The Cabin

Black cock stories that I thought were excellent -- but then one day, the profile disappeared, and the stories were gone. I've seen some of their stories published by another author, and I didn't want to do that. Instead, I've written a story inspired by one of Ashley's: a straight man trapped with a group for a long weekend.

Warning: It's very long -- a very slow burn. It certainly does get erotic and graphic, but not for a while. I couldn't find a way to split it into parts that made sense, so I've published it all in one. Please enjoy.

Chapter 1: The Arrival

Nathan didn't know what he expected, exactly -- only that it wasn't this. The driveway alone seemed to stretch endlessly through woods that rustled with the hush of late spring. When the Uber finally stopped, tyres crunching over gravel still warm from the sun, he stepped out into a kind of silence that cities never offer -- the silence of wealth, of distance, of curated peace. The lake glittered below the rise. The house -- no, the estate -- perched casually at its edge, its huge glass panels and pale timber facade somehow both modest and showy, like someone who knew they were beautiful and didn't need to prove it.

There were voices somewhere -- laughter, faint music. He could hear them before he saw them, drifting in through the open windows. He gripped his duffel bag a little tighter, suddenly aware of the wrinkled t-shirt sticking to his back, the dull ache in his shoulders from the three-hour drive. He didn't even know who most of these people were. Rachel -- his coworker-- had invited him two weeks earlier with the kind of breezy confidence that made refusal feel churlish. "Just come," she'd said. "Everyone's amazing. You'll love it. You need this."

And now here he was, standing at the edge of a weekend he wasn't entirely sure he'd been meant to accept.

The front door was already open. A breeze moved through the hall, carrying the scent of sun lotion and something floral. The moment he stepped inside, he felt it -- the atmosphere. Thick. Casual. Intimate in a way that felt rehearsed. Music played low from a speaker somewhere -- Sade, maybe -- and someone laughed from the kitchen in that throaty, almost-too-loud way that made him feel instantly sober.

"Nathan?"

He turned. A woman stood in the hallway, holding a wine glass in one hand and a phone in the other. Tall, curvy, bare shoulders dusted with freckles and golden light. Her smile was instant, bright, familiar.

"You made it," she said. "Good."

It was Rachel, though he'd barely recognised her -- not in a suit, not in a Zoom square. Her hair was pulled into a high, effortless bun, and she wore a gauzy robe that fluttered slightly as she walked toward him. She kissed him on the cheek -- warm, confident -- and took his bag before he could protest.

"Shoes off," she said over her shoulder. "It's that kind of house."

He slipped them off. She disappeared into the hallway and returned a moment later without the bag. "You've got the downstairs room. It's quieter. You'll like it."

There was something in her voice -- not maternal, but close to it. Like she'd already decided he'd be the one who needed looking after.

She led him into the main space, and the scale of the weekend hit him all at once. Open-plan everything. Glass walls that vanished into trees and lake. Two couples sat near the kitchen island -- one stretched across the couch, the other sitting close, knees brushing. A third woman leaned against the kitchen counter with a wine bottle, laughing at something said too low for Nathan to catch. And then, further back, on the patio -- three men. Dark-skinned. Broad. Quiet. Watching.

It hit him then -- and not subtly -- that he was the only white man here.

The girls -- all white, all stunning -- waved and smiled as Rachel introduced him. There were names, but they blurred. What struck him more than anything was how at ease they all were. There was no polite small talk. No posturing. No testing of the waters. Just comfort. Chemistry.

He felt, already, like a guest in something private.

The men didn't move. One of them -- tall, muscular, his dark eyes unreadable behind gold-rimmed sunglasses -- glanced at Nathan for a moment, then turned back to the lake without a word.

"That's Marcus," Rachel murmured beside him. "Don't worry -- he doesn't talk much. Not until he wants something."

Nathan wasn't sure what that meant.

She handed him a glass of something sparkling, took him by the arm, and steered him gently toward the kitchen. "You're with us," she said. "Come meet the girls."

They took to him instantly -- not in the way women flirt with someone new, but in the way a circle of girlfriends welcomes someone they've already decided is harmless. Safe. One of them. They teased his shirt, clucked at his drink, poked gentle fun at the way he kept glancing toward the patio. It was clear, almost immediately, that this weekend wasn't for people like him. Not in the traditional sense. The couples were set. The energy was fluid, flirtatious, warm -- but closed.

And yet, strangely, the women pulled him in.

"You'll be fine," one of them said, brushing a crumb from his shoulder. "Honestly, I'd rather be down here with you than out there with all that ego."

The others laughed. Nathan smiled, uncertain, and looked back toward the patio where Marcus now sat with two of the other men, shirtless, carved, slowly rolling something between his fingers. They were talking low, quietly. Marcus glanced up again. Brief eye contact. Nathan looked away.

*********

That night, long after the drinks had been poured and the music had softened into the background, Nathan lay in the cool darkness of the guest room and stared at the ceiling.

The laughter upstairs had faded. The girls had gone to bed. Somewhere, a door creaked. And then it started.

It wasn't just sex -- it was sound. A rhythm. A pattern. He heard the slap of skin, the guttural moans, the gasps that rose and fell like waves. Someone cried out -- high, desperate, and real. It wasn't porn. It wasn't performative. It was worship.

He closed his eyes. Tried not to listen. Tried not to picture the men -- those broad bodies, that slow, calm confidence -- and the women underneath them, opening, stretching, breaking.

His cock stirred beneath the sheets. He turned onto his side. Pulled the pillow tighter.

Somewhere above him, a woman screamed in pleasure.

He bit his lip.

And didn't sleep.

Chapter 2: The Divide

By morning, the house was already humming. Not loud, not hectic -- just alive. Somewhere, someone was grinding coffee. Music played from a speaker tucked behind a bookshelf, something low and wordless. When Nathan finally emerged, he found himself walking through light -- real light, lakehouse light, golden and effortless, cutting through the high glass windows in soft beams that made dust motes look intentional.

Most of the couples were already up. Towels slung low around carved hips, bikinis taut, laughter echoing from the patio where someone was passing around mimosas. Nathan stood for a moment in the kitchen, hands loose at his sides, unsure whether to make eggs or just pretend he wasn't hungry.

"Morning, sunshine."

It was Ava this time -- tall, caramel blonde, one of those women who looked impossibly put together even in a wrinkled tank top and sleep shorts. She walked past him barefoot, brushing his arm lightly with her fingers as she reached for a bottle of orange juice.

"You sleep alright?"

Nathan hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, fine."

She gave him a look -- one that said no, you didn't -- and smiled softly. "Don't worry. First night's always loud."

He didn't answer. She poured juice into a stemless wine glass, took a long sip, and leaned back against the counter.

"I think it's sweet," she said. "That you're here."

Nathan blinked. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head, studied him. "I mean, it's nice. You're not trying too hard. You're not posturing. You're not... competing."

