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.

Settling In

The next morning, Curtis woke to the smell of olive oil and garlic. Not the reek of burned coffee and microwave eggs that usually hung in their kitchen, but something so aggressively healthy it made his sinuses itch. He stumbled out in gym shorts and a tee, only to freeze halfway down the hall.

Lance was at the stove, shirtless, an expanse of back like a National Geographic feature on Greek statuary. Every muscle moved with its own gravity. He stood flipping chicken and vegetables in a pan, the sizzle almost drowned out by the raw presence of him in the apartment. He wore nothing but loose athletic shorts, and even those looked like they might lose the battle to his thighs. Curtis's gaze drifted down and then snapped away, caught like a toddler staring at a fire truck.

Brooke was already in the kitchen, perched against the counter in a tank top so tight it seemed to dare gravity to try anything. Her hair was down, face washed clean of makeup, but she still managed to look sexier than anyone had a right to before nine a.m. She had a cup of coffee in one hand and was smirking at something Lance had just said.

Curtis tried to slip into his usual seat at the table without being noticed, but both of them turned. Brooke grinned and Lance offered a casual up-nod, spatula still in hand. The pan was already half-emptied onto a plate, a Pinterest-level array of grilled chicken, onions, and bell peppers, all drizzled with something green.

“Dude, you gotta eat. It’s brain fuel,” Lance said, sliding the plate toward him. “You look like you just lost a fight with your pillow.”

Curtis muttered thanks and stabbed a pepper. The flavor was good, but it felt like a dare. He kept his eyes on his plate, but his field of vision was full of Lance: the way he flexed unconsciously as he plated food, the sharp groove between his abs and hip bone, the way the hair on his chest tapered down to a line that disappeared under the waistband. Curtis found himself glancing up, then jerking his gaze back down, as if watching a solar eclipse without protection.

Brooke noticed, of course. “Isn’t he talented?” she said, swirling her coffee like it was a cocktail at a rooftop bar. “He’s teaching me how to meal prep so I don’t default to bagels and cream cheese for breakfast.”

Lance flashed a movie star grin. “It’s all about macros. Carbs in the morning, protein for the win.”

Curtis poked at his chicken. “I used to just do Pop-Tarts and pray for the best.”

“See?” Brooke said, nudging him with her foot under the table. “You’re already learning.”

Curtis chewed, the texture of the food too solid for his liking, and tried to focus on anything but the energy crackling between the two fitness gods sharing his kitchen. Brooke angled her body toward Lance, their conversation moving rapid-fire from HIIT to supplements to which yoga studio was “actually legit and not just a cult for white moms.”

Curtis drifted in and out, embarrassed by how quickly he felt outclassed. Even his hangover felt inferior, like he should have tried harder to deserve it.

Lance finished his coffee and leaned against the sink, arms folded in a way that maximized every muscle group. “We should all do a routine together. It’ll keep us motivated. Group accountability, right?”

Curtis swallowed a piece of chicken whole. “I don’t know. I haven’t been to a gym since, like, the Clinton administration.”

Lance didn’t miss a beat. “No worries, man. We’ll start slow. Push-ups, body weight stuff. Just to get your heart rate up.”

Brooke was already nodding, her face lit with the thrill of a new social experiment. “That’s perfect. We could do a circuit, make a whole thing of it.”

Curtis looked from her to Lance and back again. “You’re both insane,” he said, but it sounded like a compliment.

Five minutes later, Curtis found himself kneeling on the living room carpet, dreading the inevitable. Brooke had changed into leggings and a sports bra, the kind of outfit that made her look like an influencer even when she was scrolling memes on her phone. Lance still hadn’t bothered with a shirt. He set a yoga mat on the floor and began explaining the basics of proper form, but Curtis couldn’t process a single word. His attention kept sliding from the hard plane of Lance’s chest to the cut of his shorts to the way Brooke never broke eye contact with either of them for more than a second.

“Okay, let’s see what you got,” Lance said. “Start with a plank, then we’ll do some slow push-ups.”

Curtis dropped onto his elbows, ass in the air. He felt ridiculous, but even more so when Lance knelt beside him to demonstrate the right angle. “Here, man,” Lance said, putting both hands on Curtis’s lower back. The touch was clinical, but the weight of it made Curtis’s skin go hot. Lance’s palms were huge, engulfing his whole waist, holding him steady.

“Straighten out your hips,” Lance said, giving a gentle nudge. “Yeah, that’s it. Keep your head up, look forward.”

Curtis obeyed, face burning, acutely aware of every inch of himself that wasn’t up to standard. He tried to focus on the carpet fibers, but he could see Brooke’s feet out of the corner of his eye, her toes curling in anticipation.

Lance counted down, voice low and steady. “Hold it, man. You’re doing great.” The words made Curtis’s ears ring. He wanted to collapse, but didn’t dare.

They moved to push-ups, and Curtis managed three before his arms turned to pudding. Lance knelt again, this time bracing Curtis’s shoulder with one hand and steadying his ribs with the other. “Don’t worry about numbers yet,” he said. “It’s all about form.”

Brooke watched the whole thing with undisguised fascination. Her lips were parted, tongue flicking over her front teeth as she tracked every movement. When Lance corrected Curtis’s posture, she leaned in, her eyes dark and shining.

“You’re a natural,” Lance said, helping Curtis up. “Just takes practice.”

Curtis didn’t trust himself to speak. His head buzzed with adrenaline and embarrassment, and all he could think about was the way Lance’s hands lingered just a second longer than necessary. He caught Brooke’s gaze. She was looking at him, not Lance, and the hunger in her expression made his stomach twist.

Lance wiped his brow with a dish towel and stood, stretching his arms overhead. The motion made his abs ripple, and Curtis felt himself getting hard, helplessly, sweatpants doing nothing to hide it.

“Let’s call it there for today,” Lance said, clapping Curtis on the back. “Don’t want to kill your vibe on the first go.”

Curtis nodded, mouth dry. “Thanks,” he croaked.

Brooke came over, squeezing Curtis’s shoulder. Her skin was flushed, her pulse visible at her neck. “You did awesome, babe,” she said, voice thick. She glanced at Lance, then back at Curtis, her thighs pressed together, almost trembling.

Lance grinned. “We’ll make a beast out of you yet.”

Curtis wanted to say something sarcastic, but the words stuck in his throat. He was dizzy with shame and arousal, his body betraying him in every possible way.

He excused himself, stumbling to the bathroom. He locked the door and stood over the sink, hands shaking. He could still feel the print of Lance’s hands on his body, the echo of Brooke’s gaze. He splashed water on his face, but it did nothing to cool the burn inside his chest.

He stared at his reflection, hoping to see something other than the desperate, hungry look in his own eyes.

He failed.

Out in the living room, Lance and Brooke were already planning the next workout.

He listened, head bowed, as their voices overlapped, loud, confident, and impossibly alive. He wondered if they could hear his heart pounding through the wall.

He wondered if they liked it.

***

Curtis woke to the sound of giggling and the distant thump of a kettlebell hitting concrete. The digital clock read 7:14, which was either too early or too late, depending on your perspective. He got up, piss-hard and cranky, then wandered into the kitchen in his boxers. He blinked blearily, expecting the kitchen to be empty.

Instead, he found Brooke and Lance through the sliding glass door, already working out in the tiny backyard. They had rolled out yoga mats on the patchy grass, dewy and bright in the early light, and were moving through stretches with the synchronized grace of a fitness commercial. Curtis froze at the window, forgotten glass of water in hand, and watched.

Brooke wore a pair of spandex shorts that fit like a second skin, and a cropped top that left her midriff bare. She was bent forward, ass high in the air, while Lance adjusted her hips with both hands. He guided her into position, speaking low and gentle, and she laughed, shaking out her hair. Curtis felt a familiar, acidic pulse in his stomach.

He tried to look away, but his eyes wouldn’t listen. Lance’s body glistened with sweat, muscles flexing in the sunlight, his shorts riding so high they barely covered anything. He demonstrated a stretch, dropping into a deep squat, and Brooke copied him, her legs quivering with effort. Lance corrected her form again, and Curtis watched his hands glide over her hips, her lower back, her thigh.

It looked intimate. It looked… like something.

Curtis hated that it made him hard, but it did. The kitchen felt humid, thick with the smell of their breakfast from earlier, but all he could smell was the grass and the sharp tang of sweat drifting in through the open door.

He stood there, water sweating in his grip, until Brooke glanced up and saw him. She waved, then whispered something to Lance. Lance turned, caught Curtis’s eye, and flashed a cocky grin. He patted Brooke’s ass playfully, then beckoned Curtis out with a come-hither motion.

Curtis wanted to disappear, but instead he stepped into the morning sun, blinking and already sticky with nerves.

“Look who’s up,” Lance called, voice booming. “Come join us, man. We’re just getting started.”

Brooke wiggled her fingers at Curtis, face pink and happy. “We saved you a mat.”

Curtis hesitated, but they’d already made up his mind for him. He knelt on the mat, self-conscious of his bare legs and bony arms, and tried to follow along. Lance called out instructions, easy and supportive, but every correction came with a touch, a nudge to the shoulder, a press to the thigh, a hand wrapped around Curtis’s waist to “engage his core.”

Every touch was electric. Curtis tried not to react, but the more he tried, the worse it got. Lance’s hands were everywhere, the sweat from his palms slick and cool on Curtis’s skin. At one point, Lance pressed his body flush against Curtis’s back to demonstrate “proper alignment,” and Curtis felt the outline of Lance’s cock, thick and unashamed, pressing through the shorts.

Curtis went rigid, heat flooding his face.

“Relax, dude,” Lance said, hands lingering. “You’re too tense.”

Brooke watched, lips parted, eyes laser-focused on them. She shifted on her mat, thighs pressing together. Her breathing grew shallow, and every so often she’d steal a glance at Curtis, as if waiting for something to break.

After the yoga, Lance pulled out a pair of adjustable dumbbells. “Let’s hit some bench. I’ll spot you,” he said, pointing Curtis to the old weight bench under the eaves.

Curtis lay down, hands trembling as he gripped the bar. Lance stood behind him, thighs straddling Curtis’s head, sweat dripping down his shins. When Curtis pushed up the bar, Lance bent low, their faces nearly touching.

“You got this, man,” Lance said, voice soft and close. “I’m right here.”

Curtis managed two reps before his arms gave out. The bar dipped toward his chest, but Lance caught it, his hands overlapping Curtis’s, their fingers interlaced around the cold metal.

Lance didn’t let go. He held the bar steady, forcing Curtis to meet his eyes.

“Ever do this with a spotter before?” Lance asked, grinning.

Curtis shook his head, too breathless to speak.

“Trust, man. It’s all about trust.” Lance squeezed his hand, then helped rack the bar.

Curtis sat up, chest heaving, arms limp. Sweat ran down his back, pooling under the waistband of his shorts. He was achingly hard, and he pulled his knees in to hide it, but it was too late. Brooke’s gaze was already locked on his crotch.

Lance flopped down on the grass beside him, stretching his arms overhead. His abs were slick, hairless, and perfect. “You did good,” he said. “Next time, we’ll add more weight.”

Brooke came over, handing Curtis a water bottle. Her hand lingered on his, nails scratching his palm. “He’s so helpful, isn’t he?” she said, voice syrupy. She glanced at Lance, then at Curtis’s lap, then back up to his face, smiling like she knew all his secrets.

Curtis wanted to die, or at least dissolve into the grass. He drained the water, feeling it go straight to his balls, making him harder.

Brooke bent down, kissed his forehead, then whispered in his ear. “You’re doing amazing, baby. He really likes you.”

Curtis didn’t answer. He stood up, dizzy and nauseous, and mumbled an excuse about a shower.

He ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes. He stood under the spray, jerking himself off with desperate, guilty force. He tried to picture Brooke, but the image warped, her face blurring into Lance’s, and his hand clamped down harder. He came quick, biting down on a towel to keep quiet, and slumped against the tile in shame.

When he finished, he cleaned up, avoiding his own reflection.

He found Brooke in the bedroom, already dressed for work. She was smoothing her skirt, checking her makeup in the tiny mirror by the door.

She caught his eye. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Curtis said. His voice sounded wrong, thin and fragile.

She smiled, then came over to kiss him, soft and slow. Her hands cupped his face, and for a moment, Curtis felt like the only person in the world.

“I like this,” she whispered. “All of us. I think it’s good for you.”

He wanted to argue, but couldn’t. She was right. It was killing him, but he needed it.

He watched as she left, heels clicking down the hall, and tried to pull himself together. He made coffee, slumped at the kitchen table, and waited for his nerves to settle.

Lance appeared a few minutes later, freshly showered, hair still wet. He wore just a towel around his waist, and didn’t seem to care. He rummaged in the fridge for eggs, then leaned against the counter.

“Sorry if I was too intense,” Lance said, cracking eggs one-handed into a bowl. “I get a little carried away with new routines.”

Curtis shrugged, unsure what to say.

Lance glanced at him, eyes soft. “Brooke said you’re not used to working out with other people. I get it. Shit can feel weird.”

Curtis snorted. “Yeah. Weird’s the word.”

Lance laughed, then crossed the room, sitting across from Curtis. The towel barely covered his thighs. He leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Can I ask you something?” he said. “It’s cool if not.”

Curtis nodded, nervous.

Lance fiddled with the edge of his towel. “You ever mess around? With dudes, I mean. No judgment. You just give off a vibe sometimes.”

Curtis felt the blood drain from his face, then come roaring back. He shook his head, but it was a split second too late.

Lance grinned, slow and wolfish. “It’s cool, man. I like you either way.”

Curtis couldn’t breathe. He stood up too fast, chair scraping the tile, and made a vague excuse about work. He fled to the bedroom, heartbeat rattling in his ears.

He lay on the bed, eyes closed, waiting for the panic to pass.

It didn’t.

Later, after a day of pretending to work, Curtis found Brooke in the kitchen again, talking with Lance as he chopped vegetables for dinner. Their voices were low, intimate, full of little in-jokes and shared glances.

Brooke looked up when Curtis walked in, her eyes full of something he couldn’t name. She smiled, then reached out to touch his hand.

“You hungry?” she asked, squeezing his fingers.

Curtis nodded, unable to speak.

He let her lead him to the table, and sat between them, trapped by warmth and attention.

He felt like he was falling, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop.

***

That night, Brooke declared it was time for a “roomie movie night.” She popped popcorn in the microwave until it scorched, then drowned it in melted butter and salt. The whole apartment smelled like a cineplex restroom. She set up the couch with blankets and pillows, then called the boys in from their respective rooms. “We’re watching something stupid and ultra-violent, just to be fair,” she said.

Curtis shuffled in, hoodie zipped to the chin, and found Brooke already curled up in the center seat, legs tucked under her. On her right, an empty cushion, presumably for Curtis. On her left, Lance, who was wearing nothing but a pair of black compression shorts.

Curtis hesitated, but Brooke patted the cushion beside her. He sat, folding his hands in his lap.

The movie started but Curtis couldn’t focus. Lance lounged with his legs spread, the shorts barely concealing the outline of his junk. Every time Lance shifted, the fabric hugged tighter, and Curtis’s pulse sped up. He tried not to look, but it was like having a searchlight aimed at his peripheral vision. Worse, every time he glanced, he caught Brooke watching him with a knowing smile.

At the halfway point, Brooke refilled the popcorn and flopped back down, this time with her head on Curtis’s shoulder. She nuzzled him, hand on his thigh. Her body was warm and heavy, grounding him in place. She started to play with the drawstring of his hoodie, winding it around her finger while her eyes stayed glued to the screen.

