Wow—Ben’s officially left his teens behind! If you’ve been following along from his first nervous steps at Mines to this milestone birthday, thank you for sticking with Ben, John, and all the roommates through every twist, laugh, and awkward moment. Writing these chapters has been a joy, and knowing you’re out there reading makes every late-night edit worth it.
Casa Bonita or Bust
Ben was turning twenty today.
It felt small and enormous at the same time—like he’d stepped off the edge of something soft and familiar and landed somewhere older, sharper, a little less forgiving. No longer a teenager. No longer someone who could pass things off as youth, or say “I’m just figuring it out” without feeling a little fake about it.
Twenty meant real college. Real world. Real... him.
But also, he was still Ben. Still a twink. Just one with a long-term boyfriend now, two more-than-curious roommates, and one-fourth of an engineering degree.
He tugged at the collar of his layered tee and let Josh jam a cheap plastic gold crown on his head. Josh had already added a rainbow sticker to it and written ‘Johnny’s Passenger Princess’ in Sharpie.
“Twenty’s the cutoff,” Josh said, finishing the label with a heart. “After this, you’re officially a twunk unless you moisturize.”
Ben smirked. “I’ve been using CeraVe since sixteen.”
“Barely counts.” Josh gave him a playful pat on the cheek. “You’re aging fast, Benji.”
They were already inside the Westminster Dave & Buster’s—neon lights blinking, arcade noise echoing off the walls, and deep-fried everything in the air. The bar buzzed with early Saturday night energy, groups of friends in puffer jackets and beanies shedding layers as they grabbed drinks and loaded up game cards.
Their table was posted up in a booth near the divider between the arcade and the restaurant side, already half-covered in appetizer plates and half-drained glasses. The group wasn’t big, but it was right. Everyone here mattered.
John was already at the Guardians of the Galaxy game station, swiping his Power Card with mock intensity. He wore a navy Mines long-sleeve and the gray Under Armour sweatpants Ben had bought back in August, which somehow ended up in John’s wardrobe more often than his own. His hair was still a little windswept from the walk in. He looked stupidly good for just a casual birthday party.
Caleb stood beside him, chewing on a piece of ice like it owed him money. He had that smug tilt to his grin, like he already knew he’d win whatever competition they started. His Air Force windbreaker flared every time he shifted his stance. He was in his element here: loud, fast, and annoyingly hot.
JP had posted up at the end of the booth with a plate of nachos and his phone open to a La Liga stream. He wore a dark blue North Face fleece and his signature closed-off energy, though Ben caught him glancing over at the group from time to time with something like quiet appreciation. He’d skipped a whole weekend back in Fort Collins for this. That said more than he ever would.
Josh, in full curated perfection, had claimed the inside corner of the booth with his second Coke of the day. Sebastian sat next to him, sleepy-eyed in a washed black hoodie and ripped jeans. They weren’t holding hands, but they didn’t need to. The way Sebastian leaned just enough to stay pressed against Josh’s side said everything.
Connor had arrived a little late, clutching a Target gift bag like it was part of a choreographed entrance. His cropped denim jacket matched his sneakers a little too well, and his hair had clearly been styled with intention. He gave Ben a tight, slightly dramatic smile half sincere, half performance and said, “Sorry I’m late. I had to debate between two wrapping papers.”
Ben leaned against the booth, watching his people laugh, yell, and talk over each other. His crown tilted sideways, and he let it.
His age didn’t have ‘teen’ after it anymore. No longer a Boy Scout, the identity he had cherished for years. He was already dealing with adult responsibilities like rent and cooking his own meals.
And somehow, with this mess of this home away from home in front of him, that felt okay.
Ben drifted toward the arcade floor just in time to see John and Caleb locked in a full-blown battle of pride, hand-eye coordination, and something else simmering just below the surface.
The Guardians of the Galaxy: Power Stone Launch machine blared an 8-bit remix of “Hooked on a Feeling” while flashing neon graphics across its screen. A glowing “helix launcher” spun in the corner funneling steel Power Stones down to a straight track lined with nine fast-moving character cars—Star-Lord, Gamora, Rocket, Groot, and the rest of the squad. Each time you landed a ball in a new car, it lit up. Light them all and you won the Super Bonus. Miss? Try again. Fail publicly. Be mocked forever.
John was up first. Laser-focused. He pressed the side of his thumb against the release like it was a pressure switch on a bomb, eyes locked in.
Caleb leaned in behind him, just close enough that Ben could see the tension spike in John’s shoulders. “You’re such a nerd,” Caleb said. “This is why no one wants to play pinball with civil engineers.”
John didn’t flinch, but his mouth twitched. “I’m literally beating you, Air Force.”
“You’re beating yourself, babe,” Caleb said, voice lower now, just enough weight on the last word to make it hang between them.
Ben folded his arms and tried not to smile. Caleb only broke out “babe” when he wanted to throw someone in the apartment off. And judging by the way John’s fingers clenched just a little tighter around the machine, it was working.
The helix spit out a Power Stone, and John timed the drop perfectly: straight into Drax.
Drax Unlocked! +50 Galactic Credits!
