smile onto my face.

Zach spotted me next and immediately started yelling. “Evan! Get your ass over here! Birthday king needs his gay best friend to bless the pool!”

I laughed and made my way over. The next hour or two were pure group chaos. Zach insisted on a group photo by the diving board. Miles tried to dunk Sophie and got elbowed in the ribs for it. One of Zach’s college friends challenged Colton to a handstand contest in the shallow end and lost badly. Colton just stood there grinning, water dripping down the open front of his linen shirt, the fabric clinging to every ridge of muscle. I tried not to stare. I failed a little.

Taylor eventually climbed into the pool with Kara and Sophie. The three of them floated near the steps, sipping mimosas and laughing about something on Taylor’s phone. She called over to Colton.

“Babe, come in! The water feels amazing.”

Colton shook his head and stood up, stretching. The linen shirt rode up for a second, showing a strip of hard abs. “In a bit. Gonna grab another drink first.”

He walked past the pool and headed toward the side of the house where the fire pit sat empty in the afternoon sun. I had drifted that way myself a few minutes earlier, needing a second away from the noise. I was sitting on one of the stone benches around the pit, sipping a cold soda, when Colton walked over and dropped down right next to me, close enough that his thick thigh pressed against mine for a second. He did not ask. He just took the space like it already belonged to him, the white linen shirt brushing my arm as he settled in with his legs spread wide.

He was close. Too fucking close to me. His shoulder almost brushed mine. The white linen smelled clean and warm from the sun, mixed with whatever cologne he always wore that made my dick twitch. Up close I could see the way the thin fabric pulled tight across his chest every time he breathed. Faint shadows of his abs showed through when he leaned forward to set his beer on the ground.

“Yo, Evan, my man!” he said, voice low enough that the music from the speakers covered it, but still full of that same lively, easy energy he always had. He sounded exactly the same as he did before anything happened in the garage last weekend. Completely unbothered. Completely the same alpha-bro version of himself that everyone else in the group knew.

“Hey, Colt,” I answered, my own voice coming out quieter than I meant it to. I kept it low on purpose, like I didn’t want anyone across the backyard to notice we were even talking, or maybe because I still wasn’t sure how the hell I was supposed to act around him after what we did.

He took a slow sip of his drink and looked out at the pool like we were just two bros shooting the shit. Then he spoke again, still casual.

“Been thinking about last weekend nonstop, man.”

My stomach tightened. I glanced around. Everyone was busy. Zach was doing cannonballs. The girls were still floating and laughing. Miles was arguing with someone about football.

“Colt, shut the fuck up,” I muttered. “Someone is going to hear us.”

He snorted. “Ah, fuck off. Everyone’s busy enjoying themselves. Look at them.” He nodded toward the pool. “Nobody gives a shit what two dudes are talking about by the fire pit.”

He leaned back on the bench, stretching one arm along the back of it so that his hand rested near my shoulder. The movement made the linen open a little more. I could see the thick curve of his pec and the dark edge of a nipple.

“That technique you used with your hand on my dick,” he continued, voice dropping even lower. “Fuck. The way you twisted over the head… I lost my shit that night. Straight up. Been replaying it all week.”

Heat flooded my face and dropped straight to my cock. I shifted on the bench, trying to adjust myself without being obvious. Colton noticed. Of course he did. He grinned sideways at me.

“I’ve had my fair share of handjobs from women,” he said, laughing under his breath. “But you are the fucking queen of giving a hand, Evan. No joke.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder and left it there, thumb brushing the side of my neck for a second like it was nothing. The casual contact made my skin feel electric. I was already half-hard in my shorts just from how close he was sitting and how chill he sounded about the whole thing.

I looked toward the pool. Taylor was laughing hard at something Kara said, water sparkling on her skin, looking completely happy and unaware. Sophie floated next to them, sipping her drink. The three of them looked like they were having the best day.

“What’s going on with Taylor?” I asked.

Colton’s hand stayed on my shoulder. He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

I turned so I was facing him more fully. Up close his face was almost unfair. Sharp jaw, those dark eyes, the easy confidence that made people listen when he talked. A little stubble along his chin. The afternoon sun hit him just right and made him look even better.