On the other side, Lance yawned and stretched, his arm draping along the back of the couch, inches from Brooke’s neck. The muscle in his bicep twitched. Curtis had to force his gaze forward, but he could feel the heat from Lance’s skin, could almost smell the trace of soap and sweat. He was half-hard, the feeling both humiliating and inevitable.

As the movie dragged on, the three of them slouched together into a pile, feet overlapping, arms tangled. When a character got stabbed in the groin, Lance winced and made a joke about “serious cock trauma,” which set Brooke off in hysterics. She turned and pressed her face into Curtis’s chest, laughing so hard her breath went hot and damp through his shirt.

“Stop, you’ll make me spit popcorn,” she said, wiping her eyes. Her hand slid up Curtis’s thigh, casual but not accidental.

Lance caught the movement and grinned. “You guys are cute,” he said, voice lower than before.

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Please. Curtis is strictly missionary and mild choking. He can’t handle anything extreme.” She said it like a challenge, and Lance cocked an eyebrow.

“Nothing wrong with vanilla,” he replied, flashing a row of perfect teeth. “But sometimes you gotta try the other flavors.”

Curtis face burned. “I’m good with vanilla,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen.

Brooke wasn’t done. “Lance, tell Curtis about your ex. The tattoo guy.”

Lance smirked. “Which one? The one who got my name inked on his ass, or the one who stole my car?”

Brooke shrieked with laughter, slapping Curtis’s knee. “See? Way more interesting than my dating history.”

Curtis managed a smile, but it was tight and fake. He hated this feeling, like he was the last person at the party to get the joke. He tried to tune them out, but the conversation kept circling back to sex, dating, hookups.

Eventually, Lance turned to Curtis and asked, “What about you, man? You ever been with a dude? Or is Brooke your first everything?”

Curtis nearly choked on popcorn. “Uh, no. Not my thing. I mean—I never really, you know—thought about it.”

Lance shrugged, unbothered. “No shame in it either way.”

Brooke eyed Curtis, smile gone sharp. “You sure, babe? You get all weird whenever the topic comes up.”

Curtis shook his head, too fast. “I just… it’s not a big deal. I don’t care what people do.”

Brooke’s hand tightened on his leg. “It’s okay to be curious, Curtis. You’re safe here.”

Lance nodded. “Yeah, man. It’s just us.”

Curtis wished the couch would eat him alive. He was painfully aware of his own erection, tenting the sweatpants he’d thrown on for comfort. He tried to cross his legs, but Brooke’s hand pinned him down.

The movie ended. Brooke stood, stretched, and pulled Curtis up by the arm. “Come on. Bedtime.”

Lance winked. “Night, you two.”

Brooke steered Curtis down the hall. As soon as they hit the bedroom, she closed the door and shoved him onto the bed. She climbed into his lap, straddling him, hands roaming his chest.

“You’re hard,” she whispered, grinning. “Were you thinking about me, or him?”

Curtis shook his head. “Just the movie.”

She didn’t buy it. “Liar.” She ground down against him, her crotch slick and hot through her shorts. “You like it when he teases you.”

He tried to protest, but she shushed him, kissing his neck. “You can say it, Curtis. I like it, too.”

She fished his cock out of his sweatpants and stroked it, slow and torturous. “I bet you want him to fuck you,” she said, voice pure poison. “I bet you want to suck his big faggot cock.”

Curtis pushed her hand away and turned over, pulling the covers over himself.

“What’s with you?” he grumbled. “I’m going to bed.”

Brooke sighed and snuggled into his back, resting her hand on his aching cock.

“Oh, I’m just having a little fun. Don’t take it serious. Why don’t you let me suck yours, instead.”

“And you’ll quit with the gay stuff?”

“I’ll quit with the gay stuff. Promise.”

Curtis rolled over. “Fine.”

But even as Brooke wrapped her wet lips around his dick and slowly sucked, the image of Lance’s thick shaft, pressing against his tight shorts, flitted through Curtis’ mind.

Discovery and Temptation

Brooke got home early on Friday, which was rare, and immediately regretted it.

She let herself in through the apartment door, half-expecting to find Curtis on the couch, drooling at his phone or killing time in whatever digital hellhole he called research. Instead, she was greeted by the slap-slap-slap of skin-on-skin and a blast of artificial ocean breeze from the fan. For a moment, she thought maybe Curtis was getting creative for once, jerking it in the open, but no. Curtis was at work, slogging through complaint calls and sneaking Reddit on his lunch.

The living room was thick with the smell of sweat and balls, the kind that couldn’t be Febrezed away. She stood frozen on the threshold, keys still in her palm, watching as the world’s largest, most oblivious roommate masturbated furiously on their thrift-store couch.

Lance didn’t notice her at first. The TV was turned way up, flooding the dark apartment with flickering blue. On screen, a guy who looked like an Abercrombie model was getting his cock sucked by a scrawny blond twink, who was gagging and slurping with the sort of desperation you only saw in reality TV and low-budget gay porn. Lance was shirtless, his tan skin shining with sweat, and his shorts were around his knees, exposing a cock that was at least twice the size of Curtis’s, and maybe half again as big as any she’d seen in person.

She should have retreated, or coughed, or said anything, but she couldn’t. She just stood there, feeling her face heat up and her heart thud somewhere near her clit.

It took a full five seconds for Lance to realize he had an audience. He caught her reflection in the dark glass of the patio door and went rigid, hand freezing mid-stroke. His eyes went cartoon-huge, then snapped to her.

“Shit!” He lurched to cover himself, fumbling the remote and nearly sending it crashing to the floor. “Brooke, fuck, I thought you were out! I mean, I thought you—”

Brooke found her voice. “Wow. Sorry, I should’ve knocked.”

Lance’s face, already red from exertion, flushed even deeper. He grabbed the nearest throw pillow and covered his crotch, still tenting the fabric like a circus tent. The porn kept playing, unabashed, the twink now moaning around the Abercrombie guy’s shaft, spittle running down his chin.

“It’s fine,” Brooke said, before he could stammer another apology. She walked past him to the kitchen, trying to act normal, but her legs felt rubbery and the image of his cock was now branded behind her eyelids.

Lance was still trying to disappear into the couch. “This is fucking embarrassing,” he said. “Curtis said you’d be out until six.”

She pulled a La Croix from the fridge and popped it open, mostly to give her hands something to do. “I left early. My last client canceled.”

“Sorry,” he said, again. “I’m just—y’know. It’s a habit. If you want, I’ll finish in my room next time.”

Brooke almost laughed at the phrase, “finish in my room,” but something about the shame on his face made her dial it back. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. It’s your house, too. We all have needs.” She sipped her drink, then set it down. “You don’t need to act like you murdered my dog.”

Lance was quiet, eyes on his lap. The TV still blared the soundtrack of sucking and desperate moans.

“Curtis does it all the time,” Brooke said, maybe too cheerfully. “Last week I caught him in the shower. He squealed like a piglet.”

That got a smile out of Lance, crooked and sheepish. “Yeah? I don’t picture him as the type.”

Brooke grinned, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “He’s actually a total perv. You just have to push his buttons.”

They stood in a weird, charged silence. Lance’s hand was still glued to the throw pillow, as if letting go would set off a bomb.

Brooke broke the tension. “I mean, if it’s okay, can I…” She gestured vaguely at the TV, the room, his body. “Can I just—?”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to… what?”

She felt her face go hot. “Can I just watch? I’m not judging, I swear. I’m just… curious, I guess. About your, uh. Preferences.”

He hesitated, the question hanging between them, then shrugged like a man resigned to a dare. “If you want, I guess.” He lifted the pillow, exposing his cock again, and Brooke sat down beside him on the far end of the couch, her knees pressed tight together.

He spat into his palm and started jerking off again, this time a little slower, with a strange self-conscious grace. His cock was hard enough to club someone to death. She watched, shameless now, eyes following every motion, every bead of slick that formed on the tip. On screen, the twink was now bent over, getting plowed by the muscle stud, and Lance’s breath synced to the rhythm.

Brooke felt her own pulse, low and thick, as she slid a hand between her thighs. She didn’t touch herself, not yet, but the anticipation was its own kind of torture.

Lance caught her looking, and instead of flinching away, he locked eyes with her. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “You like this kind of thing?”

Brooke swallowed. “I do now.”

They watched together, the moans and slaps of the porn soundtracking the impossible situation. Lance picked up speed, his hand a blur, and Brooke wondered if he’d finish before she lost her nerve.

She was hoping he would.

***

Brooke didn’t realize she was biting her lip until it started to hurt. She watched Lance’s fist pump up and down his shaft, the head of his cock shining wet under the flicker of the TV. The twink on screen was on his knees now, taking two fingers in his mouth, stretching his lips wide before guiding them up the muscle stud’s length. The soundtrack was a mess of moans and slurps and dirty talk, a crude counterpoint to the staccato slap of Lance’s palm.

She shouldn’t have been so into it, but the room was already sticky with sex and secrets, and the more she watched, the more impossible it felt to look away.

She reached for her drink, but her hand was shaking. The carbonation fizzed up and splattered on her wrist, cold and jarring. She wiped it on her jeans and risked a glance at Lance’s face. He was watching the TV, slack-jawed and red-cheeked, but there was a glint of something else in his eye. Like he was daring her to do something even more reckless.

“Is it really that good?” she said, voice low.

Lance licked his lips, not slowing down for a second. “It’s fucking hot, yeah.” His voice was gravelly, one octave lower than normal. He glanced at her, then back at his cock, as if inviting her to join in.

She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “Can I…?” She trailed off, making a vague stroking gesture with her hand.

Lance’s mouth quirked up. “Sure, if you want.”

She set down her drink and scooted closer, until her knee brushed his. Up close, the smell of him was overpowering: gym sweat and coconut bodywash and the acrid, unmistakable note of precum. She reached out, slow and deliberate, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock.

It was heavier than she expected. Hot and smooth, veins like cables under her palm. She’d always been a little arrogant about her handjob skills, but this was a different league, a challenge, not just in size but in texture and urgency. She stroked, gently at first, mapping the ridge of the head with her thumb. He hissed air through his teeth and bucked into her hand.

“Jesus,” she said, unable to stop herself. “You’re a fucking monster.”

He laughed, but it was more of a grunt. “You can be rougher. I’m not made of glass.”

She gripped tighter, picking up the rhythm he’d set, and was rewarded with a low moan from his chest. On screen, the twink was now riding the Abercrombie guy’s cock, both of them sweaty and frantic, the camera zoomed in so close Brooke could see the shaft sliding in and out, glistening with lube and spit.

She glanced at the screen, then back at the real thing in her hand. There was something thrilling and unreal about the parallel, the performance on TV, and the raw, unfiltered version right in front of her. She sped up, twisting her wrist at the top, just the way Curtis liked, and Lance groaned louder.

“Fuck,” he said, “that’s good. You do this for your man?”

Brooke rolled her eyes, but she was grinning now, emboldened by the way he melted under her touch. “Only when he behaves,” she said.

Lance squeezed her thigh with his free hand, fingers digging in. She gasped at the contact, more from surprise than pain, and he squeezed harder, like he wanted to leave marks. His hips started to move on their own, cock thrusting into her grip, the tip leaking more every time she twisted.

The twink on TV was now bent over, getting pounded from behind, face pressed into the carpet. The Abercrombie guy spat on his hand and smeared it down the twink’s back, then slammed in deeper. Brooke felt her own cunt clench at the sight, at the sound of the whimpers and the slap of skin.

She jerked Lance faster, matching the tempo of the porn, and he grunted, “I’m close.” His whole body tensed, abs standing out in sharp relief, his chest slick with sweat.

“Do it,” she said, not sure if she meant it or if she just wanted to see how far she could push him.

He came with a roar, thick ropes of it spattering across her fist, his thigh, even a splash on the couch. Brooke kept pumping until he whimpered, then let go, her hand slick and sticky.

She stared at the mess, then at him, then back at the TV, where the twink was now swallowing a load and grinning up at the camera.

For a long second, neither of them moved.

“Sorry,” Lance said, breathless. “Didn’t mean to make a scene.”

Brooke laughed, shaky with adrenaline. “I don’t think you could help it.”

He wiped at himself with a paper towel, then tossed her the roll. She cleaned her hand, feeling her own arousal throb between her legs, more intense than she could remember in months.

They sat in silence, both catching their breath, as the porn looped back to the beginning.

“We’re not telling Curtis about this,” Brooke said, finally.

Lance nodded. “No way. He’d have a meltdown.”

She wiped her hand again, then stood, still buzzing. “Thanks for the show,” she said, half-joking, but her voice came out thick and weird.

Lance grinned, lazy and satisfied. “Anytime, B.”

She left him there, still half-naked and grinning, and went straight to her bedroom. She closed the door and slid down to the carpet, hand already moving into her panties.

It was only after she came, fast and hard, that she realized she was still picturing both of them. Lance’s cock, and Curtis’s face if he ever found out what she’d done.

The thought alone was almost enough to get her off a second time.

***

Curtis should’ve known something was up when Brooke brought her laptop into bed. Not just for work, she said, but the way she grinned made it obvious she had other plans. She waited until he’d finished his shower, then beckoned him with a finger, patting the mattress in that slow, predatory way she did when she was in a particular kind of mood.

He sat next to her, towel around his waist, still a little damp. Brooke’s hair was in a messy braid, her tank top barely containing her tits, nipples outlined against the thin cotton. She perched the laptop between them and clicked open a browser window, the room instantly bathed in blue.

“Wanna watch something with me?” she asked, as if they were about to rewatch The Office for the tenth time.

Curtis shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Sure. As long as it’s not another serial killer doc.”

Brooke smirked, then queued up a video. It was porn, obviously. Brooke was never shy about her tastes, and sometimes she liked to “experiment” with new categories just to see how far she could push him. The first scene was a basic three-way, a brunette on her back with one guy stuffing her cunt and the other her mouth. Standard stuff, but a few minutes in, Curtis noticed the two guys were way more into each other than the girl. Hands on each other’s as they groped her tits, even some eye contact.

Brooke started rubbing Curtis’s thigh through the towel, her nails teasing the hair on his skin.

“You like this?” she murmured, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“It’s fine,” Curtis said, but his cock was already swelling under the terry cloth.

A few more minutes in, the front guy pulled out of the girl, and the other guy leaned forward and licked the head clean before sticking it back in her pussy. Curtis blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that before, at least not in anything Brooke had played.

Brooke’s hand slid up and under the towel, wrapping around his cock. She squeezed, slow and lazy. “That’s hot,” she whispered.

Curtis wanted to disagree, to say it was weird or gross, but he couldn’t look away.

“Is it?” he said, voice cracking.

Brooke smiled, sharp as a knife. “Yeah. I like seeing two guys together.” She started jerking him off, matching the rhythm of the video.

Curtis glanced down at her hand, then up at the screen, then back at her. “I mean, it’s… whatever.”

She let go, and he almost groaned at the loss. “Should I turn it off?” she asked, like a challenge.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah. The girl’s hot.”

Brooke grinned and restarted, this time scrolling to another video. This one was even more explicit, a woman in the middle, two guys both sharing her mouth, but then one of the guys pulled out and started sucking the other’s cock. The camera zoomed in as the guy took the whole thing, licking up and down before pushing it into the woman’s mouth.

Brooke’s hand was back, firmer this time. “You ever thought about that?” she asked, whispering into his ear.

Curtis shook his head, eyes locked on the screen. “No. Never.”

But the way his body responded told a different story. He was throbbing in her hand, balls tight, every nerve on fire.

Brooke stroked him faster, the wet slick sound of the porn blending with the slap of her palm. “I’d watch you do it,” she said, her breath hot in his ear. “I want to see you take a cock in your mouth. You’d look so pretty.”