That made six of nine for him. Rocket, Groot, Nebula, Mantis, Star-Lord, and now Drax. The screen glowed with his progress. Ben leaned in.
“Three to go. Can you finish the ride?”
Caleb smirked. “I don’t think he has the stamina.”
John didn’t answer. Just squared his jaw and hit the button again. Gamora. Then Yondu. Just one left: Cosmo.
He took a breath. Waited. Dropped.
The ball rolled. Bounced. Missed.
Rocket. Again.
Duplicate.
The machine chirped.
Super Bonus Incomplete. Total: 420 Galactic Credits.
John exhaled, sharp and annoyed. “Shoot.”
Caleb stepped forward like he was walking onto a stage, “Alright. Time to show you how the Air Force gets it done.”
Ben noticed the way his windbreaker pulled tight across his shoulders as he leaned into the machine, how his fingers gripped the sides like he wanted to leave marks.
He swiped his Power Card and dropped his first Power Stone without hesitation. It slid perfectly into Yondu.
“Lucky shot,” John muttered, but his voice was tight.
“Nope. Raw instinct,” Caleb replied, his eyes on the track but clearly enjoying the sound of John behind him.
Next: Star-Lord. Then Cosmo. Then Cosmo again. Rocket. Rocket again.
“You’re just carpet-bombing Rocket’s ass,” JP said from the booth, not even looking up from his phone.
“Ben can relate,” Josh added with a wink.
Ben flushed and shot him a look. “Can we not—”
Caleb, completely unbothered, kept going—Mantis, Drax, Gamora, Groot.
Eight out of nine. Just Nebula left.
He took his time with the last Power Stone—like he was staring down the second-to-last question on a final. The one that looked familiar but still felt like a trap.
“Maybe I just know how to hit the right spots,” he said, not even glancing at the screen. His gaze flicked toward John, slow, intentional.
Ben felt it like a static charge.
The Power Stone whirled down the helix, hit the track… and slid straight into Cosmo. Again.
Duplicate. Super Bonus Incomplete. Total: 460 Galactic Credits.
The machine flashed. “SO CLOSE!”
Josh let out a dramatic sigh. “You both suck at this game.”
“But I sucked better,” Caleb said, turning around with a shit-eating grin.
John just shook his head, lips twitching. “Next time, I pick the game.”
“Next time, I’m not holding back.” Caleb said, already turning away.
Ben stepped between them like a referee. “Dinner, boys. I want nachos and to be celebrated.”
They started heading back to the booth, the tension not quite resolved, still buzzing in the air.
Caleb leaned in to John and Ben, just enough to speak without the others hearing.
“Sounds like we both win,” he muttered.
John didn’t say anything, but Ben saw the flash in his eyes, a mix of irritation and something darker. Hungrier.
And Ben? He didn’t know who won. But he was starting to wonder if maybe the whole damn game had been just for him.
By the time they sat back in the booth, the appetizers had multiplied. Someone, probably JP, had taken charge and ordered a spread: wings, nachos, waffle fries, mozzarella sticks, sliders, and something that looked suspiciously like boneless chicken nuggets rebranded as “dynamite bites.”
Ben slid back into the center of the booth like it was a throne. Josh immediately adjusted the plastic crown on his head with mock reverence, while Sebastian set down two extra plates in front of him like ceremonial offerings.
“Eat, bitch,” Josh said sweetly.
“Happy birthday, King,” Sebastian added.
JP shoved the basket of fries toward the center. “We’re gonna need more ranch dip.”
Ben reached for a mozzarella stick just as John dropped into the seat beside him, unwrapping a straw like it was a high-stakes engineering challenge.
“Not gonna lie,” John said, grabbing a wing, “we should’ve done Casa Bonita, but they were booked up.”
Caleb looked up from his plate. “You tried to do what?”
“I’m serious.” John shrugged. “I’ve wanted to go since I was, like, eight. Cliff divers? Sopapillas? That creepy cave with the animatronic miner? Iconic.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “You’re quoting South Park, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Respectfully.” John didn’t flinch.
Connor squinted. “Wait, I thought it shut down?”
“It did,” John said. “Then Trey Parker and Matt Stone bought it and turned it into some weird high-budget fever dream. It’s open again.”
Caleb leaned forward, grinning like he already knew he was right. “You do realize your obsession with Casa Bonita makes you Eric Cartman, right?”
John paused, chicken wing halfway to his mouth. “I’m what?”
“You’re literally Cartman,” Caleb said. “Catholic, mildly unhinged, food-motivated, and ready to hijack your boyfriend’s birthday just to get sopapillas and watch some guy jump off a fake cliff.”
Ben snorted.
John opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Okay... you’re not wrong.”
“I knew it,” Caleb beamed, victorious.
“I was chubby as a kid, alright?” John added. “Casa Bonita looked like heaven compared to Chuck-E-Cheese.”
Ben wiped his hands on a napkin. “Next year, we’ll do Casa Bonita. John can perform a ritual sacrifice and push me off the waterfall.”
“I will,” John said. “And I’ll make sure it’s on video.”