“Why’d you ask me for a handjob while you’ve got a girlfriend like Taylor?” I said. “I mean… I’m gay as fuck, but I know that woman is hot. I’m not fucking stupid.”

Colton grinned, slow and cocky. “Yeah. She’s fucking hot. And I love her.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing stuff with me?”

He looked at me for a long second. Something flickered behind his eyes, something that was not pure denial. Then he shrugged it off like it was nothing.

“Ah, let it go, baby girl. Doesn’t matter.”

The nickname hit me harder than it should have. He said it casually, almost teasing, but it settled low in my gut. Before I could push again he changed the subject completely.

“You wanna sneak into the villa and wank me off?” He smirked, eyes flicking down to my mouth and back up. “Or give me a head if you’re feeling adventurous. Your call.”

My cock jumped so hard in my shorts that I had to press my thigh against it to keep it from being obvious. The thought of getting on my knees for him again, this time with his dick in my mouth, made my head spin. Colton was the muscle alpha I had secretly wanted for years. The guy I would have let do anything. And here he was offering it like we were talking about grabbing another beer.

But I couldn’t just say yes. Not without knowing what was going on between him and Taylor.

I shifted away a little on the bench. “C’mon, bro. I’m not going to fucking do anything with you…” I stood up, forcing myself to look away from the open linen shirt and the thick outline already starting to show in his blue shorts. “…until you tell me what’s going on with Taylor.”

Colton stayed seated. He spread his legs wider, completely unbothered, and looked up at me with that same easy grin. The white shirt gaped open across his chest. His cock was clearly half-hard now, pressing against the front of his shorts.

“Oh come on, Evan,” he said, voice low and amused. “You love dick. I know that. Just fucking help me out and stop overthinking it.”

I started walking away towards the pool, heart hammering. After a few steps I glanced back.

Colton was still sitting exactly where I left him, legs spread, one arm draped along the back of the bench, white linen open, blue shorts tight across his thick thighs. He was watching me with that stupid, knowing grin, like he could see right through every word I had just said. Like he already knew I was full of shit and that I would end up with his cock in my mouth before the night was over.

He raised his beer in a little salute and grinned wide. Then he pressed his tongue hard into the inside of his cheek, pushing it out so it bulged clearly, while he made a slow fist near his mouth and pumped it once. The gesture was crude and unmistakable. He kept grinning the whole time like he knew exactly what he was offering and didn’t care who might see.

I turned and started walking back toward the pool area, cock aching, head spinning. The music and laughter got louder again as I got closer. Zach was still on the diving board yelling about birthday shots.Taylor was floating near the steps with the other girls, mimosas in hand, completely unaware that her boyfriend had just asked me to suck his dick.

Colton stayed right where he was by the empty fire pit, watching me the entire way, that same knowing grin on his face.

The party was just getting started. The sun was still high. The afternoon still felt long and open. And every single step I took back toward the water only made the pressure in my shorts worse.

I met these two older guys one night at a motel, there was suppose to be a fourth but never showed up. So I said “you guys can play with me until he gets here”. All they wanted to do was eat my ass so I was face down ass up on the bed, they ripped my underwear off and proceeded to tongue fuck my ass for a good hour. They would take turns every 10 minutes. I can still feel how they twirled their tongues in my ass and on my balls while the other one was throat fucking me. It got to the point where I got too excited when one guy was eating my hole I came all over the bedsheet and the other proceeded to eat it. Best orgasm ever!

All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older.

It was the night before Halloween and I sat hunched over my desk in my cramped office, the glow of my laptop casting shadows across the cluttered space. Stacks of papers and empty coffee cups surrounded me, a testament to the hours I’d spent grading Film 101 submissions. I’d rather have been at some costume party, sipping cheap beer and flirting with strangers in a vampire costume. But Professor Harding had promised the class that the Halloween-themed short films would be graded by tomorrow. And at 22 years old, I was the youngest TA at the university and I wanted to impress him. Besides, my master’s degree in film studies wasn’t going to earn itself.

With a sigh, I clicked through the next submission, my eyes red from hours of amateur acting and shaky camera work. Only a few more to go. The file name caught my attention: Curse of the Virgin by Henry, Jeremy, and Adam. I smirked, already anticipating their lackluster effort. Those three were an odd pairing, they were best friends, and Henry and Jeremy were on the football team. But Adam didn't have an athletic bone in his body and was as skinny as they come. But best of all, all three of them were notoriously terrible actors. They had probably thrown together something absurd to make me laugh. I hit play.