Curtis clenched his teeth, trying not to lose it, but Brooke was relentless. The video reached a crescendo, both guys coming on the woman’s face, then each other, their bodies tangled and glistening.

Brooke squeezed Curtis at the base, then stroked up hard. “You’re such a fucking fag,” she whispered, her voice affectionate but mean.

He gasped, and then he came, hard, thick jets spilling over her fist and onto his stomach.

Brooke milked him through it, grinning the whole time. “Told you it was hot.”

Curtis collapsed back onto the pillow, dazed and breathless. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

Brooke wiped her hand on his towel, then snuggled up next to him, laptop still playing quietly. “We should try it,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Curtis didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling, confused and mortified and more turned on than he’d ever admit.

Brooke rested her head on his chest and watched the afterglow of the video, her mind already skipping ahead, planning the next experiment.

***

The next afternoon, with Curtis safely corralled at the office, Brooke and Lance sprawled on the living room couch, the curtains drawn tight enough to turn noon into twilight. The only light came from the TV, which was streaming gay porn. Not the artful, sanitized stuff either. This was raw, cheap, and unfiltered, all brash camera angles and dirty talk thick enough to fog up the windows.

Lance sat at one end of the couch, legs open wide, his cock already half-hard and tenting his shorts obscenely. Brooke was curled at the other end, her feet up, nursing a white claw and pretending not to be impressed. She’d told herself this was research, reconnaissance for the next phase of her Curtis project, but the truth was she liked the depravity of it. Liked how Lance didn’t bother to hide his horniness, or even mute the endless, echoing moans from the speakers.

“Jesus,” she said, watching the twink on screen swallow another impossible length. “You think they train for that, or is it just genetics?”

Lance grinned, running his hand up his thigh. “Genetics. But training never hurts.” He squeezed the bulge in his shorts and pulled the waistband down. His cock flopped out, heavy and already leaking.

Brooke smirked. “Subtle,” she said.

Lance shrugged, unabashed. “You know you want to.”

She sipped her drink, then glanced over at him, at the cock, at the confident, easy smile. “Maybe,” she said, voice soft. “But I’m working.”

“On what?” Lance stroked himself, slow, not breaking eye contact.

“On Curtis,” Brooke said. “I think he’s bi. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Lance’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

Brooke set her can down and slid closer, until their knees touched. “He got off to some MMF last night. Like, he tried to say he was just watching for the girl, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the guys.”

Lance snorted. “Yeah, he’s got the vibe. Real nervous about it, too.”

Brooke reached over and wrapped her hand around Lance’s cock, the same way she had yesterday, but slower, more deliberate. She stroked him while keeping her eyes on the screen, where two muscle jocks were spit-roasting a moaning bottom.

“He came so fast,” Brooke said, her grip tightening. “Like, before the video was even done. And then he just lay there, all ashamed.”

“Cute,” Lance said, groaning as her thumb circled the head.

“You want to help me?” she said, jerking him with a steady rhythm.

Lance grinned, teeth bright. “Help how?”

“I want to see what happens if he walks in on you,” Brooke said, her voice husky. “Or both of us. I want to see if he joins in or just stands there and drools.”

Lance’s hand slid into her hair, not guiding, just holding. “You’re evil.”

“Maybe.” She squeezed harder, watched as a bead of precum spilled down his length. She traced it with her finger, then brought it to her lips, tasting the salt. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

Lance jerked his hips, cock surging in her fist. “If he does, what then?”

Brooke laughed, low and mean. “Then we see.”

She stroked him faster, both of them watching the TV now. On screen, one guy knelt between the other’s legs, tongue darting out to lick his balls, his face glazed with spit. The soundtrack was nothing but obscene sucking and the occasional slap of skin.

Brooke leaned in, letting her lips graze the tip of Lance’s cock, just once. She inhaled the musky scent, then looked up at him and kept jerking him.

He came hard, just like before, a messy spray over her hand and his abs and even the upholstery. Brooke laughed and wiped it off with a napkin, tossing it into the trash without a second thought.

“We’re definitely not telling Curtis about that,” Lance said, still catching his breath.

Brooke grinned, stretching catlike on the couch. “Not yet.”

They sat together in the fading light, the porn still playing, plotting their next move. Brooke felt giddy, high on the secrets and the power and the inevitable chaos to come.

She couldn’t wait.

Manipulation

Curtis was not prepared for the sight that greeted him when he opened the apartment door. He’d expected the usual, Brooke on her laptop, maybe FaceTiming her sister, or else Lance at the kitchen counter prepping another mountain of chicken and rice for the week. He did not expect to walk in on both of them, fully clothed, sprawled on opposite ends of the couch, their attention fixed on a TV screen that was playing what could only be described as “the gayest shit Curtis had ever seen in his life.”

Not just regular, pride-parade gay. This was a muscled, silver-fox daddy face-fucking a helpless blond twink, who, based on his gagging noises, was either a classically trained actor or else really, really into his craft. The daddy’s salt-and-pepper beard was shiny with spit, and the twink’s eyeliner was running down his face in dark rivers, tears mixing with jizz and more spit. The camera zoomed in on the twink’s lips stretching around the daddy’s cock, which was thick enough to cast a shadow on the wall.

Curtis froze, his keys still in hand, as if moving would make it worse. The entire living room was infused with the fake-wood scent of the IKEA TV stand, and above that, the buttery, chemical popcorn that Brooke had microwaved for “movie night.” The only other light came from the TV and the faint red glow of the LED strip Lance had glued behind the screen, which made every shot look like it was filmed in hell.

Brooke looked over her shoulder and smiled, totally unfazed. “Hey baby, you’re home early!”

Lance just nodded, eyes still locked on the screen. He had one ankle propped on his opposite knee, and the gym shorts he wore did nothing to hide the outline of his junk, which, Curtis couldn’t help noticing, was definitely semi-hard.

Curtis tried to focus on anything except the porn, but it was impossible. The moans were dialed up to eleven, and every few seconds the twink would cough out a broken “Yes, sir, fuck yes,” which made Curtis’s skin crawl and his dick twitch, which made him feel even sicker.

He hovered in the doorway, bag sliding off his shoulder. “What… uh… what are you watching?”

Brooke grinned wider. “It’s called Bored Room, with two O’s. They’re pretending it’s an office meeting. It’s honestly so bad it’s hilarious. The acting makes The Bachelor look like Shakespeare.”

She patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit! We’re only on episode two.”

Curtis made his way to the couch, lowering himself to the edge, careful not to touch Brooke or get too close to Lance, who still looked completely at ease, legs splayed wide and arms folded behind his head. Onscreen, the daddy stood the twink up, spun him around, and started finger-banging him right there on the desk, the camera lingering on the gape before slamming back to the daddy’s triumphant face.

Curtis glanced at Brooke, who was shoveling popcorn into her mouth and only half-watching the screen, as if it were just another Marvel movie. Lance laughed at something the daddy said—“You take orders like a real sissy bitch, don’t you?”—and Curtis felt a jolt of electricity in his spine.

He shifted, trying to hide the involuntary bulge starting in his jeans.

Brooke leaned in. “It’s so weird, right? Like, you could swap in any chick and it’d be the exact same plot. Porn is universal.”

Curtis tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak. “Yeah. Universal.”

Lance finally looked at him, gave him that lazy, predatory smile. “Don’t worry, man. We’re not gonna make you join in.”

Brooke snorted, nearly choking on her popcorn. “Curtis is straight as a ruler, anyway.”

Curtis went red, unsure if he should defend himself or just wait for the moment to pass. The twink was now bent over the desk, cheeks spread wide, while the daddy spit-lubed his cock and lined up for entry. The sound was wet, obscene, and completely unignorable.

He cleared his throat. “This is… uh. This is weird.”

Brooke patted his leg, reassuring. “It’s just for fun. Besides, Lance picks the worst stuff. Last week he made me watch something called Cumtown.”

Lance grinned. “That one had a story, at least.”

Curtis tried to focus on the wall behind the TV, but every time he blinked, the next shot was even more graphic. At some point, the daddy pulled out and smacked the twink’s ass until it turned bright red, then forced him back down to finish the blowjob. The twink took it like a pro, drool and tears and all.

Curtis felt his heart beating in his ears. He wanted to leave, or die, or turn invisible, but instead he sat there, rooted to the couch, every nerve on fire.

Brooke looked over, her voice softening. “You okay, babe? You look pale.”

Curtis shook his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Lance glanced at him again, eyes lingering on Curtis’s crotch for a beat too long before looking away. “You sure, man?”

“Yeah.” Curtis stood up, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I think I’m gonna shower.”

Brooke smiled, gentle this time. “Okay, love you.”

Curtis mumbled back, then hurried down the hall, desperate to escape. The sounds of the porn followed him, the slap of skin, the heavy moans, the words “good boy” echoing in his brain like a curse.

He shut himself in the bathroom, back against the door, and tried to breathe.

He was hard as a rock.

He hated himself for it, but it was true.

He turned the shower on hot and waited for the steam to rise, praying it would wash away the humiliation.

It didn’t.

***

Curtis planted his palms against the tile, letting the hot water scald his shoulders. He wanted to stand there until his skin sloughed off and he melted down the drain. The images from the living room wouldn’t fade. The way Lance had looked at him, like he was just another joke; the way Brooke had acted like it was a rerun of Friends, not a full-throttle gay fuckathon; and, worst, the way his own cock had throbbed at the sight.

He reached down, almost in anger, squeezing the base with a hand as if he could strangle it into submission. No luck. It pulsed, stubborn as ever.

He stared at the tile, counting the cracks, but the only thing that counted was how hard he still was. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else—about work, or taxes, or the time he’d watched a dog get neutered on YouTube—but all he saw was the twink’s mouth, the glisten of spit, the hungry, desperate way he took it all the way to the balls.

The bathroom door opened. Curtis froze, heart clattering in his chest.

The glass shower door slid aside and Brooke slipped in, naked, her skin already flushed from the heat. Her blonde hair was a wet rope over one shoulder, and she looked at him with that mix of affection and amusement that only made things worse.

She pressed against his back, her tits soft pillows against his spine, her hands cool and certain as they circled his waist. She laid her chin on his shoulder, breath sweet with toothpaste.

“Hey,” she murmured, kissing the nape of his neck.

Curtis tried to play it cool, but his voice came out raw. “Hey.”

She pressed closer, her body molding to his. “Are you mad at me?” Her hands slid up his chest, then down, teasing the line of hair below his belly button.

He shook his head, staring at the tile. “Why would I be mad?”

Brooke laughed, low and throaty. “I don’t know. Maybe because you came home to find your girlfriend watching gay porn with your hot roommate?”

Curtis clenched his jaw. “It’s whatever. You’re both adults. I just… I don’t think you should do that with him.”

Brooke nuzzled his ear. “Do what, baby? Watch porn? It’s not like we were jerking each other off.”

She slid one hand down, fingers grazing the length of his cock, still hard and angry between his legs. She curled her fingers around it, giving a gentle stroke. “Besides,” she whispered, “looks like it got you going.”

Curtis flinched. “I’m naked in the shower with my girlfriend. Of course I’m turned on.”

She pumped him slowly, the motion slick with water and her own grip. “You sure it’s not because of what you saw?”

He tried to step away, but the wall was right there. “It’s not like that,” he insisted. “You’re just… making it weird.”

Brooke squeezed harder, twisting her wrist at the end of each stroke. “You didn’t look away, Curtis.” Her tone was soft, but relentless. “You watched the whole time.”

He could feel himself swelling in her hand, every nerve on edge.

She kissed his ear again, this time letting her tongue trace the rim. “Are you jealous?” she asked.

He laughed, bitter. “Of what? You and Lance? He’s gay.”

Brooke’s hand moved faster. “That’s not what I meant.” She pressed her body to his, pinning him in place. “Are you jealous because I was watching him? Or because you wanted to be the one on your knees?”

Curtis groaned, the pressure building. “Jesus, Brooke. Stop.”

She didn’t. If anything, she went harder, her other hand rolling his balls with practiced care. “You can say it, baby. It’s just us.”

He gritted his teeth, refusing to answer, but his hips started rocking on their own, matching her rhythm.

Brooke’s voice dropped to a hush, steam thick around them. “You know what would be hot? If we all watched together. The three of us.” She kissed his neck, just below the ear. “Maybe I could jerk you off while we watched. Maybe I could jerk you both off at the same time.”

Curtis’s legs went weak. “Don’t,” he gasped.

She pressed her mouth to his ear, whispering the words: “Would you let me, Curtis? Would you let me make you cum in front of him?”

That was it. His body clenched, vision going white behind his eyelids. He grunted, low and helpless, as his cock exploded in her hand, thick streams splattering the tile with brutal force. Brooke kept stroking, milking every drop, the sound of his orgasm drowned only by the rush of the shower.

He sagged, breath ragged, heart hammering.

Brooke held him from behind, still stroking, until he whimpered and tried to push her hand away.

She kissed his shoulder, her breath warm and satisfied. “See?” she murmured. “It’s not so bad.”

She rinsed her hand under the water, then stepped out, leaving Curtis alone, spent and shaking in the fog.

He turned his face into the spray, let the heat scald his shame away.

But it didn’t.

***

Night cast long shadows on the bedroom wall, the only light coming from a trio of candles on the nightstand. The room was an oven, the sheets wound around their ankles in damp ropes, but neither of them cared. Brooke rode him with slow, relentless purpose, her hands braced on his chest, her thighs clamping his hips like she was milking him for all he was worth.

Curtis stared up at her, every sense dialed to ten. Her hair was wild, sticking to her forehead in golden strands, her face pink and blissed-out. Each time she rolled her hips, her tits swayed forward, brushing against his chest. Sweat trickled between her breasts, catching the light. He gripped her hips, fingers digging in, trying to anchor himself.

Brooke leaned forward, her mouth grazing his ear. “You like when I’m on top, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice pure mischief.

He nodded, biting back a groan.

She rode him harder, pace quickening. “Makes you feel like a little bitch,” she said, not a question but a fact.

Curtis’s heart hammered. “No,” he lied, “I just like seeing you like this.”

She smirked, reaching down to cup his jaw. “Liar,” she said, then kissed him, her tongue soft and slow. “You like being used.”

He shook his head, but she clamped down with her thighs, squeezing the truth out of him. His cock twitched inside her, and she laughed, low and dangerous.

“Ever think about sucking dick?” she said, her words a knife. “Ever think about being a fag for some big guy?”

Curtis’s whole body seized, his face burning. “No way,” he said, too loud, too desperate.

She grinned wider. “You say that, but look at you. You’re gonna cum just from me saying it, aren’t you?”

He tried to protest, but her rhythm changed, grinding down on his cock, and he couldn’t think. All he could feel was her pussy squeezing him, her breath in his ear, her words slicing through his last defenses.

Brooke’s voice went guttural, animal. “What if I let Lance fuck you right in front of me? What if he bent you over and made you his little cocksucker?”

Curtis moaned, the sound half pain, half surrender. “Stop,” he begged, but he didn’t mean it.

She leaned in, biting his neck. “You’d like it. I can tell.”

He came then, so hard his vision blurred, his body jerking up off the mattress as he emptied inside her. She didn’t let up, fucking him through it, milking every last drop. When she finished, she sat back, still impaled on his cock, smiling down at him like a cat with a dead mouse.

Curtis lay there, limp and sweating, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at anything.

Brooke stroked his cheek, gentle now. “Good boy,” she whispered.

He felt it in his bones, the shame and the wanting, tangled together and impossible to pull apart.

He didn’t say a word.

He just closed his eyes and prayed for sleep.

***

The days blurred together, one humiliation bleeding into the next.