“Okay,” Ben interupted, trying to sound casual, but the grin gave him away. “Presents?”
Connor immediately perked up. “Yes! I need someone to film this. This is literally a core memory in the making, your 20th!”
“Absolutely not,” Ben groaned, already reaching for the nearest bag.
Josh had his phone pointed before the sentence ended.
Ben sat back in the booth, hands still a little greasy from mozzarella sticks, crown slightly askew, and a line of gift bags and boxes forming in front of him like he was some kind of gay suburban prince. Which, for tonight, he kind of was.
Josh was already pushing forward his bag with one hand. “Okay. Mine first. Because I actually planned ahead and didn’t just buy something from the campus bookstore this morning.”
JP cringed to himself, trying to not make it obvious that was his gift.
Josh handed over a slim, matte black gift bag with tissue paper folded so precisely it looked ironed. “Open carefully. She’s delicate.”
Ben peeled it open and pulled out a folded black T-shirt. The front said “Midwest Princess” in glittery pink letters, and the back had a glam shot of Chappell Roan, mid-mic grab, framed in a bedazzled heart.
“No way,” Ben said, holding it up like sacred cloth.
Josh beamed. “Denver show. End of September. Merch table was chaotic. I got pushed by a drag queen in stilettos for that.”
Ben was grinning hard now. “This is iconic. Thanks Joshua.”
“You’re welcome,” Josh said, smug. “You better serve in this. I’ll know if you don’t.”
Connor gestured to his own gift bag like it was about to self-destruct. “Okay, mine’s next. It’s not as legendary as that, but… useful?”
Ben reached inside and pulled out a slick-looking Braun electric razor, still in its box.
“Connie,” Ben said, trying not to laugh, “what are you implying?”
“That you better stay smooth and twinky forever,” Connor replied without missing a beat.
“I give it six months,” Caleb said. “Max.” Even under Caleb’s jeans, you could somehow tell his legs were still aggressively hairy.
“Rude.” Ben held up the razor like an Oscar. “But appreciated.”
“Also,” Connor added, “I made sure it works on your face and… other areas.”
Sebastian choked on his drink. “Bless this child.”
JP tapped the side of a medium-sized box wrapped in leftover Mine's Bookstore holiday paper. “Alright, my turn. Practical gay representation.”
Ben ripped it open and found… an air fryer.
He looked up. “Wait. For real Joao?”
“We live off popcorn and frozen chicken,” JP said. “You’re twenty now. We need to step up our kitchen game.”
“I can’t tell if this is love or shade.”
“Both.” JP grinned.
Ben laughed. “Fair.”
Caleb was next. He passed over a small flat box, barely wrapped at all.
“From me,” he said. “Part one.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “There’s a part two?”
Caleb smirked. “Waiting for you at home.”
Inside the box: a three-pack of Nike boxer briefs. Black, Gray, and Aqua Blue.
“Functional and hot,” Josh observed. “Sporty combo.”
Ben looked over the colors, trying not to blush. “You remembered my size?”
Caleb chuckled. “Same as mine, birthday boy.”
Ben looked at the briefs, then at Caleb trying to decide if he was supposed to laugh, blush, or say thank you.
Finally, John slid a small rectangular box across the table, followed by a large REI bag.
“The small one first,” John said.
Inside was the LEGO Speed Champions Porsche set, a perfect callback to their late-summer Target trip.
Ben grinned. “You remembered.”
John just shrugged. “You were mad they only had Ferraris.”
Then Ben peered into the REI bag and froze.
It was a brand-new North Face Cat’s Meow mummy-style sleeping bag in a box. Pictured on the side with a white body, light blue interior and footbox. The same model. The same buttery soft nylon that had encased him after fooling around with Evan in their tent after their first camping trip in Freshman year of high school. The one Ben hadn’t been inside since Boy Scouts.
Ben hadn’t told John why he wanted it again, just mentioned offhand once that it was the one he wanted since he was in scouts, but his parents gave him an REI Lumen for Christmas instead.
John must’ve remembered all the way back to that weekend in Idaho after he met Evan.
“It’s the one you were talking about, right?” John said, eyes flicking up.
Ben nodded slowly. “Yeah. This is the one.”
He didn’t have anything more to say—his throat felt tight, and his cheeks were already flushing more than before. The weight of the gift, the memory behind it, the way John had remembered something Ben barely admitted out loud, it was all there.
Ben reached beside him and laced his fingers through John’s.
John squeezed back, firm and steady.
Then Ben leaned over, just a little, and kissed him. Soft. Quick. The kind of kiss that said thank you without words. That said, I see you. I trust you. I want you here.
Josh let out a quiet aww from the corner of the booth. Caleb, predictably, rolled his eyes.
But John just smiled like he’d been waiting for that kiss all night.
“Thanks,” Ben said. And he meant it.
After food and presents, the group drifted back into the arcade like gravity was stronger under the flickering lights. They didn’t go back to Guardians, the tension from that had burned itself out. Instead, they hit up Mario Kart GP DX for some light chaos, then spent twenty minutes watching JP and Sebastian go head-to-head in Time Crisis 5 like they were training for something.