The video opened with Adam, his wavy blond hair slightly disheveled, creeping through what looked like an abandoned house. The set was decent enough, dusty furniture, flickering lights, a solid attempt at atmosphere for a student project. Adam’s skinny frame moved cautiously, his wide eyes scanning the shadows. His acting was stiff, every step exaggerated like he’d watched too many horror flicks. He wandered through the first floor, poking into different rooms, until he reached a room with a dusty grand piano. He sat, hesitated, then played a few random keys, the notes echoing awkwardly in the silence.

Suddenly, two “ghosts” burst into the frame, Henry and Jeremy, draped in white blankets with holes cut for eyes. Their attempts to scare Adam were laughably bad with exaggerated moans and flailing arms. I snorted, grabbing my notebook to jot down: Cheesy ghost costumes, poor delivery. The dialogue took a weird turn when Henry’s voice, muffled under the blanket, declared that Adam had activated the “Curse of the Virgin” by touching the piano. Adam’s face contorted in mock terror, his voice cracking as he begged to know how to lift the curse. I paused the video, my pen hovering. Curse of the Virgin? What kind of bizarre plot was this? Amused but confused, I hit play again.

The ghosts, still cloaked in their ridiculous blankets, loomed over Adam. Jeremy’s deep voice boomed, “There’s only one way to lift the curse. You cannot remain a virgin.” Adam’s eyes widened comically, his hands clutching his chest. “What do you mean?” he squeaked, his acting so over-the-top I almost laughed out loud. Henry leaned closer, his blanket slipping slightly, and said, “You must sacrifice your virginity. Here. Now.”

I froze, my finger slamming the pause button. The frame caught Henry’s blanket at an odd angle, and holy shit… was that skin? My heart raced as I squinted at the screen. The blanket had shifted just enough to reveal Henry’s hip, bare and muscular, with no hint of clothing underneath. Jeremy’s blanket hung low as well, the open side exposing a glimpse of his chiseled abs. Were they… naked under there? My mouth went dry. I knew I should stop the video, email Professor Harding, and report this as inappropriate. This was beyond inappropriate for a university project. But my finger hovered over the play button, curiosity burning through my veins. I adjusted my glasses and clicked play.

Back in the video, Adam played up his horror, his voice trembling as he asked, “Can I leave to find a girl to lift the curse? I promise I'll come back!” The ghosts laughed, their voices dripping with mockery. “You can’t leave until the curse is lifted,” Jeremy said, his tone almost gleeful. Adam’s eyes widened further, his scream of “No!” echoing through the fake haunted house. The ghosts laughed again, and Henry’s blanket shifted, revealing more of his toned thigh. My breath caught. Adam, still playing the terrified victim, nodded reluctantly and began to unbutton his shirt.

I shifted in my chair, my jeans suddenly tight. My cock twitched as Adam stripped, his skinny frame coming into view, pale, smooth, and completely bare as he shed his clothes. His small, pink nipples hardened in the chilly air, and his cock, soft but already twitching, hung between his slender thighs. I should’ve stopped the video. I should’ve done a lot of things. But I didn’t. I kept watching, my pulse pounding in my ears.

The ghosts moved closer, their blankets parting to reveal their cocks, Henry’s thick, veined, and already half-hard, the head glistening with a bead of precum. Jeremy’s was longer, slightly curved, and pulsing with arousal. My jaw dropped. Adam, still in character, reached out with trembling hands and wrapped his fingers around both shafts. His slender fingers barely closed around Henry’s girth, and he stroked slowly, his movements tentative but growing bolder with each stroke. Jeremy’s cock throbbed in Adam’s grip, a slick drop of precum sliding down the shaft. The ghosts groaned, their voices low and guttural, their hips shifting slightly as Adam’s hands worked them. After several minutes of slow, deliberate strokes, Jeremy’s voice cut through, thick with need: “Suck us off. Now.”