Lance seemed to take over the apartment by degrees. First it was just the kitchen, then the living room, then the tiny patio out back, where he did push-ups and kettlebell swings in shorts that got tighter every day. He never bothered with a shirt, and the sight of his oiled-up muscles became as common as the sound of the TV or the hum of the fridge.

Curtis told himself he didn’t care. He avoided eye contact, spent extra hours at work, tried to lose himself in spreadsheets and support tickets. But it was impossible to ignore the way his gaze drifted, always, to the swell of Lance’s pecs, the hard line of his jaw, the shadow of his cock swinging inside those damn shorts. Every time, he felt the twin spikes of jealousy and arousal, and every time, he hated himself for it.

Brooke noticed, of course. She always did. Sometimes she’d catch Curtis staring and just smirk, her eyes glittering with secrets. Other times, she’d call out, “Hey, you wanna join us?” and Lance would look over, mouth full of protein bar, and say, “Yeah, man, you’re always welcome.”

Curtis never did. He just muttered excuses and retreated to his room, where he’d jerk off in shame and then lie awake, staring at the ceiling, dick aching and thoughts spinning.

He knew things were happening when he was gone. He’d come home early once and found Brooke and Lance on the couch, watching porn again, but this time Brooke’s hand was in Lance’s lap, stroking him slow and lazy, both of them grinning at the screen like it was a game show. They didn’t see Curtis at first, but when they did, Lance just shrugged and zipped up, while Brooke licked her hand clean and smiled, unbothered.

Other times, he’d find stray evidence, a wadded napkin, a damp spot on the couch, a faint, sour smell in the air. Once, he heard them through the bedroom wall, Lance’s low groan and Brooke’s sharp laugh, and he came in his own hand, furious and humiliated.

He wanted to ask Brooke what was going on, but he never did. He just kept pretending, day after day, hoping things would reset, but they never did.

Every time he saw Lance, every time he saw the easy way Brooke touched him, Curtis felt himself slipping a little further.

He wondered how much further he could go before he broke.

***

The sun was a weak, orange smear behind the curtains, casting the living room in the kind of half-light that made everything feel slightly unreal. The TV was on, as always, volume low but not so low you could ignore it. Two guys were fucking on screen. One on his knees, the other behind, hands gripping his hips, faces scrunched up in the kind of pleasure that bordered on cartoonish.

Lance was slouched in the middle of the couch, shorts bunched around his thighs, dick already half-hard and growing by the second. Brooke was kneeling on the rug between his legs, her hair down, face scrubbed clean of makeup. She watched the screen for a moment, then turned her attention to Lance’s cock, eyeing it like a puzzle she was determined to solve.

“I’ve never done this with a gay guy before,” she said, voice soft and sly.

Lance grinned, hands folded behind his head. “Guess there’s a first for everything.”

Brooke glanced up at him, then wrapped her hand around the shaft, marveling at the weight and heat of it. She jerked him a few times, slow and deliberate, then leaned in and flicked her tongue over the tip. Lance shivered, a small involuntary tremor, and Brooke smiled.

“Not so different,” she said, licking again, “except you’re way bigger than Curtis.”

Lance made a noise halfway between a laugh and a moan. “Don’t tell him that. He might cry.”

Brooke snorted, then pressed her lips to the head, taking him inch by inch into her mouth. She watched the porn out of the corner of her eye, mimicking the angle, the messy spittle, the abandon of the onscreen twink. It felt decadent, a little perverse, and she reveled in it.

She bobbed her head, letting spit run down her chin, using both hands to work the shaft. Every so often she’d pull off and look up at Lance, her eyes wide, like she wanted to see if he was really as unmoved as he pretended.

“You like this?” she asked, voice thick.

He looked down at her, face open. “Yeah. Feels good. I don’t usually do girls, but—” He shrugged, as if to say, Why not?

Brooke took him deeper, lips bruising, jaw aching, and she loved the power of it. She loved the way Lance started to lose control, hips jerking up to meet her mouth, one hand finally dropping to tangle in her hair.

On the TV, the bottom was getting fucked so hard he could barely keep his eyes open. Brooke tried to match the intensity, choking herself on Lance’s cock, nose pressed to his pelvis, breathing him in. The smell was hot, manly, and it made her wet.

She went at him for minutes, the room filling with the wet, obscene sound of her sucking and the moans from the TV. Lance got louder, and when he finally came, he did it with a grunt and a hard shove, his cock pulsing against her tongue. Brooke swallowed, gagged once, then took every drop.

She pulled off, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, and grinned up at him. “Not bad for an experiment,” she said.

Lance patted her head. “You’re a natural.”

They sat like that for a while, letting the porn play. Brooke felt high, giddy, like she’d pulled off a magic trick. She sprawled on the carpet, chin resting on her hand, and watched as the onscreen actors swapped roles, the top now the bottom, the whole thing an endless loop.

“You think Curtis would ever do it?” Lance asked, eyes on the screen.

Brooke thought about it. “He’s close. He just needs a little push.”

Lance chuckled. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Brooke stretched, catlike. “You could help.”

He shrugged. “I’m good at following orders.”

They laughed, the tension between them gone, replaced by an easy, conspiratorial warmth.

Later, when Curtis came home, Brooke greeted him at the door, hair still damp from a quick rinse, face glowing. He looked at her, then at Lance, who was lounging in the same spot on the couch, now fully clothed, TV switched to some mindless cooking show.

Curtis frowned, sensing a shift in the room, a charge in the air he couldn’t name.

Brooke kissed his cheek, her mouth lingering a moment too long. “Missed you,” she said.

He muttered, “Missed you too,” but didn’t sound convinced.

Lance gave him a thumbs up. “Hey man. There’s pizza in the kitchen.”

Curtis went to get a slice, and as he stood at the counter, he realized his hands were shaking.

He looked back at the living room, watched as Brooke settled beside Lance, her legs draped over his lap, the two of them laughing at some dumb joke.

Curtis felt a sick, excited pulse in his stomach.

Normalization

They called it “movie night,” but everyone knew what was really playing. Even before Brooke flicked off the lamp, even before she handed out beers and arranged the throw blanket so it covered three laps, even before the remote queued up a folder called “Hotwired_001,” Curtis’s stomach was a mess of nerves and raw anticipation. He tried not to look at the TV when the menu popped up but his gaze kept dragging back, helpless, the same way his tongue kept probing the spot where he’d bitten it.

The couch was too small for three adults, which was the point. Brooke sat in the middle, her thigh pressed against his, while Lance hogged the other cushion, all bare calves and faded gym shorts. The blanket was a joke, really, a battered IKEA thing, pilly with static and shot through with the sharp, sour reek of sweat and popcorn butter. Curtis held it tight in his fists, as if it could stop his whole body from shaking.

Brooke started the video with a grand, conductor’s flourish: “Tonight’s selection is called ‘Manhandled.’” She grinned at Curtis, blue eyes glittering in the TV glow. “It’s got five stars and a content warning for ‘aggressive oral.’ You’re welcome.”

Lance laughed, loud enough to rattle the window. “You get off on that, B?”

Brooke just winked and reached for the popcorn. “Don’t kink-shame me. Some of us like variety.”

Curtis tried to settle into his corner, making himself small. He’d been dreading this all week. He’d assumed, at first, that the first couple times were a joke, Brooke’s idea of a social experiment, or maybe Lance’s way of alpha-dogging him out of his own living room. But then Brooke got into it, really into it, and started “curating” the weekly selections, and before Curtis knew it, watching porn with his girlfriend and his gay roommate became a whole Thing.

He wasn’t sure if it was some new brand of open-mindedness, or if he was just the butt of the world’s longest, slowest joke. It didn’t help that his own dick had opinions about the matter. Sometimes he’d look down and see the outline of himself, hard as rebar, and want to puke. Sometimes he’d catch Brooke looking too, like she was rooting for it.

The movie was exactly what it said on the tin: a jacked construction worker with a trucker mustache, opening his door to a delivery twink who immediately dropped to his knees and started worshipping the guy’s cock like it was a sacrament. The noises filled the apartment, mixing with Brooke’s fake-casual commentary.

“I can’t believe he took that much,” she said, mouth half-full of popcorn.

“His mascara isn’t even running yet,” Lance said, impressed.

Brooke patted Curtis’s knee. “See? It’s basically gymnastics. Like, how is that even possible?”

Curtis managed a weak laugh, though his voice was strangled by embarrassment. He tried to keep his eyes on the popcorn bowl, but the moans and the squelch of spit kept yanking his attention back to the screen. There was something about the way the twink opened his mouth, the way he gagged and drooled and still begged for more. It made Curtis’s own cock lurch, betraying him with every pulse.

Brooke’s hand drifted from his knee to his thigh, then crept under the blanket. Her palm was cold, but her touch was electric. She didn’t bother with slow escalation, she just cupped him, squeezed, then started stroking him through his sweatpants with easy confidence.

Curtis flinched, but didn’t stop her. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The combination of the porn and her grip short-circuited all his higher functions. He bit down on his lip and tried to breathe.

Brooke leaned in, her mouth just below his ear. “You like this,” she whispered, low enough that only he could hear. “You like watching a girl with two guys, don’t you?”

Curtis shook his head. “It’s just… weird,” he said, but the protest was half-hearted.

Brooke giggled, her hand moving faster. “You keep getting hard, though.”

Lance’s eyes were on the TV, but his arm was stretched across the couch, his bicep tensed and huge. He didn’t seem to notice what Brooke was doing, but Curtis couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about the size of Lance’s hands, the way his shorts tented just a little at the crotch. The thought made Curtis’s heart kick into overdrive.

Brooke upped the ante. “You know what would be hot?” she murmured, stroking him more deliberately. “If I jerked him off too. Just for fun.”

Curtis recoiled, a burst of panic overriding his arousal for a second. “No way,” he hissed, but Brooke just laughed.

“Why not?” she said, her lips brushing his earlobe. “It’s not like he’d care. He’s a fag anyway.”

The word landed like a punch to the gut. Curtis felt himself throb, a spike of shame and hunger twisting together.

He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but Brooke kept going, her voice liquid and mean. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Watching me get him off?”

Curtis shook his head again, but this time it was weaker. The idea, so wrong, so impossible, made his cock jump in her hand.

Onscreen, the twink was now flat on his back, the construction guy face-fucking him so hard the couch was creaking. Lance let out a low whistle. “Dude’s a machine,” he said.

Brooke grinned, then shifted her position so that her back pressed against Curtis’s chest. She reached her left hand toward Lance, then slid it under the blanket, snaking it across the cushion and under Lance’s thigh. For a second, nothing happened. Then Lance let out a little surprised noise, a “Huh,” and leaned back, eyes still on the TV.

Curtis felt the world slow down. He could sense Brooke’s arm moving, heard the faint shuffle of her palm on fabric, and then the even fainter wet sound as her hand found skin. Lance made a satisfied grunt and parted his legs, just a little.

Curtis stared down at the blanket, unable to move. Brooke kept jerking him with her right hand, steady and relentless, while her left hand worked Lance in perfect sync. The couch rocked slightly with their breathing, the blanket a thin shield between them and the pounding lights and moans from the TV.

“You’re both getting so hard,” Brooke said, her voice light and sing-song. “It’s almost like you want to do this every night.”

Curtis tried to say something, but his throat was locked. All he could do was ride the edge, every sense torched by the humiliation and the heat.

Brooke leaned into him, her hair tickling his cheek. “You want to cum together?” she whispered. “We could have a contest. First one to finish gets a prize.”

Lance chuckled, deep and lazy. “You’re insane, B.”

Brooke’s hand moved faster. “Am I? You’re the one with your dick out.”

Curtis felt it coming, a wave building from his toes up. He couldn’t hold back. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his knuckle, but Brooke squeezed tighter, twisted at the head just the way he liked, and that was it. He came hard, pulsing into the blanket, his whole body shaking.

Brooke didn’t stop, not even for a second. She just kept jerking him, milking every spasm, while her left hand worked Lance with mechanical precision. Curtis could hear Lance’s breathing go ragged, then a grunt, then a long, guttural moan as he climaxed under the blanket.

For a moment, everything was quiet except for the sounds of the porn and the heavy breathing of three spent bodies.

Brooke withdrew her hands, wiped them on the inside of the blanket, and grinned. “Told you so,” she said, her voice smug and sweet.

Curtis lay there, boneless, his face burning. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. All he could do was stare at the TV, where the construction guy was now blowing his own load across the twink’s face, the camera zooming in for the money shot.

Lance sat up, stretched, and patted Curtis on the shoulder. “Good game,” he said, grinning. “Next week, we pick a three-way.”

Curtis just nodded, the taste of humiliation thick in his mouth.

Brooke wrapped her arms around both of them, pulled them close, and said, “Best roommates ever.”

Curtis wasn’t sure if he agreed.

But he knew, deep down, that he’d never be able to quit movie night.

***

It turned out that movie night was less a ritual and more an ongoing state of being. Within days, it metastasized, eating up the boundaries of the apartment until every cushion and every hour seemed to orbit around the TV and its endless buffet of porn.

Curtis stopped pretending he didn’t know what to expect. By the third night, there wasn’t even a blanket. Brooke perched in the middle of the couch, her back as straight as a judge’s, and let her hands fall wherever they pleased. Sometimes she’d just rest one on Curtis’s thigh, fingers drumming. Sometimes she’d reach over and absently grope Lance, like it was a nervous tic.

The air in the living room never really cleared anymore. It was always thick with the memory of last time: the sour-salty punch of dried cum, the heavy, humid note of sweat and cheap lube, the ozone of arousal that lingered long after the TV was dark. Even with the window cracked, the stink was baked into everything. Curtis worried that it would get into the walls, that the next tenants would walk in and know exactly what kind of degenerates had lived there.

Tonight’s selection, courtesy of Brooke’s ever-expanding bookmarks, was “Rimmed and Ready.” No plot, no dialogue, just two frat-boy types and a twink with puppy eyes. The opening shot was all close-ups: tongue on balls, spit-string gluing the guy’s cheek to the other’s cock. Curtis had barely sat down before Brooke went for his fly.

She looked him in the eye, as if daring him to object, then pulled his cock out and started stroking, slow and deliberate. Curtis could feel his heartbeat in his teeth. He’d spent all day rehearsing what he’d say, how he’d tell her it was too much, that maybe they should stop, at least in front of Lance, but the moment her hand wrapped around him, he forgot everything.

Lance was already hard, his shorts doing nothing to hide it. He slouched, one arm draped behind Brooke, the other loosely cradling his own cock. He watched the screen with a lazy smile, like he was waiting for a sports highlight reel.

Brooke glanced at Lance’s crotch, then at Curtis, her lips quirking. “He’s got a lead,” she said, stroking Curtis faster. “You going to catch up, or just let him win?”

Curtis flushed, but his dick surged in her grip. He tried to say something, but his mouth didn’t work.

Lance gave a lazy shrug. “It’s not a contest unless someone’s keeping score.”

Brooke laughed, low and dangerous. “You always win, though. Don’t you, baby?” She aimed the question at Curtis, but didn’t slow her hand. “You love losing to a big cock.”

Curtis shook his head, but Brooke squeezed harder. “Try it,” she said, her voice pure poison. “You’re not gay. It’s just for fun.”

Curtis felt himself teeter on the edge of panic, but also something else, something greedy and animal that made him want to see just how much he could take.

Brooke looked at Lance. “What do you think, coach him through it?”

Lance grinned, his eyes fixed on Curtis. “You just gotta get used to it, man. Don’t overthink.”

Brooke’s right hand pumped Curtis with brutal efficiency. Her left slid into Lance’s shorts, yanking out his cock with a practiced, almost medical detachment. Lance’s dick was monstrous, thick, veiny, a mean red at the tip. Curtis couldn’t stop looking at it. He was both repulsed and hypnotized, the way people got staring at a venomous snake.