Ben tried his hand at Basketball Blitz, missed every shot. Josh got sucked into Deal or No Deal and screamed when he won only 10 credits. Caleb, of course, crushed Connect 4 Hoops like he was built for it. John stuck to rhythm games, casually destroying a Pump It Up track while Connor stood next to him, pretending not to be impressed.
The final round of the night was Down the Clown. Caleb and JP stood side by side, arms flying, hitting targets like they had something to prove.
“You’re gonna break the sensors,” Sebastian said, shaking his head.
“I’m not stopping until I win something that fits in my glovebox,” JP replied, chucking a final ball with zero aim.
Eventually, the glow of the arcade started to dim, subtly at first, like the place was trying to nudge them out without actually saying it. A reminder flashed on the overhead screen: All guests under 21 must leave the premises by 11 PM.
But it wasn’t even that late yet, just after 9. They’d done dinner, presents, and enough games to call it a win. People were starting to check phones, re-layer jackets, and clear the table.
Caleb returned from the prize room with a smug look and a plush poop emoji pillow under his arm.
“Happy birthday, Benji,” Caleb said, tossing it straight into Ben’s lap.
Ben blinked. “You really traded your points for this?”
“Better than a Slinky and a mood ring,” Caleb said. “And way more on-brand.”
Ben hugged the pillow like it was priceless. “Honestly? Most fitting gift of the night.”
Josh gave an approving nod. “Perfect emoji for a twink turning twenty. Losing that ‘teen’ status, but still too young to drink.”
Caleb shot him a look. “Gee… let the man live a little.”
Ben didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let go of the poop pillow either.
Sebastian chuckled, but his eyes lingered on Caleb. Not playful. Not quite friendly. Just wondering if Caleb was more than the straight, lanky, ROTC roommate he let on.
Caleb caught the look, held it for half a second, then looked away, like someone who knew exactly what was being asked, and didn’t have the answer.
Ben clocked the exchange between them but kept quiet. The silence was too short, too tense to interrupt without drawing blood.
JP checked his phone and stood. “Alright. I should head out. Mom has brunch in Fort Collins planned at 10 AM.”
Ben gave him a quick hug. “Thanks for the oven and sticking around JP.”
JP gave Connor a one-armed squeeze and fist-bumped John. When he got to Caleb, there was a pause. Then:
“Later, man.”
Caleb nodded back, stiff. “Later.”
As JP walked away, Caleb muttered under his breath, “Whatever. I only skipped seeing Sophie tonight for a night with the boys, but it’s fine.”
Ben turned. “You okay?”
“I’m not mad,” Caleb said, too fast. “Just saying he always has an excuse to dip.”
Connor stood and zipped up his denim jacket, juggling his phone and keys. “Okay, I gotta bounce, APO’s (Alpha Phi Omega) doing a Sunday morning service project with Habitat, and I’m somehow in charge of the coffee .”
Ben gave him an eye. “That sounds... so like how you’d spend a Sunday morning.”
Connor grinned. “It is. You’d love it. Or at least fake it really well.”
Then, an awkward beat.
“So... you ready to pledge yet Benji?”
Ben laughed. “Me? In a frat?”
“It’s not that kind of frat,” Connor reminded him. “Like I said before, it was founded by a bunch of ex-Boy Scouts. You being in OA too, you’d fit right in.”
“I’ll think about it,” Ben said, still considering it—at the very least to pad his resume.
Connor nodded his head. “I’ll keep bugging you.”
Just before walking out with Josh, Sebastian looked over his shoulder at Caleb, quiet, unreadable, and said, “Have a good night boys.” It didn’t feel like the Colorado-November cold. But it wasn’t warm either.
Caleb didn’t engage. He just adjusted the air fryer in the crook of his arm and kept his eyes on the door.
Which left just the roommates, Ben, John, and Caleb, walking out under the buzzing white lights of the parking lot, birthday bags in tow.
The air had cooled fast. Ben zipped his jacket halfway up, still holding the sleeping bag in its stuff sack.
They were almost to Caleb’s BMW when Ben slowed, hesitated, then finally said, “Okay. So I didn’t really say this earlier, but…”
John looked over. “Yeah, babe?”
Ben held the sleeping bag tight against his chest. “I didn’t want this just for camping. Or for, like, nostalgia or whatever. Evan let me sleep in his when we were on camp in scouts just because I liked the feel of the nylon so much.”
Caleb stopped walking. “Okay…?”
Ben exhaled. “It’s gonna sound weird. But… I always wish he would have tied me up while I was inside it. Like, fully zipped in. Sealed away, just me inside it.”
Silence.
“Oh,” John let slip through his lips. Not surprised. Not judgmental. Just accepting another one of Ben’s quirks.
Caleb blinked. “Wait. Like—for fun or for, like… fun-fun?”
Ben gave him a look. “Fun-fun.”
Caleb looked at the sleeping bag again. “Shit. You’ve been sitting on this fantasy since Boy Scouts. What a kinky mind!”
Ben nodded. “Yeah. I already did the whole ‘nature head’ thing with Johnny in Seattle.”
