Turning my Boyfriend Gay

Financial Crunch

Curtis had this theory that adulthood was just a series of increasingly humiliating compromises, stacked atop one another until your soul resembled a condemned Jenga tower. Case in point, their kitchen. Even calling it a kitchen was generous, given the tight apartment footprint and the way the laminate table barely cleared the fridge when both chairs were occupied. Right now, every square inch of the Formica was covered in bills, greasy Chinese takeout containers, and his girlfriend’s MacBook, open to the twin tab hellscape of student loan servicers and shared checking.

The air was filled with the lingering scent of last night's Szechuan beef, both pungent and oily, combined with the bitter, chemical tang of cheap coffee. His tongue felt heavy, sour, and coated, while his head ached from spending too much time looking at Brooke's spreadsheet.

Brooke, on the other hand, looked immaculate as always with her hair up in a perky blonde ponytail, white blouse rolled to the elbows, little gold stud earrings flashing as she hunched over her keyboard. She could have been prepping to analyze some fucked-up therapy patient, not just her own checking account. Which, Curtis admitted, was kind of what she did with everything.

“So, uh,” he ventured, scratching the back of his neck with a bitten-down thumbnail. “How bad is it?”

Brooke’s eyes flicked to him, cool and analytical, the way she’d once explained the symptoms of narcissistic personality disorder to her mother. “Depends what you mean by ‘bad.’ If we don’t want to tap your Roth IRA again, we should find another $600 a month, at least until my caseload goes up.”

She didn’t mention his salary. She didn’t have to. Her job at the therapy clinic paid real money; his was more like a participation trophy for liberal arts majors who’d failed upward into customer complaints. Curtis scrolled through his phone as if there were something urgent happening on Reddit, but it was just habitual avoidance.

“You could always marry me and take the tax deduction,” he said, only half-joking. He was pretty sure he wanted to marry Brooke. He just didn’t want to marry her as the guy who needed bailing out.

She pursed her lips. “Don’t tempt me. I’d have to tell all my clients I settled.”

Oof. Curtis smiled anyway, the default smile he gave when someone insulted him more efficiently than he could insult himself. “Well, then. I guess we could live in the car. You’d be the hottest homeless chick on the block.”

Brooke ignored that, typing furiously. “We could get a roommate,” she said, as if it were the most obvious and non-humiliating thing in the world. “I could clear out the spare room. Most of my coworkers did the same. That’s $800, right there. Some of these ads have been up for less than a day. Look.” She swiveled the MacBook, and there it was: a Craigslist ad, bold and humiliating. “Open-minded couple seeks responsible third for short-term lease.”

Curtis felt a hot, sour pulse of dread in his stomach. “What if it’s some weirdo?” He tried to make it sound funny, but his voice cracked a little at the end. God, he sounded like a kid. Or worse, like his mom, terrified that the big city was full of knife-wielding perverts.

Brooke grinned. “Then we’ll be armed with pepper spray and rigorous vetting procedures.” She reached over and put her hand on his thigh, not sexy, but proprietorial, like she was steadying a jumpy dog. “Come on, baby, it’ll be fun. Maybe we’ll get someone hot to spice things up.” She squeezed, and her tongue pressed sly against her teeth.

Curtis stiffened in the chair. He hated the way his dick responded to that, instantly, as if it were contractually obligated to pop a semi any time his humiliation and arousal got tangled together. He stared down at the bills to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “I doubt some hot stranger is desperate enough to live with us,” he muttered.

She arched an eyebrow. “You never know.” There was something glittery in her eyes. “Could be a grad student, or one of those cool startup types. Or,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “maybe an ex-con with a heart of gold and really strong hands.”

She was fucking with him. She was always fucking with him. He could never decide if he liked it or not, but it always worked. His chest went tight, and he got dizzy from how much he wanted her to keep going.

He deflected, as usual. “Wouldn’t it be weird, like, with the… y’know.” He gestured at the air between them, as if “the fucking” was too awkward to say in front of the unpaid bills.

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Curtis, I’m not about to give up regular orgasms just because someone else is under the same roof. Besides, what’s the worst that happens? They hear a moan or two?” Her hand slid up his thigh, fingers finding the seam of his jeans. “Maybe that’s incentive for them to pay rent on time.”