Brooke brought their dicks side by side, holding one in each hand. She measured them like she was comparing produce at a grocery store. “See?” she whispered to Curtis. “Nothing to be afraid of. Just bigger than you’re used to.”

She started stroking them both, her grip tight and oily. Curtis felt his whole world narrow down to the slide of her palm, the lewd slick sound, and the sight of her hand moving up and down Lance’s massive cock.

She turned to Curtis, her face inches from his. “You wanna touch it?” she asked, sweet as candy. “Just for a second.”

Curtis shook his head, but not as hard as before. His eyes were locked on the two cocks, side by side, moving in perfect unison.

Brooke’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do it. I want to see you try. Just for me, baby.”

She slowed her hand on Curtis, letting him hover at the edge, then guided his trembling fingers to Lance’s shaft. Curtis barely made contact before he pulled away, but Brooke caught his hand and forced it back.

Lance looked down, then up, his smile gentle but mocking. “You got it, man,” he said.

Brooke peeled her hand away, leaving Curtis’s fingers wrapped around the base of Lance’s cock. It was so much bigger than his own, thick and hot and pulsing under his grip. Curtis squeezed, tentative, and Lance groaned, hips flexing.

Brooke rewarded Curtis with a kiss on the cheek. “Good boy,” she whispered. “See? You’re doing amazing.”

Curtis felt his dick jerk, precum leaking down onto Brooke’s wrist.

Brooke wrapped her own hand around Curtis’s cock, stroking in time with Curtis’s hesitant jerks on Lance. She leaned in, lips grazing his ear. “You like that, don’t you? You love the way it feels.”

Curtis tried to deny it, but his cock throbbed in her hand, slick and needy.

On the TV, the twink was now on all fours, both jocks feeding him cock, spit and lube everywhere, the soundtrack nothing but choking and moans. Curtis watched, mesmerized, as the twink took both cocks in his mouth at once.

Lance watched too, but his focus kept drifting to Curtis. “You ever do that?” he asked, nodding at the screen. “Two at once?”

Curtis shook his head. He could barely breathe.

Brooke giggled. “He’s never even done one,” she said. “But he’s a quick learner.”

She started jerking Curtis harder, her thumb rubbing circles on the head. She nudged Curtis’s hand higher on Lance’s shaft, until he was stroking the full length, his palm sliding slick with precum.

Lance let out a long, slow breath. “That’s it,” he said, voice low. “Nice and slow.”

Curtis stroked faster, matching the rhythm Brooke set on him. The feeling was obscene, terrifying, but so fucking good he thought he might pass out.

Brooke kept talking, kept whispering filth into his ear. “I want you to cum while you stroke him. Can you do that for me, baby? Can you be my good little fag?”

Curtis’s eyes rolled back. He jerked Lance’s cock with desperate, trembling hands, while Brooke milked his own shaft with relentless precision.

Lance’s breathing grew ragged, his abs flexing with each thrust. “Gonna blow,” he grunted, and Curtis felt the cock swell in his hand, then the hot, wet spray as Lance came, thick streams painting Curtis’s knuckles, then his cheek, then his open, gasping mouth.

Brooke didn’t waste a second. She leaned in and licked the cum off Curtis’s face, sucking it off his lips, his chin, even the corner of his mouth. The taste made Curtis’s whole body seize up.

He came harder than he ever had in his life, spraying hot across his own stomach, his knees buckling, his hand still jerking Lance’s shaft through the aftershocks.

Brooke wiped her mouth, then grinned at both of them. “Perfect,” she said, her voice bright and victorious. “Fucking perfect.”

Curtis sat there, dazed, his hand still sticky and wrapped around Lance’s softening cock.

No one said anything for a long time. The only sound was the porn, still blaring from the TV.

Lance stood, stretched, and tucked himself back into his shorts. “Good game,” he said, echoing last week, then grabbed a beer from the fridge and padded down the hall.

Brooke curled up beside Curtis, her head on his shoulder, her hand still wrapped around his twitching dick.

“See?” she whispered. “You’re getting better every time.”

Curtis nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak.

He just sat there, staring at the mess on his lap, the taste of cum still on his lips, and wondered how far Brooke would push him next.

***

The next time, it was Curtis who made the first move. He could pretend otherwise, could say it was Brooke’s fault, or that Lance just expected it, or that the music of the TV made it impossible to resist, but the truth was, by now, all it took was a glance from Brooke and he’d find his hands wandering, eager and traitorous.

This time, they didn’t even bother with pretense. Brooke called out, “Showtime,” and the three of them gathered on the couch, no pants, no buffer, just the brash light from the TV and the stink of anticipation.

Curtis sat beside Lance, their bare thighs pressed together. Brooke was kneeling between Curtis’s legs, her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, her hands already busy on his cock. She licked the tip, flicking her tongue over the slit, then took him deep, her mouth a perfect, sucking seal.

Lance sprawled on the cushion, his cock already at full mast. Curtis looked at it, then at Lance, then back again. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around the shaft, and started stroking, slow and a little clumsy at first, then faster as he matched Brooke’s rhythm.

On the TV, a jock in a mesh tank top was getting fucked so hard his eyes crossed. The soundtrack was all wet slaps and high, desperate moans, punctuated by the director’s occasional, “Yeah, that’s it, open up, show the camera.” Curtis couldn’t look away. His dick throbbed in Brooke’s mouth, but his eyes kept sliding to the screen, to the violence and surrender and the way both guys seemed to crave it.

Brooke gagged herself on Curtis’s cock, spit foaming at the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy, then pulled off with a gasp. “Don’t cum yet,” she said, voice raw. “I want to see you stroke him off first.”

Curtis nodded, his hand never leaving Lance’s shaft. It was too big to get his fingers all the way around, so he squeezed with his whole fist, working the length from base to head. The skin was hot and alive, slick with precum, and every stroke made Lance groan.

Brooke leaned in and licked Curtis’s balls, then traced a line up his cock with her tongue. “You’re so hard for this,” she said. “You love it.”

Curtis bit back a protest, but the words died in his throat.

Brooke slid up, straddling Curtis’s lap, and started jerking him while she kissed his neck. Then, with no warning, she slid off and knelt in front of Lance. She took his cock in both hands, looked up at Curtis, and then swallowed the head, sucking hard.

Curtis felt the room spin. He kept stroking, faster now, matching the rhythm of Brooke’s mouth. He watched her, watched Lance’s cock vanish between her lips, watched Lance’s face as he surrendered to it.

“How do you like that?” Brooke asked, pulling off with a wet pop. “You ever get a blowjob from a chick before?”

Lance grinned, his eyes still half-lidded with pleasure. “Not in a long time,” he said. “But you’re a fucking pro.”

Brooke smirked, then nodded at Curtis. “He’s better, though. Watch this.”

She grabbed Curtis’s hand and guided it up and down the shaft, showing him how to twist his wrist at the top, how to squeeze just so. Lance moaned, louder this time, his hips jerking off the couch.

Curtis was so lost in the moment he barely noticed when Brooke went back to sucking his own cock. She took him deep, her tongue swirling under the head, while her hand kept working Lance.

Curtis’s mind blanked. He came hard, pumping into Brooke’s mouth, his hand never stopping on Lance. Brooke swallowed every drop, then spun around and took Lance back between her lips.

Curtis watched as Brooke went to work, taking more and more of Lance’s cock until she choked on it, her eyes streaming tears. Lance fucked her mouth, both hands gripping the sides of her head, and Curtis just stared, frozen, as the other man’s dick pistoned between her lips.

Lance’s balls tightened, and Curtis felt the cock swell in his hand, then a rush of heat as Lance exploded in Brooke’s mouth. She gagged once, then swallowed, the cum leaking down her chin. She kept sucking until Lance groaned and pushed her off, spent.

Brooke licked her lips, wiped her mouth, then crawled onto the couch and curled up next to Curtis.

The porn on TV kept playing. Curtis glanced over, still dazed, and watched as the two jocks took turns on the twink, cum dribbling down his face. Curtis felt sick and turned on and ashamed, all at once.

He looked at Lance, then at Brooke, then back at the TV.

“How does he like it?” Curtis asked, nodding at the screen. “I thought you were gay.”

Lance laughed, a lazy, satisfied sound. “A mouth’s a mouth, man. You’ll figure it out.”

Brooke giggled, then kissed Curtis on the cheek. “You want to try it yourself? I bet you’d be good at it.”

Curtis shook his head, but the words came out softer than before. “I’m not into that. I’m not gay.”

Brooke just smiled, running her fingers through his hair. “Sure you’re not.”

Later, in bed, Brooke pressed up behind him, her tits against his back, her hand roaming down to squeeze his spent cock.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Watching me suck off a big gay cock?”

Curtis closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said. “It just felt… crazy.”

Brooke laughed, the sound a hot breath on his neck. “You’re getting so close. Maybe next time I’ll let you suck it yourself.”

Curtis’s dick twitched, half-hard even now. He hated himself for it.

“I’m not gay,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

But it sounded like a lie.

Submission

Curtis tried to breathe, but every inhale just filled his lungs with the smell of sweat and cheap lube and that weird ozone static from the TV. The only light in the apartment came from the television, which was blaring some all-male gangbang on mute, every cut a new closeup of spit and dick and eyes rolled back in rapture. There was an ashtray on the coffee table, even though nobody smoked, but the air still felt like a hotbox, thick and wet.

Brooke stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, her nails tracing shallow, electric circles into his skin. Lance sat on the middle cushion of the couch, his tank top rucked up to expose a smooth, tanned six-pack. His shorts were already down around his thighs, and his cock pointed straight at Curtis’s face.

“On your knees,” Brooke said, voice all gentle coaxing. “Just like we practiced.”

Curtis knelt on the rug. The carpet was cheap, synthetic, probably full of old jizz stains, but it scratched at his bare legs and made the moment sting even more. He kept his hands at his sides, fists clenched, trying not to look at the cock right in front of his nose. He could feel Brooke’s heat behind him, the twitch of her body, the way her breath tickled his ear.

Lance spread his legs wider, shifting his hips until his dick nearly brushed Curtis’s chin. “He’s ready,” Lance said, and it wasn’t a question.

Brooke giggled, her voice syrupy and mean. “He’s always ready. Aren’t you, baby?”

Curtis shook his head, even as his own dick hardened against his thigh. “I don’t want to,” he mumbled, the lie sour in his mouth.

Brooke leaned in, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “You’re so fucking cute when you pretend you don’t like it.”

She ran her hand down his back, nails raking across the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Her other hand slid between his legs, palming the bulge through his sweatpants, squeezing until he whimpered.

“Look at how hard you are,” she hissed, just for him. “Fucking faggot.”

Curtis felt his whole face burn, ears pulsing with shame. He tried to shrink away, but Brooke’s grip held him in place. Lance reached forward, slow and deliberate, and cupped the back of Curtis’s head in his palm.

“Let’s start easy,” Lance said, and guided the tip of his cock against Curtis’s lips. “Just open up. You can do that.”

Curtis opened his mouth, numb and mechanical. The taste was bitter and a little salty, not what he expected, and the size made his jaw ache. Lance pushed in just past the head, then held still, thumb rubbing gentle circles at the base of Curtis’s skull.

“Good boy,” Lance said, barely above a whisper.

Curtis’s eyes blurred. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to kneel here in front of both of them, didn’t want the heat in his gut or the way Brooke’s fingers kept working him through his sweats. But he didn’t stop, either.

Brooke crouched beside him, one hand stroking Curtis’s cock, the other tracing along his jaw. “You look so pretty with your mouth full,” she murmured. “Just like the little slut you are.”

Lance pushed deeper, his hips barely moving, just enough to slide another inch inside. Curtis gagged, tears prickling in his eyes, but Lance’s grip kept him steady. On the TV, a guy just like Curtis was choking on a fat cock, his face a mess of spit and mascara. Curtis wondered if he looked the same, red-eyed, desperate, greedy.

“Relax your throat,” Lance said, calm as a yoga instructor. “Let it in.”

Curtis tried, focusing on the cadence of the words, the pressure of the hand guiding him. He let his tongue flatten, let his lips seal tight. Lance rewarded him with a slow, shallow thrust, pulling out almost all the way before gliding back in.

“That’s it,” Brooke crooned. She kissed the back of Curtis’s neck, then squeezed his balls through the sweats. “You’re such a natural. Maybe we should get you a collar, huh?”

Curtis whimpered around the shaft. His hands dug into his own thighs, nails leaving little half-moons through the fabric. His head spun, a sick rollercoaster of shame and euphoria.

Lance picked up the pace, just a little. Each thrust was slow, measured, but the cock hit the back of Curtis’s mouth again and again, and every time he choked, Lance pulled back just enough to let him breathe.

Curtis’s eyes flicked up, just for a second, and met Lance’s gaze. Lance was watching him, not cruel, just interested. Like he was teaching a trick to a puppy and waiting to see if it would stick.

“You can go deeper,” Lance said. “I know you can.”

Brooke hummed, twisting Curtis’s cock in her hand. “Do it for me, babe. I want to see you take all of him.”

Curtis braced himself, then relaxed his jaw as best he could. Lance fed his cock in slow, patient increments, inch by inch, until the head punched through and slipped down Curtis’s throat. He gagged, but Lance just held him there, one hand cradling his skull, the other petting his cheek.

Brooke’s breath went ragged. She stroked Curtis harder, matching the rhythm of Lance’s thrusts, until Curtis was panting through his nose, every nerve on fire.

“God, you look so fucking hot,” Brooke moaned. “You love this. You love being used.”

Curtis wanted to scream at her, but he couldn’t. He just let Lance fuck his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks, spit leaking from the corners of his lips. He could feel his own cock pulsing in Brooke’s grip, feel the building pressure and the way his balls tightened with every breath.

Lance grunted, fingers flexing in Curtis’s hair. “Almost there,” he warned, voice tense.

Brooke pulled Curtis’s sweats down to his knees, exposing his cock to the cold air. She pumped him in time with Lance’s thrusts, her other hand digging into his hip for leverage.

Curtis’s vision tunneled. He felt Lance’s cock swell in his mouth, then a hot, salty flood as Lance came, filling Curtis’s throat with spurt after spurt. He tried to pull away, but Lance held him in place, forcing him to swallow every drop.

Brooke’s hand didn’t stop. She jerked Curtis until he came, hard, splattering his own stomach and the edge of the rug. The shame hit even harder than the orgasm. He’d just blown a load from sucking cock, from being called a fag, from being humiliated in front of his own girlfriend.

Lance finally let go, sliding his cock out with a wet, obscene pop. A string of cum hung from Curtis’s lip, and Brooke licked it off, laughing as she did.

“Good boy,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.

Curtis collapsed, body shaking, eyes wet with tears.

They left him kneeling there while they cleaned up, Lance pulling his shorts back on, Brooke wiping up the mess with a paper towel. On the TV, the gangbang hit its own climax, a blur of faces and cocks and spit. Curtis stared at the screen, hating how much he wanted to rewind and do it all over again.

*

Later, in bed, Curtis lay on his back staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He could still taste cum in the back of his throat, could still feel the print of Lance’s fingers on his scalp.

Brooke curled up beside him, her hair still damp from the shower. She traced a finger along his collarbone, silent for a long time.

When she spoke, her voice was softer than before. “Did it feel good?”

Curtis blinked at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess.”

Brooke kissed his shoulder, slow and gentle. “You can say yes. Nobody’s going to judge you here.”

He swallowed, throat raw. “It was… different. It made me hard.”

Brooke smiled, lips against his skin. “I know, baby. I was watching.”

Curtis shuddered, the memory a live wire in his chest. “I’m not—” He didn’t finish.