"Competing?"

She gave a vague gesture toward the patio. "Them. All that. You don't need it."

Nathan turned toward the window. Marcus stood half in shadow, shirtless again, his back impossibly broad beneath the dappled light of the trees. He was speaking to one of the other men, but Nathan couldn't hear the words. Just the presence.

"He noticed you, by the way," Ava said, too casually.

Nathan's mouth went dry. "Who?"

"Marcus."

He frowned, thinking of what to say but she didn't clarify. Just smiled, pressed the glass to her lips again, and walked out into the morning sun.

*******

By midday, the divide had solidified like a line drawn in sand. The women congregated naturally around the outdoor couches, sunk into cushions with sunglasses and long legs stretched over each other's laps, while the men remained a little farther down toward the dock, their conversations low and private, their presence somehow larger than the space they occupied.

Nathan found himself caught between. Whenever he moved closer to the men, there was a quiet that settled, not hostile, but dense. He didn't know what to say. What to offer. He was a straight man but not straight in the same way they were. He didn't belong in those conversations -- about gyms, about crypto, about politics, about fucking. Not the way they talked.

But the women -- they kept pulling him in. Always casual, always playful, but with something underneath. A shared glance. A hand tugging him down onto a lounge chair. He noticed, eventually, that none of the men joined them out there. That the women never called them over. This space, this part of the weekend -- it wasn't theirs. And now, apparently, it was Nathan's.

He sat between Ava and a brunette named Lily as the girls passed around cocktails in mason jars and talked openly, unfiltered, about their men.

"I literally couldn't walk the next day," Lily said, adjusting her top. "I'm not even kidding. I had to fake a cramp for my manager because I couldn't sit through my 1:1."

"Baby, you asked for round three," her boyfriend called from across the lawn.

"I begged, actually," Lily called back, laughing, and then turned to Nathan with a wink. "You have no idea what it's like."

Nathan felt himself flush. He tried to sip from his drink but found it empty.

Ava leaned in, her voice low but smooth. "Do you think about it?"

He blinked. "What?"

She smiled. "When you hear it at night. Do you wonder what it's like? Having that inside you?"

Nathan opened his mouth. Closed it. Shook his head -- not in denial, not in certainty, just because he didn't know what else to do.

Ava tilted her sunglasses down, looked him dead in the eye.

"Because if I were you," she said gently, "I'd start thinking about it."

*******

He found himself drifting the rest of the afternoon, lost in the way the women treated him -- not like a man, not like one of the boys, but like someone... adjacent. Included. Pulled in. Not sexualised, not really. But not quite neutral either. The touches were familiar. The nicknames affectionate. They poured his drinks. Fixed his shirt collar. Tucked his hair behind his ears when it fell loose. And when one of them whispered "you're lucky you don't have to compete with all that testosterone", it didn't feel like a joke.

It felt like they meant it.

That night, he stayed up later than the rest, sitting on the couch in the half-dark with only the soft tick of the house around him. The others had disappeared one by one, giggling in pairs, arms entwined, kisses trailing up necks and into shadow. Nathan had no one. Just a blanket pulled over his lap and the soft echo of footsteps fading up the stairs.

And then it began again.

The sound.

It wasn't background this time. It was intimate. A woman -- he couldn't tell which -- crying out, the kind of sound that can't be faked. The thud of a headboard. The scrape of something across floorboards. Then another -- from a different room. Slapping, wet and brutal. A man's voice, low and harsh. A woman's panting sobs. Then moaning -- loud, shameless, drawn-out.

It didn't stop.

Not for minutes. Not for hours.

Nathan stayed frozen beneath the blanket, his cock hard against his thigh, his stomach tight, his throat dry.

He wanted to cover his ears.

He didn't.

He just sat there, listening, until the light began to change.

Chapter 3: Dares and Drinks

By the time Saturday evening rolled around, the house had taken on the soft, golden glow of something that had settled comfortably into itself. Dinner was behind them -- grilled meats, warm salads, laughter over candlelight and wine. The music had shifted into something slower, thicker, with bass lines you could feel through your ribs. No one looked at their phones. No one asked about plans for tomorrow. The world had shrunk to the lakehouse and the pulse that moved through it.

Nathan wasn't sure when the shift had happened -- when he stopped hovering at the edges and started being folded into the centre. It wasn't dramatic. It was the slow, casual inclusion that made you feel like you'd always been there: a refill handed to you without asking, a private joke explained just for your benefit, a seat made open with a simple touch to your wrist.

He belonged, apparently. Or at least, they had decided he did.

*******

They were curled on the living room floor, sun-kissed and loose, cushions and throw blankets scattered like the remnants of some long, elegant storm. Someone had passed around a second bottle of wine. The air felt dimmer, closer. The couples leaned into each other with practiced intimacy -- legs draped over thighs, arms tucked around shoulders, fingers lazily trailing over skin like it was nothing at all. Marcus sat alone, a silent, heavy presence.

Then Ava, reclining against the base of the couch with a drink in hand, stretched her long arms overhead and said, "Alright. Let's play something."

The room murmured back -- amused, indulgent.

"Truth or dare," she declared.

Someone groaned. "What are we, twelve?"

"No," Ava said, already spinning the empty wine bottle in front of her. "We're grown. Which makes it better."

The bottle slowed. Landed on Rachel. The group laughed, leaned in. The dares began.

But they were soft at first. Silly. Flirtatious in that way that didn't cost anyone anything.

One girl had to wear oven mitts for ten minutes. One guy had to do his best runway walk through the kitchen in socks. Another had to recite a dramatic Shakespeare monologue with a wine cork between his teeth. They laughed. They blushed. Someone else had to do a handstand until they fell over. Nothing explicit. Just fun.

Nathan was two glasses in when the bottle spun and landed on him.

"Truth or dare," Ava said, smiling into her glass.

He felt the room tilt just a little.

"Dare," he said, voice light.

The girls leaned in. Someone giggled. But Ava didn't break eye contact.

"I dare you to sit in Marcus's lap," she said. "For one full minute."

It should have been funny. It should have made people laugh. But the room went still -- not tense, but expectant, like everyone had known this was coming and had simply been waiting for the moment it was said.

Marcus didn't move. Didn't react. Just leaned back slightly against the arm of the couch, spreading his knees apart the barest inch, gaze unreadable behind his heavy-lidded eyes.

Nathan laughed once, too quick. "Seriously?"

"It's just a dare," Ava said, smooth as velvet. "You said dare."

He looked around. No one looked embarrassed. No one laughed at him. If anything, the women were smiling -- not with mockery, but with a kind of quiet pride. Like they already saw something forming.

Nathan stood slowly. His legs felt strange -- not weak, exactly, but light.

He crossed the floor toward Marcus, every step feeling more unreal than the last. He stopped in front of him. Marcus didn't nod. Didn't blink. Just sat there like he always had -- still, composed, waiting.