He snorted, not trusting himself to say more, because every time she did this, he got so wound up he could barely see straight. She knew it, too. That was the most humiliating part. She liked watching him squirm.

Brooke let her hand rest on the zipper for a beat, then squeezed, just a little, before pulling away to her laptop again. “Anyway, I already drafted the ad. We just need a photo of the room. You want to help me clear out your old gaming stuff later?”

He nodded, still feeling the aftershock of her touch. “Sure.” He sounded like a twelve-year-old caught jerking off by his babysitter.

Brooke smiled, satisfied, and started copy-pasting into the housing sites. “Good boy.”

She only called him that when she wanted to see how far she could push it. And, god help him, it worked. He pictured the worst-case scenario: some hulking, tattooed rando living in their guest room, judging him for being a beta bitch, probably snickering when Brooke inevitably steamrolled over him in front of company. The flush that started at his cheeks trickled down to his crotch, and his dick throbbed, half-hard, angry at him for getting off on his own emasculation.

The worst part was, he couldn’t tell if the shame turned him on more than it pissed him off. He settled for both, letting it simmer while he helped Brooke pick out the most flattering photo of the spare room (the one where sunlight made the cheap rug look golden, and you couldn’t see the IKEA furniture’s chipped veneer). She drafted the post in record time and read it aloud to him, deliberately slow:

“Seeking responsible, open-minded roommate for furnished room. Non-smokers preferred. Couples are welcome; we are respectful, low drama, and very clean. LGBTQ+ friendly. Must be able to provide references. No MAGA types.”

She grinned at that last line, giving Curtis a pointed look. “Too political?”

He shrugged. “Nah. Probably just filtered out half the serial killers in the city.”

She laughed, threw her head back, and reached for her coffee. The sight of her neck, her blouse collar unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of her bra, made Curtis’s throat go dry. She’d never made him beg for it, but some nights she would just toy with him, ratchet up the tension and then vanish into her work, leaving him blue-balled and humiliated until she decided to toss him a bone.

Tonight, he was pretty sure she’d drag it out. He tried to focus on his phone, but his mind kept wandering to what would happen if Brooke got her wish, if they really did find someone “hot to spice things up.” The way she’d said it, the glint in her eye, it wasn’t just a joke, he realized. There was hunger under it. He wondered, not for the first time, what she’d do if a guy actually took her up on it.

He’d never admit it, but the idea made his balls tighten in a way that was one part fear, three parts horny.

“Hey,” Brooke said, breaking his spiral. “You still with me?”

He jerked upright. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… thinking about work.”

She rolled her eyes. “Liar.” She was standing now, coming around the table to sit on his lap. She weighed almost nothing, but the force of her was overwhelming: the smell of her perfume, the heat of her body, the way her hand slid behind his neck and gripped just hard enough to remind him whose lap was whose.

“It’ll be fine,” she whispered, kissing his ear. “We’re in it together, right?”

He nodded, dizzy, unable to look at her. She guided his face toward hers, kissed him on the lips, slow and wet, her tongue just barely inside his mouth. He felt her hand slip between their bodies, pressing against the hardness in his jeans, and she grinned into the kiss.

“You’re such a perv,” she murmured, as if that settled it.

Maybe it did.

She kissed him once more then slid off his lap, leaving him with a painful erection and a cold sweat. She went back to her laptop, pulling up the ads to check for new listings. “Let’s see who bites,” she said, as if they’d just posted a puppy on Craigslist, and not their own dignity.

Curtis tried to think about literally anything else, but all he could picture was Brooke, that glint in her eye, and the door to their little apartment swinging open to admit a stranger they’d both have to live with.

He didn’t know if he was more terrified, or turned on.

Probably both.

***

Curtis spent the rest of the week in a state of low-level dread, which peaked every time his phone dinged with a notification about the Craigslist ad. He’d never hosted interviews before, and the idea of letting strangers scrutinize his taste in furniture, or his threadbare carpet, made him want to crawl under said carpet and die.

Brooke, on the other hand, thrived on it. The more awkward the meet-up, the more she seemed to glow, all cool control and sly amusement. She dressed down for the occasion, in leggings that framed her ass, and an oversized hoodie that still managed to show off her chest. Her hair was in a messy bun, reading “effortless” but actually calibrated for maximum effect. She even put on her old black-rimmed glasses, the ones that made her look like a cross between a librarian and an Instagram dominatrix.