Brooke finished for him: “You’re not gay. You’re just mine.”

Curtis nodded, relief and confusion tangled together. He rolled onto his side, tucked his face into her neck, and tried to let himself sleep.

But all he could see, every time he closed his eyes, was Lance’s cock and the look of pride on Brooke’s face.

And, worst of all, how much he wanted to do it again.

***

The next night, Curtis felt it coming before Brooke even said a word. He could sense it in the way she did her makeup, even though they were “just hanging out.” In the way she wore her old volleyball tee, rolled at the hem to show off her stomach, and a pair of tiny sleep shorts that barely covered anything. In the way she kept looking at the clock, like she was waiting for a show to start.

Lance got home from the gym at seven sharp, protein shake already half gone, arms slick with sweat. He fist-bumped Curtis in the kitchen, then peeled off his shirt, leaving it draped over a chair. “Movie night?” he asked, and Curtis’s stomach did a little backflip.

Brooke grinned, the kind of smile that made Curtis nervous. “Absolutely. I’ve got the perfect one queued up.”

The living room felt smaller than usual, like the walls were closing in around them. The TV cast a blue haze over everything, and the couch was already stripped of its blankets, nothing to hide behind. Curtis sat on the edge of the cushion, trying to look at anything but the screen, but the opening shot was already a close-up of a guy’s tongue working another guy’s asshole. The soundtrack was even louder than last time.

Brooke sprawled out on the rug, cross-legged, her back straight and her hair brushed out. She patted the space next to her, eyes on Curtis.

“C’mere,” she said. “Let’s get comfortable.”

Curtis glanced at Lance, who was already dropping his shorts to the floor, his cock half-hard and swinging as he flopped onto the couch. Curtis’s own cock stirred, traitorous, before he even stood.

He knelt on the carpet, just like before, but this time he didn’t need Brooke’s hands on his shoulders to keep him in place. He went willingly, palms resting on his thighs, every muscle humming with anticipation and dread.

Brooke leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear. “You know what to do.”

Curtis nodded, swallowing hard. Lance was already hard as a bat, a thick line of precum glistening on the tip. Curtis tried not to think about how much he wanted to taste it.

He reached up, hands shaking, and wrapped his fingers around the shaft. The skin was hot, the veins bulging under his grip. He stroked it, slow at first, then bent his head and licked a bead of fluid from the head. It was salty, chemical, but somehow sweeter than last time.

Lance grunted, rolling his hips forward. “Fuck, man. You’re getting better at this.”

Brooke beamed, her hand drifting to Curtis’s back, tracing circles between his shoulder blades. “He’s a quick learner. Aren’t you, baby?”

Curtis hesitated, then nodded, his lips parting to let the head slide into his mouth. It stretched his jaw wide, but he didn’t gag this time. He sucked, slow and careful, tongue swirling around the tip just like he’d seen in a dozen porn videos.

Brooke reached under the hem of his t-shirt and scratched at his skin, slow and lazy. “Look at our cute little cocksucker,” she cooed, loud enough for both of them to hear. “You love it, don’t you?”

Curtis shook his head, but his cheeks flamed, and his dick throbbed against his thigh.

Lance slid his hand into Curtis’s hair, not rough, just guiding. “Take it deeper,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “You can do it.”

Curtis braced himself, then let his mouth slide down, inch by inch, until the head pressed against the back of his throat. He tried to breathe through his nose, but Lance’s cock filled every inch, made his eyes water and his face flush.

Brooke giggled, then reached between Curtis’s legs, cupping his balls through the thin fabric of his shorts. “You’re drooling all over it,” she whispered. “Such a mess.”

Curtis whimpered, the sound muffled by Lance’s shaft. He felt Brooke’s hand slip inside his shorts, fingers wrapping around his own cock. She stroked him in time with the thrusts, her grip merciless.

On the TV, two men spit-roasted a third, his face buried in the pillows while they took turns using him. Brooke pointed it out, her voice a sing-song taunt: “That’ll be you soon. Bet you can’t wait.”

Curtis tried to protest, but Lance’s cock slammed deeper, making him gag and choke.

“You’re turning into a real fag,” Brooke whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “You can admit it. I love you either way.”

Curtis shook his head, tears streaming down his face. But he didn’t stop sucking.

Brooke reached around and held the back of his neck, keeping him steady. “That’s it,” she murmured. “Take it all. I want to see you swallow.”

Lance thrust in hard, the tip hitting Curtis’s tonsils, then pulled out slow, strings of spit and precum connecting them. “Fuck, I’m close,” he gasped.

Brooke jerked Curtis’s cock harder, milking him with every stroke. “Do it,” she said. “Cum for us, baby. Cum while you suck his cock.”

Curtis’s head spun. He let Lance’s cock slide back into his mouth, lips stretched wide, tongue pressed flat. He felt the shaft swell, then a rush of heat as Lance unloaded down his throat. Curtis coughed, nearly choking, but swallowed instinctively, the taste thick and overwhelming.

At the same moment, Brooke’s grip on his dick sent him over the edge. He came, spattering inside his shorts, his whole body shuddering.

Lance pulled out, his cock still twitching, a smug smile on his face. “Not bad, man. You ever need a reference, I’ll vouch.”

Brooke laughed, then licked the corner of Curtis’s mouth, tasting the leftover cum. “Such a good boy,” she said. “I’m so proud.”

Curtis collapsed onto the carpet, dazed, mouth still buzzing with the taste. On the TV, the gangbang hit its own crescendo, the bottom left gaping and leaking, his face blissed-out.

Brooke sprawled beside him, hair falling in a messy halo. She tugged Curtis’s shorts down, then licked the streaks of cum off his softening dick.

“Don’t get used to it,” Curtis muttered, trying to sound tough, but the words came out as a whine.

Brooke just smirked, then nipped at his hip. “You keep saying that,” she teased. “But you keep begging for more.”

Curtis blushed, then looked away, eyes locked on the wall.

Lance got up and wandered to the kitchen, cock swinging, unbothered. “Pizza?” he called, like nothing had happened.

Brooke laughed again, rolling onto her back. “Best movie night ever,” she declared.

Curtis didn’t disagree. He just lay there, head spinning, and wondered how much lower he could go.

*

That night in bed, Brooke climbed on top of him, her cunt slick and hot as she rode his cock. She pressed her hands to his chest, pinning him in place.

“You’re getting so easy to train,” she whispered, voice thick with arousal. “Tonight, I want you to imagine it’s him inside you.”

Curtis shook his head, but Brooke rolled her hips, grinding hard. “You can say no,” she taunted, “but your dick says yes.”

She leaned down, her lips at his ear. “Imagine it, baby. Imagine his cock stretching you open.”

Curtis groaned, eyes squeezed shut, the shame and the lust mixing until he couldn’t tell which was stronger.

Brooke went on, relentless: “You want to be filled up, don’t you? Want him to fuck you while I watch?”

Curtis couldn’t take it. He came instantly, shooting inside her, hips jerking.

Brooke grinned, then kissed him on the mouth, tasting his sweat and defeat.

Curtis lay there, limp, while Brooke rolled off and curled up at his side.

She stroked his hair, gentle now. “You’re almost ready,” she murmured.

Curtis stared at the ceiling, his whole body still trembling.

“I’m not gay,” he whispered, but it didn’t sound like the truth at all.

***

The first time they did it, really did it, the bedroom was lit by a single lamp, the shade cracked so the light spilled out in a sharp, golden wedge. Curtis stood in the corner, naked but for a pair of old gym socks, staring at the shadow his body cast on the wall. Brooke perched on the bed, her phone in one hand, the other idly stroking between her legs. She watched him, pupils wide, lips slick and parted.

Lance lounged on the edge of the bed, completely naked, his cock already half-hard and bobbing every time he shifted. He didn’t say much, just watched Curtis with a lazy, predatory patience.

Brooke patted the bedspread. “Kneel, baby,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

Curtis walked over on shaky legs, the carpet scratchy under his knees. He didn’t look at Lance but he knew the exact moment Brooke spread her legs, the sweet, musky scent hitting him like a punch. She leaned in and wrapped an arm around his chest, steadying him.

“Just like last time,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

Lance put a hand on Curtis’s head and guided his mouth to the tip of his cock. This time, Curtis didn’t fight it. He opened wide, lips slipping over the head, the taste instantly familiar and weirdly comforting. He let Lance slide it in, slow at first, then deeper, his throat relaxing around the girth.

Brooke slid behind Curtis, her fingers tracing the line of his spine, her breasts warm and soft against his back. She kissed his shoulder, then let her hand drift down, nails raking lightly over his ass. Curtis flinched at the touch, but didn’t stop sucking.

Lance fucked his mouth in long, even strokes, a little rougher each time. Curtis’s eyes watered, and the tears streaked down his face, but he kept going. He was getting good at it, maybe even a little proud.

Brooke’s hand reached between Curtis’s legs, fingers brushing his balls. She laughed when she found him hard. “You’re such a slut,” she murmured. “You love being used, don’t you?”

Curtis tried to shake his head, but Lance’s hand held him steady, fingers twisted in his hair. “Say it,” Brooke coaxed, her breath hot in his ear. “Say you like it.”

Curtis gagged, then managed to speak around the cock. “I like it.”

Lance grinned, a flash of teeth. “Good boy.”

Brooke slid a finger down the cleft of Curtis’s ass, tracing slow circles around his rim. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Curtis froze. He felt her fingertip press, gentle but insistent. He tried to pull away, but Lance shoved his cock deeper, holding Curtis’s nose to his pelvis.

Brooke’s finger pushed inside, slow and deliberate. Curtis’s whole body shuddered. He moaned, the sound muffled by Lance’s shaft.

“That’s it,” Brooke said, her finger working in and out, slick with lube she’d hidden on the nightstand. “Let it happen. You’re ready.”

Curtis shook, his breath coming in desperate gasps. He tried to focus on the taste, the rhythm, anything but the shame in his chest.

Lance leaned back, sliding his cock out with a wet pop. “You want to try the real thing?” he said, voice gentle, almost kind.

Curtis hesitated, but Brooke’s finger never stopped moving, and his own cock was so hard it hurt.

“Just once,” Brooke whispered. “Let him fuck you. I’ll be right here.”

Curtis nodded, face burning. “Okay,” he said, but added quickly, “I’m not gay.”

Lance laughed, shaking his head. “You’re just curious.”

Brooke grabbed a fresh bottle of lube, snapping it open and squeezing a cold puddle onto her fingers. She massaged it into Curtis, two, then three fingers working him open. Curtis grunted, the stretch bordering on pain, but Brooke was careful, slow, relentless.

Lance got on his knees behind Curtis, cock gleaming in the lamplight. He lined up, one hand steady on Curtis’s hip.

“Ready?” he asked.

Curtis nodded, his cheek pressed to the bedspread. “Yeah.”

Lance pressed in, the head thick and unyielding. Curtis yelped, the sound strangled, but didn’t try to escape. Inch by inch, the shaft slid deeper, spreading him wide. Brooke stroked his hair, kissing his cheek, her other hand wrapped tight around his cock.

“It hurts,” Curtis gasped.

“I know,” Brooke soothed, “but it gets better. Just relax.”

Lance rocked in and out, careful at first, then faster. The pain shifted, a dull, deep ache that morphed into something different. Curtis gripped the sheets, body straining, but with every thrust, he got used to it. Wanted it.

Brooke was moaning now, her hand moving faster on Curtis’s cock, her own fingers buried inside herself. “You look so fucking hot,” she said. “I wish you could see yourself.”

Curtis’s vision went white. He felt the cock slam into him, every nerve on fire, and suddenly the shame was gone, replaced by pure, animal need.

Lance grunted, slamming in all the way. Curtis screamed, the sound half pleasure, half surrender. Lance fucked him, hard, the slap of their skin echoing off the walls.

Brooke came, gasping, fingers curled tight in Curtis’s hair. She pressed her face to his back, shuddering. “Cum for me, baby,” she begged. “I want you to cum with his cock inside you.”

Curtis groaned, his whole body shaking. Lance’s hand wrapped around his waist, jerking him off in time with the thrusts. The pain and pleasure blurred together until Curtis couldn’t tell them apart.

He came, hard, the orgasm ripping through him like a storm. His cock pulsed, cum spurting onto the sheets, and Lance fucked him through it, never slowing.

A second later, Lance shouted, slammed in deep, and came, cock twitching inside Curtis’s ass.

They collapsed in a heap on the bed, tangled and spent. Curtis’s body ached, but all he could feel was the warm, heavy fullness inside him, and the slick mess between his legs.

Brooke kissed him, her lips salty with tears. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” she whispered.

Curtis didn’t know what to say, so he just buried his face in the pillow and tried to breathe.

*

After that, things changed. They never talked about it, not really, but Curtis and Brooke stopped having sex. Every night, she’d send him to Lance’s room, and he’d kneel by the bed, waiting to be used.

At first, Lance was gentle, almost apologetic, but as the days went on, the sex got rougher, dirtier. He’d fuck Curtis face-down on the bed, or bend him over the kitchen counter, or even pull him into the shower and take him there, water sluicing over their bodies.

Curtis stopped fighting it. He stopped pretending he didn’t want it. He stopped saying “I’m not gay,” and just let it happen.

Brooke would watch, sometimes, perched in the doorway with her legs spread, fingers working herself raw. She never touched Curtis again, not even a kiss, but he didn’t mind.

He belonged to both of them now.

And, for the first time in his life, Curtis felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

***

Curtis didn’t even bother to knock anymore. When he heard the click of the bedroom door and the soft shuffle of bare feet, he just stepped inside and knelt, head bowed. There was a new smell in the air, metal and sweat and something floral, maybe Brooke’s perfume. He let it wash over him, tried to sink into it, tried not to think.

Lance was already on the bed, legs spread, naked and hard. His cock was even bigger than Curtis remembered, jutting up from a nest of trimmed hair, the head glistening with a fresh bead of precum. Lance watched him with that same easy, hungry look, arms folded behind his head like a king in a porn palace.

Brooke perched on the edge of the dresser, her legs crossed, one bare foot swinging. She wore a black silk robe that slipped off her shoulder, showing the slope of her breast, but her eyes were on Curtis, calculating, almost clinical.

She held something small and silver in her hand. When Curtis looked up, she smiled.

“Come here,” she said, voice soft but edged with command.

Curtis crawled over, the carpet burning his knees. He stopped in front of Brooke and waited.

She dangled the object in front of his eyes, a tiny, gleaming cage, a sheath of steel no bigger than a lipstick tube. There was a lock at the end, delicate and shiny, with a key already in it.

Brooke stroked his cheek with her free hand. “You know what this is?”

Curtis swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a cage.”

Brooke leaned in, her lips close to his ear. “It’s for you, baby. So you can stop pretending you’re anything but our little sissy faggot.”

Curtis flushed, the word slapping him harder than anything Lance had ever done. His cock twitched, but then shrank in on itself, ashamed.

Brooke slid the cage over his soft dick, her hands precise and gentle, then snapped the lock shut. “Perfect,” she said. “Now you can’t touch yourself. Not until we say.”

Lance laughed from the bed, stroking himself. “You look good, man. Real cute.”

Curtis shivered, every muscle buzzing. He felt exposed, raw, but also weirdly relieved. He didn’t have to make decisions anymore. He just had to kneel and obey.

Brooke stood, letting the robe slip to the floor. She was naked underneath, her skin smooth and glowing in the lamplight. She ran her fingers through Curtis’s hair, then pushed him gently toward the bed.

Lance grabbed him by the hips and yanked him up, face-down on the mattress. “Let’s see how you like it when you can’t get hard,” he said.

Brooke sat in the chair by the window, one knee hooked over the armrest, fingers already between her legs. She watched, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.