“Damn,” Caleb chuckled. “You guys really are full of surprises.”
John tilted his head. “And you want help from me. Like, tonight?”
Ben nodded again. “I mean… You both can help if you’re okay with it.”
John looked over at Caleb, then back at Ben. “I’m in.”
Caleb scratched his chin, thinking. “We don’t have rope. Or anything to, like, actually do this right.”
Ben’s heart sank a little, but then Caleb added, “I guess we could hit a Dollar Tree before they close. Grab some paracord or bungee straps or something. It’s not exactly high-end kink gear, but…”
Ben lit up. “Seriously?”
“Dude,” Caleb said. “You’ve waited this long. It’s your birthday. Now you got us and the final piece.”
John opened the car and tossed the rest of the gifts into the backseat. “So the Cat’s Meow, rope, and maybe something to use as a blindfold?”
“I’ve got my UA balaclava I use for those cold morning PT runs. Might be more comfortable than something from Dollar Tree.” Caleb suggested.
Ben climbed into the passenger seat, his heart thudding in a way that had nothing to do with sugar, skee-ball or birthday adrenaline.
Caleb grinned as he opened his door. “Guess we’re making birthday wishes come true tonight.”
They pulled into the Dollar Tree parking lot at 9:43 PM—fifteen minutes before closing, under buzzing fluorescent lights and a flickering “R” in the store sign that made the whole place look just a little haunted.
Inside, the aisles were already half-emptied for restocking. There was no music, just the faint hum of overhead vents and the shuffling sound of an underpaid cashier counting out quarters at the front.
“Okay,” Caleb said, rubbing the back of his neck as they stepped inside. “So what exactly are we looking for? Rope? Duct tape? Zip ties?”
Ben turned a shade redder. “Not duct tape. I’m not trying to ruin my brand-new sleeping bag with sticky residue.”
John picked up a coil of neon polyrope from the tool section and held it up like he was evaluating climbing gear. “They should work. Soft, cheap, strong enough.”
Caleb grabbed two coils: black and yellow. “We doubling up?”
“How are we doing this if the Eagle Scout is the one getting tied up?” John said, smirking.
Ben stood between them, heart hammering, trying not to be obvious about how hard he was breathing.
They added some elastic bungee cords “just in case,” and a foam knee gardening cushion that Caleb insisted was for “general back support,” even though no one asked.
John held up a sleep mask from the toilettery. “Blindfold?”
Caleb nodded his head. “Well, maybe we could use it over the balaclava.”
At checkout, John handed Caleb the basket and stepped back. “You’re paying.”
“What?” Caleb hissed. “Why me?”
“You’re half in uniform,” John said. “You’ll look less suspicious.”
Caleb narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much already.”
Ben tried not to laugh as the teen cashier scanned two bundles of rope, three bungee cords, an eye mask, and a single birthday balloon Caleb had inexplicably added at the last second.
“You guys camping or kidnapping someone?” the kid asked flatly.
Caleb leaned in. “Both.”
The cashier didn’t blink. Just gave them their receipt and went back to closing out.
Back in the car, Ben sat in the passenger seat holding the poly rope in his lap like it was something sacred. Caleb drove. John rode in the back, pretending not to be weirdly into this.
The M3 hummed along the road, soft radio static in the background.
Ben turned around halfway through a red light. “Thanks for doing this, guys. I know it’s a lot.”
John looked up. “You’re literally trusting us to tie you up in a sleeping bag. Buying rope was the easy part.”
Caleb nodded. “We’ve got you.”
Ben smiled and faced forward again, his heart thudding in sync with the turn signal click.
They got back to the apartment just after ten. The place was quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the sharp clink of Caleb’s keys hitting the kitchen counter. Outside, the wind scraped lightly against the windows, but inside, it felt warm. Contained. Like whatever was going to happen tonight existed in a space outside of time.
Ben dropped his Dollar Tree bag and sleeping bag by the couch. He looked wired, like every part of him was buzzing, but whether it was nerves or need, even he couldn’t tell.
Caleb kicked off his sneakers and pulled a slightly beat-up Dick’s Sporting Goods bag from the coat closet.
“Alright,” he said, dropping it on the breakfast table. “Part two.”
Ben squinted. “What is that?”
“My second gift,” Caleb said. “Didn’t wrap it. Felt more authentic this way.”
Ben opened the bag slowly. Inside: a pair of dark blue AFROTC shorts with reflective stripes, soft and broken-in, and a light gray cotton PT shirt with a faint Air Force logo stretched across the chest.
Ben blinked. “Is this yours?”
“From high school senior year,” Caleb said. “Cut the liner out of the shorts because everyone does. But they’re clean, I promise.”
John leaned over, eyebrows raised. “You’re just giving him your old JROTC kit?”
Caleb shrugged. “Found it in my dresser when I went home two weeks ago. Figured he might even want to wear it tonight.”
Ben flushed. He picked up the shirt and shorts, holding them like they were both a dare and a promise.
“I’ll change. You guys setup.” he said, heading to the bathroom without looking up.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Caleb turned to John. “Hang on.”