The living room had been “deep cleaned,” which mostly meant Febreze and frantic stacking of unread mail. Their couch was a hand-me-down with suspicious stains that not even a slipcover could fully obscure; the coffee table was an IKEA hack job that wobbled if you sneezed. Curtis perched on the edge of the couch, knees bouncing, while Brooke lounged with her laptop and a spiral notebook, ready to take “notes.”

The first candidate was a gamer named Jon. He showed up fifteen minutes early, which would’ve been a point in his favor if not for the fact that he reeked of weed and something faintly biological. Jon had that pallid, hoodie-over-pajamas vibe, like he’d just wandered out of a twelve-hour Twitch stream and into their lives by mistake. He sprawled on the opposite end of the couch and immediately began a monologue about PC builds and “the tyranny of the landlord class.”

Brooke, amused, played along. She peppered him with questions about chores and boundaries, barely disguising her laughter when Jon declared “I totally get personal space. I hate when people, like, invade my zone.” Curtis tried to keep up, but every time he opened his mouth, Jon steamrolled him, and Brooke just smiled wider.

When Jon left Brooke shut her notebook and said, “That’s a hard pass, unless you want to wake up to Mountain Dew bottles in the bathtub.” Curtis laughed, weakly, and sagged into the cushions. For a moment, he thought maybe this would be fun after all.

The next candidate was an older woman in a purple pantsuit, freshly divorced and apparently eager to overshare. She complimented their “eclectic” décor, then launched into a ten-minute TED talk about her cheating ex-husband and the yoga retreat that “awakened her kundalini.” She kept touching Curtis’s arm when she talked, leaning in with the confidence of someone who’d once been head of the HOA.

Brooke’s smile took on a sharper edge. She steered the conversation, asked about the woman’s “plans for reinvention,” and scribbled little notes in her pad. When the woman left, trailing a cloud of sandalwood perfume, Brooke tossed the notebook onto the coffee table. “She’d have us signed up for a timeshare by next Tuesday,” she said.

Curtis agreed, but he also felt weirdly exposed, like Brooke was running a social experiment and he was the only lab rat who didn’t get the punchline.

Between interviews, they snacked on cold pizza, scrolling through increasingly deranged responses to their ad. Brooke curated the shortlist, reading aloud the weirdest emails: “Is this a sex thing, or nah?” “Do you allow reptiles?” “I’m a little person, but I have big energy.” She read each one with the flat affect of a scientist observing mating calls in the wild.

Curtis just nodded and kept his opinions to himself, mostly because every candidate so far was a walking argument for living alone forever. The idea of another person hearing him and Brooke have sex—worse, hearing her berate him—made him sick with dread, but also, if he was being honest, a little electric.

Late in the afternoon, a guy named Logan showed up. He was… different. Tall, with dark hair, forearms that looked like they’d been engineered in a CrossFit lab, and a jawline that could slice cold cuts. He wore a V-neck that showed off just the right amount of pecs, and jeans that looked expensive but casual. His smile was devastating.

Brooke’s eyes flashed the second Logan walked in. Curtis felt it, the room temperature notching up a few degrees. Logan’s handshake was firm; his cologne, subtle but definitely there.

He sat across from them, spreading his legs slightly, and took in the room with a lazy confidence that made Curtis want to shrink into the couch. Brooke began her usual script—“What do you do? Any pets? Party habits?”—but Logan had answers ready for everything. He was a software engineer, worked from home, didn’t smoke, and was “chill about noise as long as it’s not, like, dubstep at 3 a.m.”

He kept glancing at Brooke, too, but not in a creepy way. It was like he was measuring her, maybe even trying to impress her. Curtis watched the way Brooke sat up straighter, the way she toyed with her pen between her teeth. He tried to participate, but every time he spoke, Logan gave him a look that was polite but dismissive. Curtis felt invisible.

When Logan left Brooke exhaled audibly. “Wow,” she said, and didn’t bother hiding her appraisal. “That’s a contender.”

Curtis felt his throat close up. “He seems… I don’t know. Too alpha,” he said, the word tumbling out before he could stop it.

Brooke turned her full attention to Curtis, eyebrow cocked in open amusement. “Jealous, baby?” Her voice dropped an octave, husky and taunting.