Lance lubed up his cock, then lined it up with Curtis’s ass. He didn’t bother with the slow build this time. He just shoved in, hard, making Curtis yelp.

It hurt, but not as much as before. Curtis took it, bit down on the pillow, felt the metal of the cage press cold against his balls. With every thrust, the cage dug in a little deeper, a constant, aching reminder of who he was.

Brooke’s voice drifted over the slap of skin. “You look so pretty, baby. All plugged up and fucked.”

Lance grunted, fucking Curtis in long, deep strokes. He grabbed the cage, yanked it for leverage, made Curtis whine.

Brooke started rubbing her clit, moaning as she watched. “Such a good cocksucker. Such a perfect little bitch.”

Curtis felt his body shake, every nerve ending on fire. He tried to get hard, but the cage kept him soft, trapped, helpless.

Lance came with a shout, shooting deep inside. He pulled out, then rolled Curtis onto his back, the cage still locked in place. Lance slapped Curtis’s face, not hard, just enough to get his attention.

“Open up,” he said, and Curtis did. Lance shoved his softening cock in, made Curtis suck it clean.

Brooke came, toes curling, her eyes glued to the scene.

When it was over, Curtis slumped onto the floor, panting, the metal of the cage biting into his flesh.

Brooke stood and walked over, crouching in front of him. She cupped his chin, made him look at her.

“You’re ours now,” she said, voice gentle. “You belong to us.”

Curtis nodded, tears stinging his eyes. He didn’t fight it. He just let Brooke kiss his forehead, let Lance rest a heavy hand on his shoulder, let himself be claimed.

He was a cage, a mouth, an ass. A toy, a pet.

Claim

Curtis was already on the rug by the time Lance strode in. The pattern dug at his knees, the fibers rough enough to sting. It was dark except for the TV, which played some mute news feed, the screen an endless loop of disaster footage and scrolling numbers. He tried not to watch the clock in the corner. He tried not to think at all.

The only thing Curtis was allowed to wear was the cage. It wasn’t heavy, but the cold steel always shocked him when it touched skin. It left a pressure right behind his balls that never went away, and every time he even thought about getting hard, the entire contraption pinched down, mean and absolute, like a hand closing around his dick and squeezing until the pain was all that was left. The lock was real, too. Brooke made a show of spinning it in front of him before snapping it shut, and sometimes she’d tap her phone, grinning, as if his cock was just another Bluetooth device she could control.

He sat perfectly still, legs spread, hands behind his back. His mouth was open just a little, lips parted, tongue resting on the backs of his bottom teeth. It was a position he’d been trained into, a pose, Brooke called it, like a painting.

She was on the couch, cross-legged in a T-shirt and nothing else. The TV light flickered off her bare thighs, highlighting the small smirk that always crept up when she was about to go in for the kill. She sipped a White Claw, strawberry or mango or maybe both, and her toes drummed against the armrest as she waited.

“Think he’s ready for the real thing?” Lance’s voice was bigger than the living room. He leaned against the wall with a bottle of beer, sweat gleaming on his arms and neck, gym shorts already tenting at the crotch. He’d skipped a shower, on purpose. Curtis could smell him before he even stepped into the room.

Brooke’s grin went sideways. “You see the way he’s drooling? Of course he’s ready.”

Curtis felt the heat crawl up his face. He didn’t want to be ready. He tried not to remember the first time, how he’d gagged and coughed, how the taste lingered after two mouthwashes and a desperate chug of Gatorade. He wanted to say no, to back out, but the words died in his throat. He just held the pose, waiting.

Lance sat down on the couch, legs spread wide, leaving just enough room for Brooke to scoot closer and wedge herself into his side. She ran a hand up his thigh, nails scratching the fabric. “You want him on his knees, or do you want him on the coffee table?” she asked, like they were picking out pizza toppings.

“Here’s good,” Lance replied. “He knows where to go.”

Curtis crawled forward, hands flat on the floor. The cage jostled as he moved, the base ring tugging at the root of his cock. He hated how quickly he settled between Lance’s legs, how familiar the position had become. He stared at the bulge in Lance’s shorts, a dark, wet spot already spreading at the tip.

“Go on,” Brooke said, voice syrupy. “Say thank you, Curtis.”

He hesitated. “Thank you, Lance,” he whispered.

Lance grinned, ruffling Curtis’s hair like a dog. “Good boy.”

Curtis’s hands trembled as he pulled Lance’s shorts down. The cock sprang free, thick and heavy and veiny, bigger than Curtis’s own by a mile. The smell hit him first, sweat, and the sour tang of old cum. He wrapped his fingers around the base, steadying it, then leaned in and dragged his tongue up the shaft, slow and deliberate, just as Brooke had taught him.

“Look up,” Brooke ordered. “I want to see your eyes.”

Curtis obeyed, locking eyes with her as he took the head into his mouth. It was salty, the taste so strong it made him flinch. Lance’s cock twitched, leaking a line of slick that Curtis swallowed by instinct.

Brooke’s hand moved under her shirt, cupping her tit. “Deeper,” she said. “He likes it deep.”

Curtis opened wider, relaxing his jaw, letting the cock glide in until it bumped the back of his throat. He gagged, but Lance held his head steady, one hand clamped down on his skull, not letting him pull away.

“That’s it,” Lance said, voice low and pleased. “You’re getting better.”

Curtis worked his tongue, flattening it against the underside, trying to remember all the tricks he’d been drilled on. Swirl at the tip, use both hands, don’t slobber unless told to. His mouth was full, his nose pressed against the scratch of Lance’s pubes, the world reduced to taste and motion and the dull ache of the cage cutting into his flesh.

He heard the sound of Brooke’s breath catch, a stuttered exhale. She squeezed her nipple, pulling at it until the fabric of her shirt stretched taut. She was watching every move, eyes bright and unblinking.

“Don’t you dare cum until I say,” Brooke said, her voice hardening. “This is for him. Not for you.”

Lance started to fuck Curtis’s face in earnest, hips thrusting slow but deep. Each time, the cock jammed into Curtis’s throat, making his eyes water and his lips go numb. He could feel the weight of Lance’s hand, the pressure behind it, the way his fingers dug in just a little tighter every time Curtis gagged. He wanted to pull away, to spit it out and run, but the thought of disappointing Brooke was somehow worse than any humiliation.

“You’re such a natural,” Brooke purred. “If you had tits, you’d be the perfect little slut.”

Lance chuckled, breath hitching. “Maybe we can get him some. Go all the way.”

Curtis felt his face burn, the shame curdling in his gut. He didn’t want to want this, but his cock throbbed uselessly against the metal cage, drooling precum with every pulse.

Lance picked up the pace, thrusts turning short and sharp, balls slapping against Curtis’s chin. Curtis braced himself, squeezing his eyes shut as the cock battered the back of his throat. He could hear Brooke moaning now, her breathing quick and hungry.

Then, without warning, Lance yanked Curtis off his cock. It slipped free with a wet pop, spit and precum drooling from Curtis’s lips.

Lance leaned back, chest pumping with deep, ragged breaths, the curve of his cock slick and glaringly red, shining in the blue light of the television. His thighs trembled as if barely containing a surge of electricity. “Hold on,” he said, gaze fixed on Brooke with the intensity of a wolf spotting a weakened deer. The whole room seemed to shrink around his words.

Curtis knelt there for a second, brain lagging badly behind his body, everything spinning in a sickly halo of humiliation and adrenaline. He wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, the taste and heat of Lance still clinging to his tongue. The urge to spit was strong but the rules were clear: he swallowed, always, if he wanted to make Brooke proud.

Lance didn’t look at Curtis. His eyes stayed glued to Brooke. His voice dropped, a bassy growl that made Curtis's stomach drop. “I’m not just gay. I want your pussy, too.” Each word was a stone tossed into the stagnant pool of Curtis’s mind, the ripples spreading outward, colliding with the edges of his shame.

Brooke’s lips parted in surprise, but it was the kind of surprise that had been rehearsed a hundred times in front of a bathroom mirror. Her teeth flashed in a jagged grin. “About time you asked,” she said, her words syrupy and sharp at the same time. It was a new face of Brooke, one that Curtis hadn’t seen before, but somehow recognized instantly. It was the look she gave her clients when she knew their secrets before they even spoke them aloud.

Before Curtis could process, Brooke shifted on the couch, her bare thighs making a soft, sticky sound as she turned to face Lance. She peeled her T-shirt off with a single motion and let it drop to the floor, tits spilling out, nipples already hard, her chest flushed and freckled. She didn’t bother with any slow striptease or performative coyness. Instead, she straddled Lance, climbing onto his lap with a confidence that made Curtis feel even smaller.

“Don’t move,” Brooke said without even glancing at Curtis. Like he was a houseplant, or a piece of furniture. Her focus was entirely on Lance, who gripped her hips with both hands, spreading her wide.

Brooke reached down between her legs, grabbed Lance’s cock with assured, casual brutality, lining it up with her slit. There was no preamble; she just dropped herself onto it in one brutal, decisive motion, making a noise that was half groan and half war cry. Curtis flinched involuntarily at the sound, at the way her body seemed to swallow Lance whole. The impact made the couch creak and the TV remote rattle to the ground.

Brooke rode him instantly, using her whole body, hair bouncing in a wild curtain around her face. Her movements were sharp and deliberate, like she was trying to prove something to herself, to Lance, to Curtis, maybe to all of them at once. Curtis could see the slick shine on her pussy, could see the way it stretched around Lance’s girth. The image was burned into his retinas: her ass flexing, Lance’s cock plunging in and out, the way her tits bounced in time with her rhythm.

Curtis didn’t know where to look. He tried to avert his eyes, but Brooke had trained him too well. “Watch,” she said, almost bored, as if reading his mind. “Look at what a real man does.”

He obeyed, swallowing hard, his dick throbbing violently in its cage. The pain was constant now, so intense it was almost numbing. He watched as Lance pounded into Brooke, his hands gripping her tight enough that her skin paled around his fingers. In this moment, Curtis’s girlfriend was nothing but an object for Lance’s pleasure, and Lance was nothing but a hard, perfect machine, and Curtis was less than both combined.

Brooke started to moan, deep and guttural. Sweat ran down her face, her neck, pooled between her tits. She leaned back, arching so that her whole body was a taut bow, every muscle straining. Lance grinned, his teeth white and wolfish, and slapped her ass, the sound loud enough to make Curtis jump.

Curtis felt a new wave of humiliation crest inside him, hot and sharp and twisting. He wanted to run, or hide, or vanish outright, but he was trapped by the expectation, the ritual, the certainty that if he failed to perform now, Brooke would be disappointed, and that was even worse than having to watch.

“Don’t jerk off,” Brooke said, voice shuddering. “You haven’t earned it yet.” She didn’t have to say it; the cage made it physically impossible, but it was the reminder that stung. The reinforcement.

Lance started to grunt with each thrust, eyes never leaving Brooke’s. Curtis could see the sweat running down Lance’s chest, the way his abs contracted with every movement. There was a raw, animalistic beauty to it that Curtis hated, and also envied. The contrast between his own scrawny, trembling frame and the power on display before him was too stark to ignore. He felt himself shrinking, folding inward, becoming a spectator in his own life.

Brooke’s hand shot up to her own throat, squeezing lightly as she bounced on Lance’s cock. Her face twisted in pleasure and maybe some pain, and for a split second, she looked almost feral. “You like this, Curtis?” she gasped, her voice barely more than a breath.

He couldn’t speak, not with the lump in his throat. He just nodded, feeling his face burn.

“Say it,” she panted. “Say you like watching me get fucked.”

He tried to find his voice. “I… I like it,” he stammered, the words thin and pathetic.

Brooke laughed, a sound that was all teeth and no humor. “I know you do, baby. You’re such a fucking pervert.”

Lance’s hands travelled from Brooke’s hips to her waist, then up to her tits, squeezing them roughly, making her gasp and clench harder around him. Curtis could see Lance’s cock glistening each time it slid out, smeared with creamy wetness, could see the way Brooke’s pussy gripped the shaft like it was made for it.

The sight made Curtis’s own trapped cock pulse in agony. Precum started to leak around the base of the cage, slicking his thighs, so much he could feel it pooling beneath him on the rug. He wanted to touch himself so bad it almost drove him insane, but he didn’t dare move his hands from behind his back.

Brooke was riding faster now, chasing her own orgasm with reckless abandon. She grabbed Lance’s hair, yanked his head back, and kissed him hard, biting his lower lip until it went white. Lance’s hands moved down to her ass again, pulling her open, slamming her down on his cock over and over.

Curtis could barely process what he was seeing, what he was feeling. The shame, the anger, the humiliation, the desperate, raw need. All of it swirled together in his gut until he didn’t know where one ended and the other began. He wondered, briefly, if this was what Brooke wanted all along: to break him and rebuild him into something new, something less than a man but more than a pet.

Lance’s voice broke through the haze. “Gonna cum,” he grunted, slamming up into Brooke with brutal force.

Brooke didn’t slow down. She rode him harder, hips grinding in tight little circles, using every trick she’d ever used on Curtis and then some. “Do it,” she gasped. “Cum inside me. Make him watch.”

Lance let out a sound that was half-growl, half-roar, and pulled Brooke down hard onto his cock. Curtis saw the way his whole body spasmed, the way his cock twitched deep inside her. He knew immediately what was happening, and felt his stomach drop. He watched, slack-jawed, as Brooke’s pussy clenched around the invading length, as Lance’s cum shot deep inside her and started to leak out around the base.

The sight of it, of Brooke being bred, of a cock so much bigger than his own unloading inside her, did something irreparable to Curtis’s brain. He couldn’t look away. He felt his own cock spasm, uselessly, in the steel prison, and for a moment he thought he might actually cum from nothing but pain and humiliation.

Brooke let out a scream, a sound Curtis had never heard from her before, and her whole body shook with climax. She clawed at Lance’s chest, leaving red welts behind, grinding herself down on his cock as if trying to fuse them together. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave, until she finally collapsed onto Lance’s chest, panting and wild-eyed.

Curtis knelt there, hands behind his back, dick throbbing in its cage, watching the white trickle of cum drip out of Brooke and onto Lance’s balls. The rug beneath him was beginning to itch and burn, but he couldn’t move, not until Brooke dismissed him.

Eventually, Brooke slid off of Lance’s lap and flopped onto the couch beside them, her body a spent battery, every muscle trembling. Sweat and cum matted her thighs, smeared her inner legs. She looked like a goddess made from ruin and excess.

Lance’s cock, still half-hard and slick with a vivid mixture of himself and Brooke, flopped lazily against his thigh, leaving a glistening smear on his skin. He made no effort to hide it, didn’t even reach for the towel that Brooke always kept draped over the armrest “for accidents.” Instead, he leaned back, utterly unashamed, his broad chest rising and falling with self-satisfied breaths. Brooke sprawled out next to him, one leg resting over his lap, their bodies still pressed together by the humid aftermath. A strand of her hair stuck to his shoulder, and her hand drifted up and down his abs in lazy, proprietary circles.

Curtis stayed kneeling several feet away, eyes fixed on the rug. He could smell everything, the sweat, the sex, the faint metallic tang of the cage biting into his skin. His head throbbed with the pulse of his own shame, and each time he risked a glance up, the sight of Lance’s deflating but still monstrous cock made his stomach twist tighter. He wondered if this was how it would be from now on: him on the periphery, watching with his tongue and his eyes, never allowed to touch.

As if reading his mind, Brooke stretched with catlike grace and let out a satisfied moan. “You did good, baby,” she purred, finally turning her attention to Curtis. “You made it through the whole thing without whining.”