He ducked into his room and came back with two things: his black Under Armour balaclava, stretchy and folded, and the Nike jockstrap from their encounter with Dylan.
Caleb paused outside the bathroom and knocked once. “One last part of your gift,” he said, then added with a slight inflection in his voice, “To borrow. For tonight.”
The door cracked open. Ben’s hand reached out without a word.
Caleb placed both items in his palm, gently.
“No pressure,” he said. “But they kind of complete the look if you were going for the full outfit.”
Ben didn't reply. But the door shut a little faster than before.
With all the items on, Ben took one last look at himself in the bathroom mirror.
The gray PT shirt clung to his shoulders, sleeves short enough to leave his arms bare. The blue AFROTC shorts hit mid-thigh, the hem riding higher than anything he or John usually wore. Underneath, the Nike jock framed everything snug, invisible but very present. Over his head, the black balaclava covered his face from the nose down, warm, close, strangely comforting.
He adjusted it once. Then turned off the light.
The common entryway light cast a soft glow behind him, but the bedroom was lit only by a single lamp on Jon’s desk. The light angled upward, casting long shadows across the ceiling and painting the scene in warm, deliberate tones.
John had transformed the space with quiet efficiency.
From the door he could see the Cat’s Meow sleeping bag was spread open across the mattress above, nylon crinkling with every movement on the bed. The ropes—yellow and black had been uncoiled and draped neatly at the foot, along with the elastic cords from the store. The rest of the room was still, silent, like it was waiting.
Ben stepped into the room, every part of his body buzzing in sync.
Caleb leaned against the built-in ladder, changed out of the jacket into a yellow Nike Brazil kit, arms crossed, eyes moving slowly over Ben.
John looked up from where he kneeled on the bed. He met Ben’s gaze and held it.
Ben’s eyes flicked back to Caleb. “Wait... is that one of JP’s soccer jerseys?”
Caleb glanced down at the mesh green and yellow Brazil kit like he hadn’t noticed.
“He left on his chair. Figured I’d wear it so he’s here in spirit, but I didn’t think that PT kit would actually look better on you.”
Ben swallowed. He felt like every step inside the room brought him closer to something he didn’t want to name yet, but needed.
He climbed up onto the bed, slow, controlled, the mattress just high enough to make the act of climbing feel deliberate. He lowered himself into the open sleeping bag. The supple nylon was cool against his thighs, the soft inner lining hugging the back of his legs and shoulders.
John smoothed the fabric around him, careful, almost reverent.
Caleb got up on the bed as well, already measuring out rope between his hands. “Still good?” he asked, voice steady.
Ben nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tell us if that changes,” John said, brushing his hand along Ben’s forearm. “Nothing happens that you don’t want.”
Ben closed his eyes for a second. Then rubbed them one last time. “I want this.”
He exhaled. Let his arms rest at his sides. Felt the tension in his chest begin to shift, not disappear, but change shape.
John reached for the zipper and began to close the sleeping bag, inch by inch.
The nylon of the sleeping bag whispered as John slowly zipped it shut, starting at the footbox and working his way up. With every few inches, the pressure increased—just enough to make Ben more aware of where he was, who he was with, and what he was letting them do.
By the time the zipper reached Ben’s chest, he could feel his own breath moving against the balaclava. The bag clung to his body in a way that was both familiar and wildly new. It wasn’t tent camping anymore. It was containment. Intention.
John leaned in. “Want the mask?”
Ben nodded. “Yeah. Do it.”
John slipped the sleep mask over the balaclava, adjusting it gently until it covered him completely. Sight disappeared. The room dissolved. All that remained was pressure, breath, and the quiet tension of what came next.
“Safeword?” John's voice pitched low.
Ben didn’t hesitate. “Casa Bonita.”
John’s lips twitched. Of course, Ben would pick the one thing John couldn’t shut up about, like he wanted to be reminded of him, even in surrender. He rested his hand lightly on Ben’s shoulder. “Let us know if anything’s off. You’re still in control.”
Then he moved to the foot of the bed and began slowly unzipping the lower zipper of the Cat’s Meow, drawing it up just enough to access the mid-thigh down.
Cool air swept in, brushing Ben’s skin.
Caleb crouched with a coil of yellow rope already in hand. But instead of going for Ben directly, he began wrapping the rope around the outside of the sleeping bag, just above the ankles. Smooth, even coils, double knotted. The insulation compressed under the tension, hugging tighter.
Ben shifted slightly, the sound of nylon crinkling filling the silence.
Caleb worked upward. One tie at the calves. Another at the knees. Then a length of black rope looped just above Ben’s hips, pinning the sleeping bag even closer to him. It wasn’t just about immobilization now, it was layering, cocooning, trapping.
Ben could still breathe. Still move a little inside the bag. But not escape it. Not easily.
Caleb moved with focus, each wrap snug and intentional. The ropes looked clean against the white and blue nylon, bright and deliberate, like the finishing lines on a wrapped present.
John stayed near Ben’s head, fingers running slowly along the sealed zipper at his chest, checking each knot as it climbed toward him.
Ben didn’t speak. But his breath had deepened.
“You okay?” John asked.