Curtis felt his ears burn. “No. He just… he seems like the kind of guy who’ll put his feet on the coffee table and leave hair in the drain.”

Brooke grinned, predatory. “Or maybe you just don’t want competition.”

Curtis tried to protest, but his voice died in his throat. Brooke leaned in, her hand brushing his knee, her fingers massaging just enough to remind him how powerless he was when she wanted something.

“Would that be so bad?” she whispered. “Having someone around who could… keep you on your toes?”

Curtis swallowed. He knew she was baiting him, and he hated that it worked, that he felt a little thrill at the idea of being put in his place by someone like Logan.

Brooke squeezed his knee harder, then let go. She went back to her notebook, marking Logan’s name with a star. “I’ll email him,” she said, as if the decision had already been made.

The rest of the interviews blurred together: a guy who claimed to be “crypto-rich” but showed up in a shirt covered with pizza stains; a woman who wouldn’t stop talking about her cats, even after it became obvious they weren’t allowed; a shy kid who never made eye contact and refused to shake hands. None of them were as memorable as Logan, and by the end of the night, Brooke had narrowed it down to a single star.

They were sprawled on the couch, splitting a bottle of cheap wine, when Brooke said, “You know, I could tell you wanted him.”

Curtis nearly choked on his drink. “I—what? No, I didn’t—”

She rolled her eyes, giving him the same look she gave to patients in denial. “You kept looking at his arms. You literally stopped talking when he did that thing with his jaw.”

Curtis wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. Instead, he played dumb. “What thing?”

Brooke smirked. “Don’t play innocent. I’ve seen the porn you watch.”

Curtis’s jaw dropped. “That’s—”

“—Perfectly normal,” she finished for him, patting his thigh. “Look, it’s not a crime to admire someone. Even if it’s a guy who could probably bench press your car.”

He looked away, face burning. “I just didn’t want to seem… you know.”

Brooke’s voice went soft, almost kind. “Seem what?”

Curtis took a long breath. “Like a total bitch.”

She turned, straddling his lap, her hands on his shoulders. “Curtis, honey, you’re my bitch. That’s the only kind that matters.”

He hated how much that turned him on, hated how his cock twitched at her words. He wanted to fight back, say something to regain his dignity, but Brooke leaned in and bit his ear, gentle but not gentle, and all he could do was gasp.

They made out, desperate and sloppy, her hands roaming under his T-shirt, fingernails raking his chest. She ground against him, her leggings slick with sweat. He got close to coming, just from her straddling him, but she stopped, always in control, always leaving him just on the edge.

She kissed him once, hard, then slid off his lap. “I’m going to bed,” she said, voice low. “You can jerk off if you want.”

Curtis sat on the couch, alone with his humiliation, his heart pounding and his dick hard enough to hurt. He stared at the empty wine bottle, wondering how he’d become so easy to manipulate. Wondering, too, what it would be like if a guy like Logan moved in, if Brooke would flirt with him, if she’d make Curtis watch.

He was still daydreaming about it when his phone vibrated.

There was a new email. The subject line read, “Re: Room Available?”

The body was short: “Hey! My name’s Lance. Saw your ad, and I think we’d be a great fit. I’m in the area and can drop by this weekend. Let me know what works!”

Below the message was a profile picture: another tall, impossibly fit guy, only this one was even more intimidating than Logan. Short hair, tanned skin, a grin that could get away with murder. Shirtless, of course, showing off pecs and a six-pack. The sight of him made Curtis’s whole body tense.

He heard Brooke in the bedroom, humming to herself as she brushed her teeth, oblivious to the new threat. He stared at Lance’s picture for a long time, feeling that same mixture of dread and anticipation he’d felt the night Brooke posted the ad.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more: that Brooke would love Lance, or that he would, too.

***

Brooke insisted on brewing fresh coffee the morning Lance was set to arrive. Curtis didn’t even like coffee, but the house always smelled less like microwave leftovers and more like a place where adults lived when she made it. He hovered in the kitchen, alternating between pouring himself one-finger shots of half-and-half and peering out the window at the street below. Every time a car engine idled or a skateboard clacked on the sidewalk, his stomach flipped.

The doorbell rang at exactly 10:00 a.m. Because of course it did.