Adam hesitated, his wide eyes flicking up, but he obeyed. He leaned forward, his lips parting as he took Henry’s thick cock into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the swollen head, lapping at the precum before he sucked deeper, his cheeks hollowing with the effort. My own cock was rock-hard now, straining painfully against my jeans. I shifted, trying to ease the pressure, but it only made me more aware of the heat surging through me, my balls tightening. Adam’s head bobbed, his lips stretching wide around Henry’s shaft, saliva dripping down his chin as he worked. His other hand kept stroking Jeremy’s cock, his fingers slick with precum, the wet sounds filling the room.

Henry’s hands roamed Adam’s body, pinching his nipples until they were red, making Adam whimper around the cock in his mouth. Jeremy’s fingers grazed Adam’s hardening cock, teasing the sensitive tip until it leaked steadily, a thin string of precum dripping onto the floor. Adam’s moans grew louder, his body trembling under their touch. Then, in a moment of lost control, Adam pulled off Henry’s cock just long enough to gasp, “Oh Henry!” The name slipped out, raw and desperate, breaking character completely.

I paused the video, my hand shaking. My cock was leaking now, a damp spot spreading across my jeans, the fabric clinging to my throbbing shaft. I was torn, part of me was impressed they’d mostly stayed in character despite the situation, but the rest of me was too consumed by lust to care about their acting skills. I hit play again, my breath ragged, my hand pressing against my crotch.

Jeremy moved behind Adam, his blanket slipping as he spit into his hand. He smeared the saliva over his fingers and pressed them against Adam’s tight, pink hole, circling slowly before pushing one finger inside. Adam gasped, his body jerking, but he kept sucking Henry’s cock, his lips sloppy and eager. Jeremy worked a second finger in, stretching Adam’s hole, his fingers curling to find that sensitive spot inside. Adam moaned, the sound muffled by Henry’s cock, his own erection twitching hard against his stomach.

Jeremy’s blanket fell away completely, revealing his broad, muscular frame, sweat glistening on his chiseled abs and powerful thighs. His cock was long and throbbing, shining with spit as he lined it up with Adam’s stretched hole. He pushed in slowly, the camera catching every inch as Adam’s rim stretched around him. Jeremy groaned, his hands gripping Adam’s narrow hips as he thrust deeper, his cock disappearing into Adam’s body. The sounds of sex filled the room, mixing with Adam’s muffled moans as he sucked Henry harder, his throat working to take every inch.

Henry’s hands tangled in Adam’s blond hair, guiding his head, fucking his mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. Jeremy’s pace quickened, his hips slapping against Adam’s ass, the slap of skin echoing. Adam’s cock bobbed with every thrust, leaking steadily, his balls drawn tight. Jeremy reached around and wrapped his hand around Adam’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, his thumb smearing precum over the sensitive head. Adam’s body shook, his moans turning to desperate whimpers as he was caught between them.

The three of them moved in perfect sync, and it was obvious this wasn't the first time they had done this. Henry’s groans grew louder, his hips jerking as he spilled into Adam’s mouth, thick ropes of cum leaking from the corners of Adam’s lips. Adam swallowed what he could, gasping as his own cock pulsed as he came untouched, spurts of cum splattering the floor beneath him. Jeremy thrust deep one last time, his head thrown back as he came inside Adam, his cock throbbing with each pulse.

Panting, Adam stood, cum dripping down his chin and thighs, and asked, “Is the curse lifted?” Jeremy scrambled to throw the blanket back over himself and let out a terrible evil laugh. “We tricked you,” Henry said, his voice equally cheesy. “Now you’re cursed forever, doomed to haunt other virgins!” The camera zoomed in on Adam’s face as he screamed, “Noooo!” and the screen cut to black.

I sat back, my chest heaving. My cock was so hard it ached, my precum soaking through my jeans, the wet spot very noticeable. I knew I should report this. It was inappropriate, unprofessional, and probably went against every university policy. But the thought of those three kept me rooted in my chair. I couldn’t bring myself to snitch. Instead, I decided I’d handle this myself. I’d call them in, talk to them, maybe… discipline them in my own way.

My hand moved to my zipper, freeing my aching cock. I hit replay on the video, watching it again from the start, my strokes matching the rhythm of Jeremy’s thrusts, my thumb circling the head of my cock as I imagined myself in that room with them.

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