Ben nodded into the hood of the mummy bag. “Yeah. Really okay.”
Caleb finished with one last loop just above the elbows, tucking the final knot where Ben couldn’t reach it even if he tried.
Then he stood back with John and looked down at what they’d done: Ben, fully zipped, fully tied, masked and motionless in the sleeping bag he’d wanted for years, his body locked in place under layers of nylon and rope.
The silence felt full now. Like it was waiting for permission to become something else.
John leaned in again. “You want us to start touching?”
Ben’s answer came fast, muffled by the balaclava, the mask, and the sleeping bag that held him:
“Yes.”
Ben lay there, silent inside the cocoon, zipped, tied, blindfolded, masked, breathing slow and deep. Each inhale pulled the stretch fabric of the balaclava tight against his lips; each exhale warmed the sealed nylon around him.
He heard the bed frame creak as someone shifted.
Then a click.
A familiar, unmistakable sound.
Ben froze.
“What the hell are you doing?” John said sharply.
“That was for me,” Caleb said, not even trying to sound innocent. “Don’t worry. No face. Just the setup.”
“Delete it,” John snapped, although own phone was still in his pocket, the camera roll full of Ben sleeping, them cuddling together, Ben waking up in shorts with a--
He cut the thought off.
“I will,” Caleb said. “If he wants me to.”
John exhaled hard. “Ben?”
Ben didn’t speak for a moment. He was processing too much.
His body was completely restrained. His vision gone. His breath heated against fabric. And somewhere just out of reach, a phone now held an image of him, helpless, anonymous, wrapped up tight by two guys younger than him. And the weirdest part?
He didn’t hate it.
“It’s okay,” Ben said finally, voice muffled but sure. “He can keep it. But send us a copy later.”
John looked down at him, protectively. “You sure Benji?”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I kind of… like knowing you two can do whatever you want to me right now.”
Ben couldn’t see it, but Caleb’s eyes darted to John’s for half a second. Not in mockery, just disarming. Testing the edge of something between them. He felt his heart thud harder under the rope.
He was twenty now. No longer a kid. And yet, like this—with his limbs pinned, his body bundled, his words barely making it past the spandex and nylon—he felt small. Exposed. Like his life, in that moment, belonged to two teens more in control than he’d ever been.
Ben didn’t know if that was terrifying or thrilling.
Maybe both.
The mattress shifted above him.
Someone climbed over him.
He heard knees plant on either side of his head. The tension in the air changed—closer, heavier. Then a pause.
John’s voice, low and careful: “It’s me babe.”
Ben nodded beneath the mask, heart thudding. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t be sure who was close to him unless they said so. And somehow, that made everything land deeper.
“I’m above you now,” John added, softer. “Just stay still.”
John's warm hand cupped the back of Ben's neck, and Ben felt the balaclava being gently peeled down just enough to expose his jaw and mouth. The cool air of the room brushed over his face, sending a shiver down his spine.
Meanwhile, Caleb's hand slid below the open zipper, under the elastic waistband of the AF PT shorts, pushing aside the jockstrap, then retreating outside shorts. The fabric of the shorts grew tight around Ben’s cock as Caleb began to rub the polyester material across it, slow, deliberate, just enough to tease his uncut head.
Ben's breath hitched, his body straining against the ropes that held him in place. Caleb's touch was electric, sending waves of pleasure through his nylon cocooned body that he could only partially control. Each stroke brought him closer to the edge, only for it to stop abruptly, leaving Ben gasping and needy.
John's hand slid away, and Ben felt the mattress shift again—weight shifting, the fabric of John’s sweatpants brushing against the sleeping bag. He heard the soft rustle of them being pulled down and off. John's cock, already hard, nudged against Ben's face.
Caleb's strokes grew slower, more deliberate. Ben could feel the head of John’s cock pressing against his parted lips, the heat and pressure of it. John leaned in closer, whispering, "Open up, birthday boy," and Ben obeyed, feeling the tip of John’s dick push into his mouth.
The plastic taste of the balaclava mingled with the sweat of John’s skin as Ben was slowly face-fucked into the tight confines of the mummy bag hood. Each thrust brought him a little more of John, his cock sliding in and out, the sound of skin against fabric muffled. All the while Caleb’s hand remained under the shorts, stroking and teasing Ben’s cock in a rhythm that matched John’s movements above.
The pressure built in Ben’s chest, his cock straining against the heated fabric. The two of them had him trapped in a delicious cycle of pleasure and denial, each stroke bringing him closer to the edge, only to pull back before he could come. It was like they were conductors of his body’s symphony, playing him like an instrument of pure sensation. And all Ben could do was lie there, bound and blind, letting them orchestrate every note.
Ben struggled under the constraints of his bound body, the fabric of the sleeping bag and ropes limiting his movement as John's cock filled his mouth. Despite the lack of hands, he managed to arch his neck, trying to keep his tongue active around the shaft as John's gentle yet firm grip held him in place.
He could feel John’s dick hit the back of his throat, making him gag slightly, but he fought against the reflex, eager to please. The muffled sounds of his struggle only served to heighten the tension in the room.