Lance was bigger in person than he’d seemed in his photos. Not just taller—though he topped Curtis by at least four inches—but wide, with arms that threatened to split the seams of his white tank top. His shorts rode high on his quads, showing off calves that looked like they’d been cast in bronze. He was tanned, clean-shaven, and the kind of handsome that should be illegal in rental housing. Curtis’s eyes went straight to Lance’s arms, then his chest, then, mortifyingly, right to the bulge at the crotch of his gym shorts, where the shape of his dick was just… right there. He snapped his gaze away, cheeks already burning.

“Hey! You must be Curtis?” The handshake was firm but not showy, Lance’s palm cool and dry, his smile authentic enough to make Curtis feel like a puppy. He was carrying a battered duffel, the kind that belonged in a college football locker room.

Brooke materialized behind Curtis, her perfume fighting with the coffee for dominance. “I’m Brooke. Come in, please!” She beamed, making no secret of her visual sweep of Lance’s body. If Curtis was embarrassed, Brooke was the opposite; she practically glowed.

They led Lance into the living room, where the couch sagged more than usual and the afternoon sun highlighted every dust mote in the air. Lance set down his duffel and flopped onto the couch, legs sprawled wide. The space was small, and Curtis couldn’t help noticing that Lance’s thigh was about as thick as his own waist.

“So, you’re a nutritionist?” Brooke asked, folding her legs underneath her on the adjacent chair. The pose made her skirt ride up, and Curtis wondered if she’d chosen it on purpose. With Brooke, everything was on purpose.

“Yeah, just starting a new gig in the city,” Lance said, voice as mellow as his handshake. “I’ll be out a lot, but I’m super clean and I don’t do parties.” He grinned. “Unless you guys are into parties. Then I could make an exception.”

Curtis tried to laugh, but it came out high and thin. “We’re pretty boring,” he said. “Unless you count watching The Bachelor and arguing about who gets to pick the takeout.”

Lance laughed, the sound loud and warm. “That’s my speed. I had a psycho roommate once who would bring home guys at two a.m. and cook bacon naked. Not a fun way to wake up.”

Brooke raised her eyebrows. “Was she hot?”

Lance shrugged. “She was… a lot. But yeah, kind of hot.” He winked, and Curtis saw Brooke’s mouth tighten in pleasure.

The interview went smoothly. Lance said all the right things. He’d do his own dishes, he didn’t have pets, he never left his laundry in the washer. He even offered to pay a bit more for utilities, which made Brooke visibly swoon.

Curtis tried to keep up, but every time he spoke, Lance would shift his body, sometimes spreading his knees wider or resting his arm on the back of the couch, crowding Curtis out of the conversation without ever raising his voice. It was like being edged out of his own territory, one muscle group at a time.

When Brooke went to the kitchen for refills, Curtis was left alone with Lance for the first time.

Lance looked him up and down, not unfriendly but definitely assessing. “So what do you do, man? Brooke said you’re in communications?”

Curtis hated describing his job, but tried to sound upbeat. “Yeah, I answer complaints for a software company. Basically, I get yelled at all day for things I can’t fix.”

Lance grinned, white teeth dazzling. “Hey, at least you’re getting paid to zone out. I had a friend in tech support, he used to mute the call and jack off just to stay sane.”

Curtis coughed, startled. “Uh, I haven’t tried that yet.”

Lance clapped his shoulder, heavy and paternal. “You gotta get your kicks somewhere.” He squeezed, just for a beat too long, then let go.

Curtis’s pulse raced, and he tried to will his body not to react, but it was no use: his cock swelled, blood thumping in his ears. He shifted on the couch, hoping his baggy sweatpants would hide it.

Brooke returned, setting down a plate of store-bought cookies. She eyed both of them, then sat on the couch next to Lance, tucking herself close. Curtis watched her body language and realized: she was already treating Lance like a fixture.

“So, any questions for us?” she asked, tone bright.

Lance shrugged. “Only thing is, I’m up early for the gym. Hope that doesn’t bug you. And I eat a shitload, but I’ll keep it to my shelf in the fridge.”

Brooke laughed, eyes sparkling. “You’ll probably shame us into working out.”

Lance grinned. “I can train you anytime. Both of you. First session’s on the house.”

The three of them sat there, the conversation drifting to TV shows, bad roommates, and their favorite pizza place. Curtis found himself relaxing, and even liking Lance a little. At least, when he wasn’t hyperaware of his own shortcomings.