Nathan turned, lowered himself gently onto the spread of Marcus's thighs, unsure of how much weight to place. Marcus didn't flinch. Didn't adjust.

But Nathan could feel it. All of it.

The heat of him. The solidity of his legs. The warmth of his bare chest behind Nathan's back. And then--

The pressure.

It happened slowly, like a shift in gravity. The subtle swell beneath him. A thickening. A rising warmth that turned into firmness. He felt it through Marcus's shorts -- the heat, the density, the sheer mass of it pressing up between his cheeks. Thick enough that his muscles tightened without thinking, his breath catching before he could suppress it.

He didn't move. Couldn't.

The hardness grew with each second -- a terrifying, impossible presence blooming beneath him. Not rubbing. Not grinding. Just... there. Heavy. Real. Intruding.

Marcus still said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs. His breathing never changed.

But Nathan's mind began to crack.

He stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, lips parted. He could feel the outline of it now -- the width, the impossible length, it felt like it could tear right through him if it wanted to.

He wasn't aroused. Not exactly. But he was affected -- more than he could ever admit. His cheeks flushed. His palms went damp. A tiny tremble worked its way into his breath.

Sixty seconds passed. He rose too fast. Almost stumbled. His face burned.

The group didn't applaud. They just smiled -- quiet, pleased.

Ava lifted her glass. "You did well."

Nathan said nothing. Just sat back down, heart hammering, legs too loose beneath him.

Later, after the group broke apart -- couples wandering off into their little corners of the evening -- Nathan found himself alone in the hallway, gripping the banister of the staircase like it might anchor him.

Ava appeared at his side. "He's watching you," she said.

He swallowed. "Why?"

She looked at him for a long moment, and in her eyes there was no teasing. No cruelty. Just knowing.

"Because he's going to take you," she said softly. "And he's deciding when."

Then she walked away.

And Nathan stood there, alone, knowing that something had shifted -- not just outside him, but within.

After a moment he turned and continued up the stairs - reminding himself that he was straight. He might not be like the rest of the men but that certainly didn't mean he was Marcus's to take.

Chapter 4: Pressure

It rained the next morning.

Not hard. Not loud. Just a soft, steady patter that slicked the windows and made the trees shimmer like they were made of glass. The lake disappeared into a pale, misty haze, and the house -- normally filled with scattered bodies and open doors -- felt smaller, tighter. It pressed inward. The walls closer. The spaces more intimate.

Nathan woke late, wrapped in a sweat-damp sheet, still haunted by the feeling of Marcus beneath him -- that weight, that size, the heat of it still humming faintly in his muscles like a half-remembered bruise.

He'd dreamt of it, he thought. Not explicitly -- not sex -- but sensation. He couldn't recall the details, but he woke hard, his cock pressed tight against the seam of his boxers, and for a brief, terrible moment, he thought about it.

Then he thought about what Ava had said and what that meant one way or another. If she was right then at some point he was going to have to face Marcus, to say no to him. He'd never been great at confrontation, but he'd have to make an exception here. This is different than not asking his manager for a pay rise or sending his food back. Anyway, Ava was probably just joking - it won't even come to that.

********

He dressed and went to join the others, the women were already gathered in the sunroom. No one seemed in a hurry. They wore soft layers -- oversized shirts, socks pulled high on tanned legs, no makeup, glowing skin. Someone had lit a candle that smelled like citrus and something more expensive, and they all sipped herbal tea from mismatched mugs while rain whispered softly against the windows.

He started to ask if he was interrupting, but Ava was already waving him in.

"Come sit," she said, patting the cushion beside her. "We were wondering when you'd wake up."

The tone was light, teasing, but the look she gave him was different now. Less playful. More direct. As if something had changed between them, and they both knew it.

He sat. She passed him a mug without asking what he wanted.

"We were talking about first times," Lily said, her legs curled under her. "Not virginity. Real first times. First time with them."

Nathan tried to smile. "Should I be here for this?"

"Especially you," Rachel said, grinning. "You've got the most to learn."

The girls laughed -- not cruelly. Not even conspiratorially. Just warmly. Like he was theirs already.

He took a sip. It tasted like mint and something floral. He didn't ask.

"I thought I was ready," Rachel said, tucking her feet beneath her. "But I wasn't. I thought I could handle it, thought I'd be in control. But when it happened... I just broke."

Nathan looked up slowly.

"I cried after," she said, not shy, not dramatic -- just honest. "I didn't know why. It wasn't pain, not really. It was like my body had let go of something I didn't even know I'd been holding."

He said nothing. Just held his mug and felt his breath quiet.

"You hear us at night," Ava said softly. "You think about it. You wonder if it would hurt. If it would fit. If you could handle it."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

"And the answer is yes," she said. "It will hurt. It won't fit. And you won't handle it."

She leaned closer.

"But you'll let it happen anyway. Because by the time he's ready for you, you won't be able to say no."

Nathan said nothing. He forced a smile and just hoped the conversation would move on.

*******

Later that afternoon, Ava found him on the deck, watching the rain drip from the roof's edge. He sat curled under a blanket, coffee cold in his hands, legs tucked to his chest like a boy.

She sat beside him, quiet for a moment.

"I meant what I said," she murmured. "He's going to take you. It's just a matter of when."

He exhaled slowly. "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

"I don't want it. That's not me."

She turned to face him, folding one leg beneath her, her voice gentler now.

"Every girl here knows what it feels like. That moment right before it happens. When you realise there's no turning back. When your body's already decided before your mouth has."

He swallowed.

"You'll know when it's time," she said. "You'll be scared. That's part of it. But you'll be ready. And he'll know."

Nathan couldn't speak. He couldn't even nod.

She smiled, brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"I think it's already started," she said. "Don't you?"

*******

That night, it was worse.

The sounds.

He tried to sleep with headphones in. Didn't work.

Tried playing white noise. Didn't help.

He heard Rachel moaning like she was being broken in two, gasping, begging. Then Lily, wailing in short, helpless sobs that made Nathan hard before he could stop it.

Then a deeper rhythm, unmistakable. But it wasn't Marcus. He hadn't touched anyone all weekend -- that much Nathan knew. And somehow, that made it worse.

Because if this was what the others sounded like...

What would it feel like when he decided to move?

Earlier that morning, Lily had said it like it was common knowledge:

"He's not gentle," she murmured. "He's not slow. He splits you open and you just... take it."

Nathan squeezed his thighs together, as though he could stop the thoughts from taking shape.

But it was already too late. The pressure was growing from the inside now.

Chapter 5: Moaning Through the Walls

Nathan woke late again, the gentle hush of morning rain lending a muted, reflective quality to the cabin. He lay quietly in bed for a few minutes, listening to the faint, rhythmic tap of droplets on glass, aware of how different everything felt today. Softer, slower, almost deceptively calm.