Meanwhile, Caleb's skilled hand remained under the shorts, stroking Ben's cock with a rhythm that was driving him wild. He felt Caleb’s fingertips tease the sensitive underside of his cockhead, and Ben’s hips jerked involuntarily, the ropes tightening around his limbs. Just as Ben felt the warm rush of climax approaching, Caleb slowed his hand, denying Ben release again.
Ben whimpered, the sound lost to the outside world as John’s cock retreated slightly, giving him a brief moment of respite before pushing back in, the head sliding against his tongue. The teasing continued, Caleb bringing Ben to the brink and then retreating, a silent dance of pleasure and control that had him begging for more.
John’s breath grew ragged, his hips pushing harder, and Ben could feel the tension building in the cock that filled his mouth. Finally, with a low grunt of “Benjii…”, John released hot cum spilling directly into Ben’s throat. Ben swallowed, his muscles working around John’s shaft, eager not to waste a single drop. The taste was bitter, but the act was intimate, claiming in a way that nothing else could be.
As John’s cock softened, he pulled away, and Ben felt the sticky mess that was left behind. The mixture of cum and saliva dripped onto the bottom of the balaclava as he pulled out.
Caleb watched, his own hand moving faster on Ben’s trapped cock. The sight of Ben’s compliance, the sounds of his muffled pleasure, was too much. Ben felt Caleb’s grip tighten, his strokes becoming more erratic with no retreat. Ben spasmed and his orgasm overcame him. Cock jerking and spurting into the fabric of Caleb’s old shorts. The warm wetness spread, seeping through the shorts and into the brand new sleeping bag.
Slowly, John leaned down, pressing his mouth to Ben’s, kissing him deeply. Ben felt a wetness on John’s chin, and realized it was John’s own cum, mixed with Ben’s saliva, a tangible reminder of what had just occurred. John’s tongue danced with Ben’s, tasting himself and Ben’s passion. The kiss was fierce, possessive, leaving no doubt in Ben’s mind who was in charge.
Caleb, not one to be outdone, took this opportunity to slip off his Puma boxer briefs. His cock, now fully exposed, was ready to follow up John, if Ben would let him.
John broke the kiss, moving aside to give Caleb room.
Caleb took John’s place and teased Ben’s hair through the Balaclava. “It’s Caleb,” he sighed. “That was hot to watch, is it my turn now?”
All Ben could do was nod in the affirmative as he still felt the wetness from John on his chin.
With that response Caleb took the position, slipping his cock into Ben’s lips and onto his tongue. Ben took the head into his mouth, the taste of precum and sweat mingling.
Caleb’s hips rocked, the movements slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on Ben’s head as he teased him with shallow thrusts. John, now sitting where Caleb was, leaned in, pulled back the the bottom of the sleeping bag and began to lick at the wet spot, his tongue tracing the path of Ben’s cum, savoring every bit of Ben’s pleasure that had soaked into the fabric of his gift.
Caleb took over with a newfound eagerness, his grip firm on Ben's head as he pushed his cock deeper, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room. Ben's eyes watered behind the sleep mask, his throat working around Caleb's length, and he gagged as Caleb's thrusts grew rougher, more demanding. Caleb moaned aloud with a dark fascination, the power dynamic stark and intoxicating. Without warning, Caleb pulled out suddenly and Ben's gasp for air filled the room.
Caleb still stroked himself rapidly, his other hand tangling in Ben's hair. With a grunt, Caleb came, painting Ben's face, the balaclava, and the mummy bag hood with ropes of thick cum. Ben lay there, panting, the warm stickiness of Caleb's release seeping into the fabric around his head, the heady scent filling the cocoon of the sleeping bag. The sound of their heavy breathing was the only noise in the room as John watched, his own hand moving slowly on his half-hard cock, savoring the sight of Ben's complete surrender.
Ben lay still, the ropes slackening around him, the sleeping bag sticky in places, but somehow comforting. His body hummed, not just from release, but from something deeper. He’d given himself over completely, and they’d held him like it mattered.
John sat back, resting against the wall, watching Ben with a kind of reverence. Caleb leaned forward to untie the final knot, hands surprisingly gentle now, careful with the nylon and zipper as he released Ben.
Ben peeled off the sleep mask at last, blinking into the soft lamplight, face flushed, but smiling.
“So,” he muttered, voice rough and quiet, “best birthday party ever?”
John laughed under his breath. “Pretty sure you just raised the bar for all of us.”
Caleb smirked, wiping his hand on the jersey. “Don’t expect a cake next year. This was exhausting.”
Ben didn’t answer. He just exhaled and let himself melt into the mummy bag again, the cotton PT shirt sticking to his back, ropes loose, body sore, soul full.
Tomorrow, their normal routine would return, whatever that meant now. Thanksgiving was days away. Ben would be flying back to Wisconsin to meet John’s family for the holiday, Black Friday shopping, awkward conversations at dinner to respond to, maybe even dragged to his first Catholic Mass. Caleb would be doing his own thing at home in Pueblo.
But right now, in this overheated bedroom, tangled in sleep, sweat, and something beyond trust, the three of them were here, together.
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