It was then that Lance leaned back, arm stretched over the couch, and said, “Just so there’s no weirdness, I’m gay. Some couples don’t like that, and I get it. If it’s a problem, I can bounce.”

Brooke’s response was immediate: “Not a problem at all. In fact, we love gays. Right, Curtis?”

Curtis laughed, too quickly. “Yeah, totally. No weirdness here.”

Lance smiled. “Cool. I’m not looking to bring home dudes every night. But I get if it’s not for everyone.” He said it with a shrug, and Curtis found himself oddly relieved.

It wasn’t that he had a problem with gay guys, not at all. But the knowledge that Lance wasn’t going to fuck Brooke—and, more importantly, that Curtis didn’t have to compete with him—felt like a Get Out of Jail Free card. He could relax, let his guard down. He didn’t have to hate Lance for being hotter, bigger, more masculine than he was.

And yet, as the interview wrapped up and they gave Lance a quick tour of the apartment, Curtis caught himself staring at the way the new roommate’s tank top clung to his torso. He tried to rationalize it: it was just envy, he told himself. Who wouldn’t want arms like that? He certainly didn’t want anything else. Definitely not.

Lance agreed to move in that weekend. He shook both their hands and let himself out.

The second the door clicked shut, Brooke pounced.

She pinned Curtis against the hallway wall, kissing him fiercely, her hand already working its way into his waistband. “You like him,” she whispered, tongue hot in his ear.

“No—” Curtis tried, but Brooke pressed harder, her thigh sliding between his legs.

“You were totally checking him out. I saw you.” She ground her hip against his erection, making him gasp. “It’s okay, baby. I like him, too.”

Curtis wanted to deny it, but Brooke’s hand was already wrapping around his cock, stroking him through the fabric. He moaned, helpless.

She pulled back, smirking. “Maybe we should go to the gym. He could teach you some moves.” The words were a tease, but also a command.

Curtis blushed, arousal and shame mixing like an electric shock.

They fucked hard, right there in the hallway. Brooke rode him, nails digging into his back, whispering filth in his ear: “Bet you want him to bend you over, don’t you?” “Maybe he could teach you how to be a real man.” “You love being my little bitch, don’t you?”

Curtis came, hard, before he was ready. Brooke laughed, victorious, and kissed his forehead.

Later, when he lay naked in bed, Curtis couldn’t stop thinking about Lance. About the way his muscles flexed when he moved, the cocky grin, the promise of those strong hands. Curtis touched himself again, trying to push away the image, but instead it grew stronger. He wondered what it would be like to have Lance pin him down, to be completely powerless.

The thought made him come a second time.

Lance moved in on a rainy Saturday, hauling in boxes and a couple of kettlebells. Brooke supervised, standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee, occasionally making “suggestions” about where Lance should put his stuff. Curtis did his best to help, but he was more baggage than muscle.

At one point, he tried to lift one of the heavier boxes, but Lance intercepted him. “I got it,” Lance said, and grabbed the box with a single arm, like it was nothing. Curtis watched, both humiliated and impressed.

In Lance’s new bedroom, they unloaded the final box together. Lance turned to Curtis, clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help, man. You’re all right.”

Curtis blushed. “No problem.”

Lance smirked. “Hey, don’t be weird, but if you want, I can spot you in the gym sometime. You’d be surprised how quick you can bulk up.”

Curtis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He nodded, and Lance winked, then walked past him, filling the hallway.

Brooke was waiting for him in their bedroom, stretched out on the bed in leggings and a bra. She looked up, predatory.

“So? Is our new roommate everything you hoped for?” she asked.

Curtis hesitated, then climbed into bed beside her. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her scent.

She stroked his hair. “He’s hot, right?”

Curtis nodded, mortified.

Brooke laughed, rolling over to straddle him. “I knew it. You’re such a fag.” She said it sweetly, like a term of endearment. He winced, but didn’t protest.

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Would you suck his cock if I told you to?”

He tried to look away, but she gripped his jaw, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Say it,” she whispered.

Curtis’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, and the word came out small: “Yes.”

Brooke kissed him, slow and deep. “Good boy.”

He trembled beneath her, arousal coursing through him like a fever. He’d never been so humiliated in his life.

He’d never wanted anything more.