He dressed quietly, pulling on a loose sweater and sweatpants, before stepping carefully into the hallway. Voices carried softly from the kitchen, a calm, comfortable hum. Nathan paused by the entrance, observing Marcus and the other two men leaning casually against the counter, coffee cups in hand, discussing gym routines and protein shakes. Even in this mundane interaction, Marcus's quiet authority was unmistakable--pouring coffee with confident ease, subtly directing the conversation without seeming to try.

Feeling a hesitant push of courage, Nathan stepped forward to join them.

"Morning," he said, attempting casual warmth.

The conversation paused briefly, the men glancing up, offering polite but reserved nods. Marcus stared directly at Nathan, eyes unreadable but deeply assessing, making Nathan feel suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

"Sleep okay?" one of the men asked politely, without genuine interest.

Nathan nodded. "Yeah, fine."

They resumed their discussion quickly, seamlessly slipping back into topics Nathan couldn't relate to--reps, diets, supplements, subtle jokes he didn't fully understand. Marcus continued to watch him quietly, his silent scrutiny heightening Nathan's feeling of outsider status until he could bear it no longer.

"Think I'll get some air," Nathan murmured, excusing himself quietly, stepping onto the covered deck.

He hadn't been there long when Lily stepped outside, gently closing the glass door behind her. "Mind some company?"

Nathan smiled, grateful. "Not at all."

They walked slowly along the damp path, the air fresh with the scent of rain and earth, their steps quiet. Lily moved comfortably beside him, her presence soothing.

"It's easier out here," she said softly, glancing toward the cabin. "Less pressure."

Nathan laughed lightly. "Yeah. It's a lot, sometimes."

She smiled knowingly, her gaze gentle but probing. "The first time I came, I felt exactly how you feel. Like I didn't belong--like I'd never belong. But it shifts faster than you think."

Nathan hesitated, glancing at her uncertainly. "What do you mean?"

"Just that things change," Lily replied gently, her tone reassuring yet quietly suggestive. "You'll find your place here. Everyone does."

He didn't press her further, they spent the rest of the walk in silence, he quietly absorbed her words before they made their way back toward the cabin.

Inside, the women had gathered comfortably around the living room. Snacks had been set out--fresh fruit, cheeses, crackers arranged casually on plates. Ava reclined gracefully, her calves stretched out as Rachel gently massaged them, their conversation easy and punctuated with soft laughter. Lily slipped naturally into their space, draping herself casually over Rachel and Ava, instantly included without comment.

Nathan hesitated at the edge of the scene until Rachel glanced up warmly, patting the spot beside her. "Come here," she said gently, as though he'd always belonged exactly there.

He sat down, welcomed effortlessly into their quiet intimacy. Rachel reached out casually, gently smoothing his sweater.

"This sweater really suits you, you know? It's soft--it complements your features."

Nathan flushed lightly, uncertain how to respond, and Rachel continued softly, her voice gentle but suggestive. "You're starting to fit right in. Marcus can see that."

Nathan didn't reply, feeling a strange mixture of discomfort, embarrassment, and something softer--acceptance, perhaps, or resignation--as he passively allowed the subtle intimacy.

Evening fell with a languid, quiet intimacy. The women's soft laughter and easy physical closeness gradually reshaped the atmosphere, wrapping Nathan in a gentle embrace of familiarity.

That night, Nathan lay awake, listening as soft moans once again drifted through the walls, familiar yet no less impactful. He heard Rachel's low sighs, Ava's rhythmic gasps, and then Lily--her voice clearer, sharper through the wall.

"Oh my god--yes, yes--fuck, it's too big--"

It sounded like worship - the type of reverence and awe reserved only for the greatest amongst us. Nathan shivered slightly, his mind swirling with unnameable emotions, conflicted but no longer fighting them. In the quiet darkness, he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he'd been avoiding: something inside him was changing. He didn't fully understand it, and didn't know whether he could--or wanted to--fight it.

Chapter 6: The Mirror Begins to Crack

The morning came late.

The rain had stopped sometime in the early hours, leaving the world outside gleaming and still, like someone had pressed pause on the entire weekend. Nathan didn't want to leave his room.

He sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like an hour, shirtless, feet bare, staring at his reflection in the long mirror across from the dresser. His eyes looked darker. Tired, maybe. Or something else. His mouth was parted slightly. Hair unbrushed. Skin flushed at the collar. He studied himself. His narrow shoulders, thin frame and pale skin. Not feminine. But not masculine either.

*******

The girls were already curled up on the big couch when he wandered into the main room. No bras. Bare legs. Soft sweatshirts hanging off one shoulder. One of them was braiding Ava's hair.

Rachel looked up and smiled when she saw him. "There's our sleepyhead."

Lily patted the cushion between them without asking. He sat.

No one commented when Ava slid her fingers through his hair, smoothing it down behind his ears. She didn't ask. She didn't even pause her conversation. Just did it like it was normal.

And Nathan didn't flinch. Didn't shift away.

When she was done, she gave him a soft, almost absent-minded kiss on the top of his head. The kind you give a sister. A daughter. A girlfriend. Something that was theirs.

*******

They painted nails that morning -- pastel pink, dusty lilac, a deep, glossy plum. Lily painted her own. Rachel worked on Ava's. Ava, after a pause, gestured toward Nathan's hand and said, "Let me do you."

He hesitated. Just a beat. Then held his hand out.

Clear coat, this time, like before. Just one nail. Then two.

"You've got nice fingers," she said, not looking up. "Better than most girls I know."

He didn't speak.

She moved to the next hand. Steady. Careful. Confident.

When she was done, he turned them over in his lap and stared at them. Shiny. Delicate. Subtle.

The room buzzed with idle talk about skincare, swimsuits, bad Tinder dates. But underneath it all, there was an unspoken truth now -- they weren't including Nathan.

They were folding him in.

*******

Later that day, Ava caught him in the bathroom. Not in a confrontational way. She just... appeared.

He was rinsing his face, shirtless again, the towel hanging from his hips. The mirror was slightly fogged from the shower, and he'd been staring into it like it might confess something.

She stepped into the doorway, arms crossed.

"You look softer," she said.

He blinked. "Softer?"

"It's not an insult."

She came closer. Reached out, touched the edge of his jaw. Dragged her thumb across his cheekbone, like testing for a reaction.

"You're not the same as when you got here."

Nathan didn't respond.

She smiled faintly.

"You're starting to see it too, aren't you?"

He swallowed. "See what?"

"Who you really are."

She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath. Not seductive. Not romantic. Just close.

"I know what Marcus sees," she whispered. "He's watching. Waiting."

He stepped back. "I'm not--"

She didn't let him finish.

"I never said you were anything. Yet." Her voice was soft. Kind. Cruel. "But it's coming. And you know that."

He turned away.

She let him.

As she reached the door, she paused.