He almost said thank you, but caught himself. He knew from experience that Brooke didn’t need or want gratitude. She just wanted obedience. Still, her approval felt like a shot of dopamine. Even if it was laced with a thousand needles of humiliation.

Lance’s laughter rumbled up from his chest as he glanced at Curtis. “Like watching, little man?”

Curtis’s mouth was so dry he had to swallow twice before answering. “Yes, sir.” He surprised himself with the title. It just slipped out.

Brooke noticed, too. Her lips curled into a new, secret smile. She leaned in and whispered something in Lance’s ear, a suggestion, a dare, maybe just a blueprint for what would happen next. Lance nodded, his gaze flicking over Curtis with something like pity, but mostly amusement. For a moment, the three of them lingered there, a perfect tableau of everything Curtis had feared and craved.

Without warning, Brooke got up and beckoned Curtis closer with a single, imperious finger. He crawled on hands and knees, his thighs sticky with his own mess, every nerve ending on fire. When he stopped at her feet, she placed a hand on his head, fingers threading into his hair, and tilted his chin up so he had to meet her gaze.

“Next time,” she whispered, running her thumb across his lip, “I want to see you cry. Real tears. For me.”

Curtis nodded, unable to look away, the promise hanging in the air between them like a guillotine blade.

Lance’s cock, freshly wiped with a tissue Brooke tossed his way, was already stirring again. The cycle, Curtis realized, wasn’t even close to finished.

***

By the time they made it to the bedroom, Curtis was vibrating with a dull, low-grade panic. The air was thick, the stink of sweat and fuck clinging to the sheets from the last two nights. They hadn’t washed them on purpose. Brooke said it “set the mood.” Curtis thought it just made everything feel sticky, but he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything. He just followed orders.

Brooke was first onto the bed, spreading herself like a centerfold, knees up, hair wild across the pillow. She didn’t look at Curtis when she said, “Lights off except the lamp, please.” So he did it, flicking the cheap switch so the only glow in the room was gold and mean, slicing every body into sharp edges and shadows.

Lance tossed his shirt in a corner, then joined Brooke on the bed, crawling up the mattress like a predator. Curtis just stood there at the edge, cage jutting from his groin, hands awkward at his sides. He didn’t know if he should kneel or stand or maybe curl into a ball and disappear.

“Get on,” Lance said, and Curtis climbed onto the bed, careful not to look anyone in the eye.

He barely had time to arrange his knees before Brooke spun him around and shoved him onto his back. The sheets were cold, but his skin was already feverish, every inch of him overexposed.

Brooke straddled his chest, pinning him in place. Her pussy was inches from his face, glistening and red. “Lick,” she said, voice crisp.

He obeyed, tongue slipping out, tracing the folds, licking up her juices and the ghost of Lance’s cum from last time. She ground down, smothering him, one hand holding his hair and the other kneading her own breast.

Lance watched for a second, jerking himself, then nudged Curtis’s legs apart with his knee. “Spread,” he ordered.

Curtis did, shivering when the air hit his asshole. Lance’s hands were rough, sliding under his thighs, yanking him down the bed so his ass hung off the edge. Curtis’s knees bent up awkwardly, his feet barely touching the floor. He hated how easy it was for Lance to handle him, like he weighed nothing, like a blow-up doll.

Brooke’s pussy dripped onto his mouth, the taste tangy and sharp, but Curtis barely registered it. He was hyper-aware of the chill at his asshole, of the sound of the lube bottle popping, the squelch as Lance slicked up his cock.

“You ready, bitch?” Lance asked.

Curtis nodded, but his jaw was locked around Brooke’s pussy, her thighs tight against his ears. He was already dizzy from the pressure and the heat.

Lance lined up, the head of his cock pressing against Curtis’s hole. It felt huge, impossible, but Lance didn’t give him time to panic. He just pushed in, slow but relentless, the shaft forcing him open, inch by inch.

Curtis whimpered, hands scrabbling at the sheets, but Brooke just bore down harder, suffocating him with pussy and the wet slap of her cunt on his lips.

Lance slid in all the way, balls slapping Curtis’s taint. “You’re tighter every time,” he said, voice thick.

Curtis tried to relax, to let it happen, but the stretch was brutal, every muscle screaming. The cage made it worse, pushing his cock down, pinning it so every thrust mashed it against his own pelvis, the metal biting into skin.

Brooke moaned, grinding her clit on Curtis’s nose. “Keep licking, faggot,” she snarled. “You’re not allowed to stop.”

Lance pulled out, then slammed back in, the force knocking the air from Curtis’s lungs. He fucked Curtis hard, using his hips like a battering ram, and every thrust pushed Curtis’s face deeper into Brooke’s cunt.

The room was all sound and movement: the slap of flesh, the squelch of lube, the high, animal noises Brooke made when she was close. Curtis tried to keep up, tongue lapping frantically, but he was overwhelmed by the cock pounding his ass, by the humiliation of being used by both of them at once.

Brooke came first, digging her nails into Curtis’s scalp, her whole body quaking as she smothered his mouth. She screamed, “Yes, fuck, yes!” and then collapsed onto his face, thighs trembling.

Lance never stopped, not even as Brooke’s orgasm rippled out. He pulled Curtis’s hips up, changing the angle, fucking him even deeper. “You hear that, little bitch?” he said, voice a low growl. “You made her cum.”

Curtis didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mouth was full of Brooke, his ass full of Lance, his brain completely blank.

Brooke rolled off, panting, then crawled to Lance’s side. She stroked his back as he pounded Curtis, her nails leaving red tracks on Lance’s shoulders.

Curtis’s own cock was leaking like mad, the precum dripping from the tip of the cage onto the sheets. He was desperate for release, but the pain in his ass and the bite of the cage made it impossible to focus on anything except survival.

Lance started to go faster, breath hitching. “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” he grunted. “You’re gonna milk every drop.”

Brooke joined in, whispering in Curtis’s ear, “Look at you, taking that big cock like a real faggot. You were born for this.”

Curtis whimpered, humiliation burning through him. He wanted to deny it, but every thrust drove the truth deeper.

Lance slammed in hard, then froze, cock pulsing as he came inside Curtis. Curtis felt the heat fill him, felt the cock twitch and pulse and then stay there, locked in place.

Lance pulled out slow, leaving Curtis gaping and empty. “Clean me up,” he commanded.

Curtis hesitated. The cock was still slick with lube, and streaked with his own ass and Lance’s cum. He didn’t want to put it in his mouth, but he knew there was no choice.

He crawled over, face burning, and took the head between his lips. The taste was bitter, salty, foreign. He sucked it clean, licking up every drop, then looked up at Lance for approval.

“Good boy,” Lance said, patting his head.

Brooke grinned. “You’re such a little cumrag. I love it.”

Lance turned to Brooke, pulled her onto his lap, and pushed Curtis aside. He lined up and slid inside her pussy, not even bothering to clean off. Brooke gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Watch,” she commanded, pinning Curtis with her gaze. “Watch him claim me, sissy.”

Curtis watched, helpless, as Lance fucked Brooke. He saw the way Lance’s cock disappeared inside her, saw the way Brooke arched her back, her hands gripping Lance’s arms. He saw the sweat bead on Lance’s brow, the muscles flexing under his skin.

His own caged cock throbbed, leaking precum onto the sheets. He wanted to cum so bad it hurt.

Brooke moaned louder, her body writhing as Lance fucked her deep. She never looked away from Curtis, her eyes locked on his face, her smile wicked.

“You see this?” she taunted. “This is what a real man looks like. You’ll never be more than a little sissy for us.”

Lance pounded her harder, hands gripping her ass, pulling her tight to his body. Brooke came again, screaming his name, her whole body spasming.

Curtis watched, face burning, as Lance finished inside Brooke, filling her just like he had filled Curtis.

When it was over, they slumped together, sweaty and spent. Curtis lay on the bed, sticky with lube and precum, the cage biting into him harder than ever.

Brooke reached over, fingers stroking the metal. “You want to cum, baby?” she asked, mocking.

Curtis nodded, desperate.

She twisted the cage, just enough to make it hurt. “Too bad. Only faggots cum like this.”

She jerked the cage, quick and brutal, and Curtis felt the orgasm explode through him. He came in pulses, the fluid oozing out around the cage, dripping onto the ruined sheets.

Brooke and Lance laughed, watching him shudder and whine.

When it was over, Curtis curled into a ball, trembling.

Brooke spooned him from behind, her breath warm on his ear. “You’re ours now,” she whispered.

Curtis nodded, eyes wet.

***

Curtis woke to the sound of the coffee grinder. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, the memory of the night before stuck to his skin like dried sweat. The cage was still locked tight around his cock. He couldn’t forget it, not even for a second. The pressure, the itch, the way it made every movement a negotiation between want and pain.

He padded down the hallway, careful not to wake Lance or Brooke, but when he reached the kitchen he realized they were already there. Lance sat at the table, shirtless, nursing a mug, his other hand idly scrolling his phone. Brooke perched on the counter, legs swinging, a smile curled at the corner of her mouth.

Curtis’s body felt like one giant bruise. His ass ached, and he moved like he’d been hit by a truck. The cage wasn’t helping: it was chafing him raw, the skin under it red and sensitive. But the sight of the two of them, so normal, so domestic, made something soft and sick bloom in his chest.

He busied himself with the French press, pouring Lance’s cup first, then Brooke’s, just the way they liked it. He grabbed the bread and dropped it into the toaster, then fumbled for butter, nearly dropping the knife. His hands shook. He hated that they’d notice.

Brooke slid off the counter, landing light on her feet. She walked up behind Curtis, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her tits into his back. “You look like a zombie,” she teased, her lips brushing his neck.

“I’m fine,” Curtis said, but it came out as a croak.

Lance grinned over the rim of his mug. “He’s just sore. That’s what happens when you take it like a champ.”

Curtis felt his cheeks burn. He risked a glance at Lance, who winked, then turned his attention back to his phone.

The toaster popped. Brooke broke the hug and set about smearing butter on the toast, licking a streak off her thumb with slow, deliberate intent. She handed Lance his plate, then sat down at the table, patting the chair next to her.

“Sit,” she said.

Curtis obeyed, folding himself onto the chair, trying to keep his knees together. The cage dug into his thighs, a constant, low ache. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He ended up just holding them in his lap, eyes glued to the butter melting on his toast.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scrape of knife on plate and the occasional slurp of coffee.

Lance cleared his throat. “We need to talk about what comes next,” he said, looking at Brooke.

Brooke nodded. “Agreed. I think our little bitch needs a proper collar.”

Curtis almost choked. He coughed, spluttering toast crumbs, but neither of them so much as glanced at him.

Lance leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “Not one of those flimsy sex-shop ones, either. Real leather. With a tag.”

Brooke giggled, kicking Curtis under the table. “We could get it engraved. ‘Property of Brooke and Lance.’ Or maybe just ‘Sissy Faggot.’”

Curtis felt the humiliation surge, but under it was a hot, guilty thrill. His cock tried to get hard, but the cage stopped it cold. He shifted in his seat, hoping they wouldn’t notice.

Brooke did, of course. She caught his eye, smiled wicked, then reached down and flicked the tip of the cage with her nail. “He likes it,” she said to Lance.

Lance put his coffee down. “Of course he does. That’s why it works.”

Curtis stared at the table, his face on fire.

Brooke slung an arm around Curtis’s shoulder, pulling him close. “I was also thinking… we redecorate your room,” she said, syrupy sweet. “Make it more you.”

Curtis swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Pink sheets. Maybe some plushies. I could order a few skirts off Amazon,” Brooke said, her voice a fake-innocent purr.

Lance chimed in, “He needs a proper sissy space. You know, so company knows exactly what they’re dealing with.”

Curtis wanted to protest, but the words got stuck behind his teeth. The idea was horrifying, but also… kind of perfect. He could picture himself in a room like that, curled up on a pink bed, waiting to be used. The shame of it made his cage pulse with a pain that was almost pleasure.

Brooke kissed his cheek, then nipped his earlobe. “You’re quiet this morning,” she whispered.

Curtis shrugged, staring at his lap. “Just tired, I guess.”

She cupped his chin, forcing him to look up. “Don’t hide from me,” she said, eyes boring into his. “You know you love it.”

Curtis nodded, unable to lie.

Brooke grinned, satisfied. She let go and took another bite of toast.

The three of them finished breakfast, the mood weirdly light, like it was just any other Sunday. Lance wiped his mouth, then looked at Curtis with a new intensity.

“Let’s go to the living room,” he said. “I want to try something.”

Curtis followed, Brooke close behind. He half-expected her to grab his hand, but she let him walk alone, the air cold on his naked skin.

In the living room, Lance settled onto the couch, spreading his legs wide. Brooke perched on the armrest, her hand already sliding between her thighs.

Lance crooked a finger. “Come here.”

Curtis stepped forward, heart thumping.

“Bend over the coffee table,” Lance ordered.

Curtis obeyed, placing his hands on the scarred wood, feeling his ass bare and exposed.

Lance got up, walked behind him, and stroked his ass with one big hand. “You look good like this,” he said, voice soft.

Curtis trembled, the anticipation turning his insides to water.

Brooke watched, her eyes hungry, one hand moving under her panties. She licked her lips, never looking away.

Lance spat in his hand, lubed his cock, and lined it up with Curtis’s hole. He pushed in, slow but deliberate, filling Curtis in one long, agonizing stroke.

Curtis gasped, the stretch still shocking even after all the practice. The cage dug into the table with every movement, cold against the wood, the pressure making his whole body clench.

Lance started to fuck him, hands gripping Curtis’s hips. The rhythm was slow, almost gentle, but the size and force made every thrust feel like an earthquake.

Brooke moaned, fingers moving faster between her legs. “He’s so fucking pretty when he gets fucked,” she said, her voice dreamy.

Curtis’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t try to hide. He looked up, meeting Brooke’s gaze. She smiled, proud and cruel and beautiful.

Lance fucked him harder, pace picking up. The slap of skin echoed in the room, and Curtis felt the shame and pleasure build, a rising tide that threatened to drown him.

Brooke got off the couch, walked over, and knelt in front of Curtis. She cupped his face in her hands, kissing him deep. He tasted her arousal on her tongue, the salt and need and ownership.

“You’re ours,” she whispered, kissing him again.

Curtis nodded, tears stinging his eyes.

Lance slammed in, grunting as he came, flooding Curtis’s ass with heat. He didn’t pull out. He just held Curtis in place, hands tight on his hips, breathing hard.

Brooke stroked Curtis’s cheek, then looked up at Lance. “Perfect,” she said.

Lance finally pulled out, his cock dripping. He patted Curtis’s ass, then sat back down on the couch.

Curtis stayed bent over, the cage throbbing, his hole leaking cum onto the table.

Brooke kissed the top of his head. “Such a good boy,” she whispered.

Curtis smiled, shy and broken and happy.

He stayed like that, bent and used, while the two of them cuddled on the couch, watching him.

*

The days after blurred together. Sometimes Brooke dressed him up, sometimes she just left him naked except for the cage. Sometimes Lance used him in the morning, sometimes at night. There was no more arguing, no more pretending. Curtis belonged to them.

One afternoon, Brooke presented him with a pink satin collar, the words “Sissy Bitch” embossed in silver on the tag. She locked it around his neck, then led him on a leash through every room of the house, making sure he knew exactly where he stood.

Sometimes, late at night, when everyone else was asleep, Curtis would sneak a hand between his legs and touch the cage, pressing it hard against his aching cock. He’d remember the feel of Lance inside him, the taste of Brooke’s cunt, the sting of her voice calling him faggot. He’d remember the way they laughed, the way they looked at him, the way he was never alone anymore.

He would close his eyes, and he would smile.

He was theirs, forever.