"You've got until tonight," she said, without looking back. "Then it begins."

*******

That evening, they dressed for nothing. No occasion. Just because. Slipping into silky camisoles, loose dresses, soft knits that hugged and clung and bared just enough.

Rachel handed Nathan a robe. Thin, black, with a satin sash.

"We figured you might like this," she said.

He held it in his hands. It was light. Too light. Slippery.

He didn't put it on. But he didn't give it back, either.

Chapter 7: The Final Afternoon

The air had changed.

It wasn't the weather. The sun was out again, burning away the soft haze of the last two days. The house seemed brighter, clearer. The lake sparkled beneath the open sky, and the women opened the doors to let the breeze sweep through the living room, carrying the faint scent of lavender and lakewater.

But there was something else now. Something in the air. A current. A pulse. As if everyone had heard the same announcement without a word being spoken. As if they all knew what time it was.

Nathan felt it before he understood it.

******

It began with Ava.

Late morning, she came to find him. He was sitting alone on the deck, watching the sun ripple across the water, still wearing the same soft t-shirt he'd slept in. He didn't hear her approach. She was just suddenly there -- barefoot, mug in hand, hair tied up in a lazy twist that made her look even more beautiful than when she tried.

She sat beside him, handed him her mug, and let the silence sit for a moment.

Then she said it.

"You need to shave."

He turned to her slowly. "What?"

"You heard me."

He blinked. "Shave what?"

She sipped from a different mug -- hers now empty -- and said nothing.

Just looked at him.

He felt his chest tighten.

"You're serious."

A nod.

Nathan let out a small, anxious laugh. "You're not joking."

A longer silence. Then:

"Would I joke about that?"

He stared at the lake. His mouth was dry.

"Why?"

Ava didn't blink. "Because it's happening. Tonight."

His stomach dropped. "You said--"

"I said it was coming." Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Now it's time to prepare."

She stood, smooth and effortless, and stepped back toward the doorway. Paused there. Looked at him like a teacher might -- not unkind, but firm.

"We all did it. Before our first time. It's not just about hygiene. It's respect. It's what he expects."

Nathan said nothing.

She tilted her head.

"You don't have to like it. But you will do it."

And then she was gone.

*******

The house was quiet that afternoon. Not because no one was home, but because everyone seemed to understand this was his time now. The others moved softly around him, never intruding. Rachel brushed her hair out on the porch. Lily napped in the sun. No one knocked. No one asked questions.

They were waiting.

So was he.

******

He stood in the bathroom, towel around his waist, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The light was too bright. Too honest. The skin at his jaw was clean, pale. His chest still dusted with hair. His stomach soft. His legs, strong from years of sports and running, untouched.

He looked like a man.

But he felt like something else now.

Something about the robe draped over the hook. The bottle of shaving foam already set out. The fresh pink razor. The lotion that smelled faintly of peony and almond.

None of it had been there that morning.

Someone -- Ava, probably -- had set the stage.

And now he had to step into it.

He started at his chest.

Slow strokes. Careful. He nicked himself once and hissed.

The foam slid down his sternum, revealing pale, clean skin. Smoother than he expected. His hand trembled only a little.

He moved to his arms. His thighs. His stomach.

Then lower.

He had to sit on the edge of the tub, legs parted. Everything vulnerable. Everything bare.

He shaved his groin last.

Took his time.

When he finished, he stood there for a moment in the silence, towel draped loosely around his hips, skin tingling from the rawness. The mirror showed someone softer now. Someone less defined. Less defensive. Someone who might already belong to someone else.

******

When he walked out of the bathroom, Ava was waiting in the hall.

She didn't speak. Just looked at him.

Looked through him.

Then she held out a small box.

He took it.

Inside: panties.

Lace. Delicate. Cream-coloured, with a tiny satin bow at the waist.

She didn't explain. She didn't have to.

He took them to his room.

And put them on. The fabric clung tight, unfamiliar, strange.

But not wrong.

He stood in front of the mirror, again. Saw his smooth body, his soft thighs, the cut of his waist beneath the elastic band of something not meant for men.

He should have felt shame.

He should have felt disgust.

But all he felt was ready.

Chapter 8: Presentation

The house felt different now. No one said anything. It moved differently. Quieter. Slower. The women smiled more softly. Their laughter had a different weight -- and every time they looked at Nathan, it was with the kind of warmth that felt... permanent.

Not affection. Not pity.

Welcome.

*******

He spent the afternoon drifting through the edges of the house, barefoot, wrapped in the robe Rachel had given him. He wore it open, the lace panties brushing softly against freshly shaven skin. His hands kept tugging at the hem without thinking -- an old reflex, a fear of exposure -- but no one seemed surprised when they saw what he wore.

In fact, no one looked shocked at all.

It was as if they'd all known he would look like this. End up like this.

At one point Lily walked past him in the hallway, a wine glass in one hand, her hair tied up in a loose knot.

She smiled. Reached out and ran her fingers down his arm, slow and light.

"You look beautiful," she whispered, and kept walking.

They dressed him in silence.

It wasn't a ritual. Not officially. But it felt like one.

The girls pulled him into the guest room just after sunset. The light was low, golden. Candles flickered on the windowsill. Someone had sprayed something floral into the air -- soft, sweet, comforting.

They didn't tease him. Didn't joke. They moved around him with gentle precision. Lily brushed his hair. Rachel painted a fresh coat of clear polish on his nails. Ava selected the lingerie -- nothing too loud, just soft lace and thin satin.

And Nathan let them.

He stood in the centre of the room, arms loose at his sides, chest rising slowly with every shallow breath, and let them touch him, prepare him, present him.

"You're going to do so well," Rachel whispered, fastening the clasp behind his back.

He didn't answer. Couldn't.

His throat felt too tight.

*******

When they were finished, Ava stood behind him and guided him toward the mirror.

He didn't want to look. He did anyway.

The girl in the reflection wasn't a girl.

Not exactly.

But she wasn't a man either.

She was smooth. Subtle. Shy. Her thighs looked softer. Her waist narrower. Her face was still his, but something in the way she held herself -- the way she lowered her chin, the way her lips stayed parted -- had changed.

He stared for a long time.

Ava moved in closer behind him. Slid her arms around his waist. Rested her chin on his shoulder.

"You're ready," she said, as if the mirror had confirmed it.

Nathan didn't respond. But he didn't disagree.

They led him to the bedroom slowly.

No fanfare. No instructions.

Just a quiet procession -- Ava in front, Rachel behind, Lily trailing with the robe folded neatly in her arms.

The room was different now. The lights were low. The bedding turned down. The sheets fresh. The air smelled like sandalwood and citrus. A single towel had been laid across the bed.

No one spoke.

Ava turned to him at the doorway, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

"He won't say anything," she whispered. "You won't need him to."

Nathan swallowed. His legs trembled faintly.

Rachel stepped up behind him and kissed his shoulder.

"You're going to remember this for the rest of your life," she murmured. "Every second of it."

Then they stepped away.

Left him there.

Alone.

He stood in the room, soft and bare and shivering, his hands clasped in front of him, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow bursts. The lace hugged his hips. The thin straps dug gently into his shoulders. He felt small. Vulnerable.

And seen. More seen than he'd ever been in his life.

He didn't sit. He didn't pace. He waited.

*******

Marcus entered without knocking. He said nothing. He just closed the door behind him and stepped forward.

He was shirtless. Barefoot. His chest was thick and broad and calm. He didn't look angry. Didn't look excited. Just inevitable.

Nathan didn't move.

Marcus stopped in front of him. Looked him up and down. Let the silence sit.

Then -- without a word -- he reached for the waistband of his own pants and pulled them down.

Nathan's breath caught in his throat.

It was worse than he'd imagined. Worse and so much better.

Thick. Dark. Heavy. Long enough to make his knees weaken. It wasn't just the size -- it was the weight it carried. The sheer presence.

Marcus said nothing. Just stepped forward.

And Nathan dropped to his knees.

Chapter 9: The Shift

He'd knelt without thinking, not in some graceful act of submission, but in the way something fragile buckles under too much weight. His legs folded awkwardly beneath him, thighs pressed to his calves, hands trembling at his sides. The plush of the rug did nothing to soften the way the moment struck him -- sudden, total, absolute. The air felt warmer now. Still. As though even the room understood what was about to happen.

Marcus didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was its own kind of gravity.

Nathan looked up -- slowly, with effort -- and met the thing that now stood before him. Dark, thick, dangling low, still only half-hard and already heavier, longer, more impossibly real than anything Nathan had ever seen. Even flaccid, it had weight -- a slow sway, a quiet threat. The crown sat fat and proud, flared wider than the rest, already glossy at the tip.

He stared.

His fingers twitched at his sides, hesitant to reach. There was nothing delicate about it. He couldn't even wrap his hand around the base. He tried -- one hand first, then a second, just to hold it steady -- and even then, his fingertips could barely meet. A thing designed to enter and dominate, not to be touched or toyed with.

He'd watched porn before. Seen exaggerations, fantasy, digital lies. But this -- this was real, this was Marcus, and it was in front of him now, waiting for his mouth.

He opened slowly, tentatively, lips trembling as he leaned forward, and even that first contact -- just his tongue brushing the underside, just the head resting against his lower lip -- made him reel. The taste was clean, salty, masculine in a way that had no comparison. He stretched his mouth wider, then wider still, trying to accommodate the head alone, and already his jaw ached, his lips strained, his throat screamed no. But he pushed on.

The first inch slipped in, barely. Not a thrust, not a motion, just a surrender -- and he could feel every throb of it, every pulse of heat. His tongue flattened instinctively beneath the girth. His eyes watered. He adjusted. Tried to breathe through his nose. Then tried again. He gripped the base tightly, the only place he could hold, more for his own grounding than anything else, and worked his lips down further.

He couldn't take it. Not fully.

He pulled back, gasping, spit trailing from his lip to the tip now smeared wet with his saliva. He blinked rapidly, jaw slack, throat spasming. But Marcus didn't move. He didn't say a word. He just watched, impassive, patient, as if to say: yes. Keep going.

Nathan did. Because there was no longer a question of if.

He leaned forward again, slower now, letting his lips stretch wide as he coaxed the head past his teeth. He took more this time -- maybe another inch, maybe two -- but it felt like swallowing a fist. The shaft filled his mouth completely, and even then he wasn't halfway. His fingers trembled on the shaft, unable to hold it properly. He wanted to service it, to show something like submission, but the sheer volume of it defeated every instinct. There was no skill here. Just effort. Just survival.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He felt drool spill down his chin. He hated how wet his face was, how stupid his noises sounded -- the gags, the slurps, the little broken whines -- but he didn't stop. Couldn't. His knees had gone numb. His thighs were shaking. And Marcus remained exactly as he was -- still, heavy, letting Nathan do the work. Letting him try.

When Marcus's hand finally rested on the back of Nathan's head, it wasn't forceful. Just firm. A reminder. A statement: this is mine now. And when he began to come -- sudden, volcanic, without warning -- Nathan's eyes flew wide, and he nearly choked.

The first pulse hit the back of his throat like a shot. The second spilled over his tongue. Then more. Too much. He tried to swallow, tried to keep up, but it was endless -- thick, hot, pouring into him like he was a vessel, like this was what his body was made to do. Cum leaked from his lips, ran down his chin, dripped across his chest where he pulled back too late.

Marcus didn't grunt. Didn't speak. He just released.

And when he was done, he pulled out with a single, casual motion, wiped himself with a towel from the dresser, and walked out.

Nathan stayed on his knees.

Mouth open. Face wet. The taste of Marcus still heavy on his tongue.

He didn't cry. Didn't speak. He just knelt there -- ruined, silent -- and knew that whatever he'd been before was gone now.

Chapter 10: The Breaking Point

He didn't move for a long time.

The room was quiet. The door was shut. Somewhere, down the hallway, he could hear a burst of laughter -- light, distant, oblivious. But here, in the soft gold silence of the guest bedroom, Nathan knelt on the rug with his hands slack in his lap, his lips swollen and sticky, the lace of his panties damp against his skin, and the weight of what had just happened sitting heavy in his stomach like a swallowed stone.

He should have felt something.

Shame. Guilt. Rage. But all he felt was hollow. Like something had been taken, and his body hadn't caught up with the loss.

His jaw ached. His throat burned. His mind stuttered between fragments -- the smell of Marcus, the heat of his skin, the pressure behind his head, the impossible stretch of his lips around something he could barely contain -- and in all of it, he hadn't said a word.

He hadn't asked for it. He hadn't refused, either.

And now here he was. Changed.

********

The door opened.

Softly. Without ceremony.

Ava stepped inside first. Then Rachel. Then Lily.

None of them said anything right away. They just moved around him, gentle and quiet, like this was something they'd done before. Like kneeling in the aftermath of that kind of act was something expected. Ava brought a warm cloth. Rachel brought water. Lily sat behind him and gathered his hair, brushing it back from his damp cheeks.

He let them touch him. Let them tend to him.

Not because he was grateful. But because he didn't know how to stop them.

"You did well," Ava murmured, dabbing at his chin with the cloth.

He didn't respond.

Rachel knelt in front of him and held the glass to his lips. He sipped slowly.

Lily stroked his back. Still, he said nothing.

Ava sat back on her heels and looked at him, head tilted slightly, the way a doctor might study something broken. Her tone wasn't cruel. It wasn't even distant. It was... instructional.

"That wasn't sex," she said. "That was the beginning."

He blinked, lips parting.

"What comes next," she continued, "is something you can't fake your way through. You don't get to stroke it. You don't get to play around with the head and pretend you're doing anything. You take it. Fully. Until he finishes. Inside you."

Nathan's stomach turned.

He shifted slightly, the ache in his throat suddenly sharp.

Rachel ran her fingers through his hair. "You've felt him now. You know what you're dealing with."

"I can't," Nathan whispered, voice hoarse.

"You will," Ava said calmly.

"I'll break."

Lily smiled, low and warm behind him.

"That's the point."

******

They helped him to the bed. Not to lie down, but to sit. Just sit. Legs together. Hands folded in his lap like a schoolgirl waiting to be told what she'd done wrong. The robe hung open slightly. The panties were soaked at the crotch. No one looked away.

"Your body's not ready yet," Ava said. "But it will be."

He nodded, even though he didn't understand.

"You'll want it."

He shook his head.

Rachel smiled. "You will."

******

They sat with him for a while longer, then stood to leave.

At the door, Ava turned back, her hand resting lightly on the frame.

"Tomorrow, we'll help you prepare. The shaving was just the beginning. You've seen what he is. You've felt the weight. The size."

She paused.

"Next time, you're going to feel what it's like when he puts it in you."

And then she left.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

And Nathan, alone in lace and silence, stared at the wall and finally understood what was coming.

Not a question.

Not a choice.

Chapter 11: The Taking

The sheets were cool when he lay down. They wouldn't stay that way.

Rachel had turned them back earlier with care, smoothing the top edge, tucking it under just enough to cradle his hips. The room had been aired out and perfumed again -- rose and amber this time, sweet but rich. Nathan had been oiled down to his ankles. The scent clung to his skin. He could feel the slip of it on his thighs when he moved, and every time he adjusted his position -- just slightly, knees parting an inch, then drawing back in -- the lace of the lingerie creaked against itself, whispering.

He lay in silence for twenty minutes after the women left.

Waiting. Breathing. And sweating.

*******

The door opened without a knock.

He didn't sit up. Didn't look.

He heard it first -- the weight of footsteps, the soft sound of skin moving over fabric, the breath of a larger body entering his space like weather rolling in off the sea. He kept his eyes on the ceiling and listened as Marcus shut the door behind him.

A rustle of cloth. A belt unclipped. A zipper drawn.

Then nothing.

Nathan knew, even without looking, that Marcus was naked now.

He didn't need to see it. He could feel it.

The smell came next -- not cologne, not deodorant, not anything purchased, but Marcus himself. Warm skin, clean sweat, a dense, inescapable musk that made Nathan's stomach clench as it hit the back of his throat. It wasn't unpleasant. That was the worst part. It was... intoxicating. It filled the room in seconds, and Nathan realised he'd been holding his breath, as if not breathing it in might stop the rest from happening.

It didn't.

Marcus moved slowly. He stepped to the edge of the bed and looked down at him, and only then did Nathan finally glance up. Not to meet his eyes. Just lower. And then lower again.

And there it was. Hard already.

It looked even bigger now than it had during the blowjob. Not because it was physically larger but because there was no ambiguity this time. No kneeling. No gag reflex to excuse failure. This wasn't about whether Nathan could take it.

This was about how long he could survive it.

Marcus climbed onto the bed.

He was heavy. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and Nathan's body tipped toward him, the centre of gravity shifting even before Marcus had touched him. His knees parted further, bare thighs trembling faintly, the lace clinging just below his hips, one side twisted from where he'd kept shifting against the bedspread.

Marcus didn't speak. He just reached down, hooked his fingers in the waistband, and peeled the panties downward in one slow motion, exposing the smooth of Nathan's ass.

Nathan tried to breathe.

Then Marcus moved over him -- slow, powerful, a wall of heat and muscle -- until the head of his cock pressed down between his legs, thick and slick and wet.

Nathan flinched. His legs tried to close. Marcus pushed them open again with his knees.

Then, with one hand holding the base, the other braced beside Nathan's shoulder, he lined himself up and pressed in.

It was instant pain.

Not a burn. Not a stretch. Not at first.

It was a snap -- a white-hot crack across Nathan's mind as the flared head pushed through the first ring of resistance and seated itself inside him. Nathan let out a high, shivering gasp that wasn't quite a cry, but it cracked in his throat like one. His heels pressed into the sheets. His hands clutched blindly at the blankets. His lips parted, trying to form something -- a word, a breath, a no -- but all that came was heat and confusion.

He shook his head.

"No--no, I--wait--"

But Marcus didn't wait.

He pushed deeper. The pressure wasn't linear. It didn't build in a straight line.

It caved him in -- one inch at a time -- as though Marcus was hollowing something out inside him, replacing blood with weight, heat, stretch. Nathan gasped with every new inch, his breath coming in broken stutters, his face twisted to the side, teeth clenched against the burn. His body tried to resist -- clenching, tensing -- but it was no use. Marcus was inside. And he wasn't stopping.

The pain was extraordinary.

It radiated from his core, up his spine, down his thighs, his fingers twitching with each slow, brutal thrust forward. Marcus wasn't pounding yet. He was claiming -- taking space where there was none. And when he bottomed out -- hips flush, cock fully buried -- Nathan let out a sound that didn't belong to him.

A long, hoarse moan. Raw and animal.

He could feel every inch.

Marcus held still for a moment. Let Nathan shake beneath him.

Then he pulled back.

And began to fuck him.

The thrusts were long, slow at first -- wet sounds filling the room, the slap of skin to skin slowly growing. Nathan couldn't breathe. His lungs fought for rhythm, but every time he managed to inhale, Marcus drove back into him and knocked it away again. The force of it pressed his back into the mattress. He reached blindly for Marcus's arms, gripped whatever muscle he could find.

Marcus was so deep he could barely tell where it started to hurt. It was all one massive, thick, relentless movement -- entering, retreating, re-entering -- each stroke dragging something rawer out of him. Over and over, minutes stretching on.

Marcus shifted position, driving deeper, dragging out and slamming in again with such brutal force that Nathan's head snapped back into the pillow and his legs jerked in the air. Each thrust was a full-body jolt. The noise it made -- wet, punishing, constant -- was louder now, and Nathan's moans had lost all shape, just noise and tears and something helpless in his throat as Marcus's cock filled him again and again, unrelenting.

And then without warning it hit - a rush of heat and wet and shame exploding from deep in his core. Nathan came hard, harder than he ever had in his life, without touch, without permission, with nothing but Marcus's cock destroying him from the inside out. It gushed across his stomach, hot and thick, spurting again as Marcus bottomed out with a brutal slam that made his vision flicker. The orgasm went on and on, shaking him apart from the inside, leaving him open and raw, his muscles twitching, his throat tight around a sob he couldn't release.

Marcus didn't slow. If anything, he grew faster -- rougher. His hips pistoned like a machine, hard, punishing strokes that slammed home again and again, the slap of flesh to flesh echoing off the walls, the bedframe groaning in protest. He used Nathan's body like it was built for this, forcing it open, using the mess he'd made as slickness, grinding deeper, harder, until Nathan was beyond sensation, beyond voice, beyond control. All he could feel was cock, heat, pressure, sweat -- Marcus's body above him, inside him, all around him, endless.

And then Marcus came.

It was violent. He bottomed out so hard that Nathan screamed -- not from fear or pain, but from the sheer physical force of it, the way Marcus's cock swelled deep inside him, the flare of the head pressing into something unreachable as his whole body locked in place. Then came the heat -- a flood of it, thick and hot, pouring into Nathan's ruined hole in long pulses, each one matched by a grunt from Marcus's chest, by the tightening of his grip, by the way his body twitched with every spasm. Nathan could feel it leaking out around him almost immediately, too much to hold, overflowing onto the sheets beneath, coating the backs of his thighs, soaking into the lace still bunched around one knee.

When it was done, Marcus stayed there for a moment, breathing hard through his nose, his cock still deep inside, his hand flat against Nathan's chest like a weight holding him down. Then he pulled out -- slow, thick, dragging every inch from inside him -- and stood without a word. He dressed. He didn't speak. He didn't look back. And when he left, the door clicked shut like punctuation.

Nathan didn't move. He lay flat, his legs still parted, the lingerie twisted and damp and half off his body, his chest streaked with his own cum, his thighs leaking Marcus's. The room smelled like sweat and oil and something darker -- his ruin. His hole throbbed. His belly twitched. He stared at the ceiling with eyes that didn't blink, breath coming shallow and uneven through a slack mouth. There was no name for what he was now, no coherent thread of thought, no way to stitch himself back together.

Epilogue

The house was already alive.

Not loudly. Not yet. But that soft, rhythmic breath had begun -- the early moans, the quiet creak of bedframes, the hush of muffled cries behind thin walls. A body pressed to a mattress. A girl whispering harder. The wet slap of thighs meeting skin. Just another night in the lakehouse.

Nathan heard it all as he walked barefoot down the hallway, the hem of his robe brushing his calves, the satin of the panties beneath hugging too close against his still-aching thighs. The lights were off except for the golden glow spilling under closed doors. Somewhere down the hall, a giggle cracked into a gasp. Then a low grunt. Then the steady thud of headboard to wall.

He didn't pause.

He reached Marcus's door. Turned the handle. And entered.

Marcus was waiting.

Not sitting. Not standing. Lying back on the bed, bare-chested, one hand resting behind his head like this was something casual -- something expected. The room was warm, dark except for the low amber light from the hallway bleeding in behind Nathan. The smell hit him immediately: the thick, heavy scent of sweat, sex, and skin. Marcus hadn't touched himself. He didn't need to. But he was already half-hard, resting thick and soft and heavy against his thigh. He raised himself up and sat at the edge of the bed

Nathan walked over and dropped to his knees.

And leaned in.

He didn't ask permission.

He simply reached out -- both hands cradling the base, unable to wrap fully around it -- and lowered his mouth. He licked the underside first, from base to tip, slow and deliberate, letting the taste of skin and salt fill his mouth, then opened wider and began to take it in.

It was still too big. Still impossible.

His lips strained around the head as it thickened fully, his jaw already aching from the width. Marcus's breath deepened above him, but he didn't speak. Just lay back as Nathan worked -- tongue flat, throat tight, saliva pooling as he gagged, pulled back, tried again.

He couldn't take much. But he took enough. Enough to get it ready.

By the time he stood and dropped the robe, Marcus was fully hard -- a heavy, glistening thing that twitched with each breath, as though it were waiting to be fed.

Nathan stepped out of the robe and climbed onto the bed. He straddled Marcus slowly, trembling as his knees settled on either side of his waist, pulling the panties to one side. His body was sore, badly -- the dull, stretched ache from the night before throbbing in his hole. His thighs trembled. His breath hitched. But he reached back, gripped the shaft, and guided it beneath him.

The tip found him. Pressed. And he lowered himself.

The pain was immediate.

His jaw dropped open -- not in surprise, but in surrender -- as Marcus began to fill him again, forcing him open inch by slow, impossible inch. Nathan whimpered aloud, fingers clutching Marcus's chest for balance, every muscle in his legs twitching with effort. His body screamed. The burn was deeper than before, not just raw but bruised, and the wetness from his own mouth barely eased the pressure.

Still, he kept going.

Letting it slide inside, taking the thickness until the head passed the tightest point and his hips dropped lower with a slick, wet sound.

Then another inch. And another. Until he was full.

He sat there for a moment, panting, legs wide, thighs shaking, Marcus's cock buried inside him to the hilt. He could feel every vein. Every twitch. His hole stretched so wide it felt like it might tear.

Then he started to move.

He rode slow at first, body rocking in a shallow roll, up and down, forward and back, his own breath ragged with every stroke. The noise was obscene -- wet, slapping, soft cries catching in his throat every time he slid down to the base. Marcus let him work, eyes half-lidded, hands resting at his sides, hips steady beneath him. Nathan couldn't look at him. Could only focus on the motion, the pain, the overwhelming fullness inside him that threatened to split him open all over again.

And outside the room -- the chorus had begun.

Through the walls came the sound of Ava's sharp gasps, Rachel's rhythmic moans, Lily crying out in little, shivering pulses, each of their voices threading through the thin walls, building around him like music. Someone was being fucked hard. The bedframe hit the wall. A voice shouted. Someone begged.

And now -- Nathan was part of it.

His own voice joined the chorus.

He was close again.

The friction, the pressure, the way Marcus stretched him deep inside -- it twisted something tight in his belly, filled him with heat and shame and unbearable tension. He moaned louder, fucked himself harder, thighs slapping down against Marcus's hips as the rhythm grew wilder.

Then Marcus moved. His hands gripped Nathan's waist and suddenly Nathan wasn't riding anymore. He was being used.

Marcus began to lift him, slam him down, over and over -- each brutal thrust bottoming out with a sound that shook the mattress, his cock punching into the sore, ruined centre of Nathan's body with so much force that Nathan cried out, sobbed, came, spilling helplessly over Marcus's chest in long, trembling spurts as his whole body buckled in on itself.

Marcus didn't stop. The fucking grew louder. Harder.

The chorus around them rose, peaked.

Until Marcus grunted low, teeth clenched, hips grinding up one last time as he emptied himself inside -- thick, hot, overwhelming -- Nathan could feel it fill him, pulse after pulse, leaking out even before Marcus had finished.

It soaked his thighs. His cheeks. The sheets.

He collapsed forward, chest to chest, the sounds of the house still rising around them, every bed shaking, every girl crying out, until it was one sound, one rhythm, one symphony.

And Nathan was in it.

Moaning.

Spent.

Opened.