1.
Evan wasn’t surprised when people didn’t recognize him at the start of the school year. Sometimes he barely recognized himself in the mirror. The last waves of puberty and the old weights left by his dad had melted away his teenage pudge and sculpted what was left into something harder, something new.
He was still cherub-cheeked and quick to blush—but his unruly curls were replaced by a short, sharp cut that made his jaw look stronger. His shoulders had widened, his chest filled out, and even his belly was tight and firm—a slightly curved seahorse tummy, as he secretly thought—his back arching to match its subtle slope.
It was a body built for wrestling, the team he’d joined that year—an unlikely recruit so late in high school. But his compact build, new strength, and a surprising competitive hunger made him effective on the mat.
He’d always been the quiet kid, the good boy his mom always reminded him to be—agreeable, studious. But there was another side to Evan—a bad boy hum beneath his skin that came alive in secret. Alone, he explored the deeper, darker side of his body, testing what it could take, chasing climaxes that left him sweating and shaking in ways no wrestling match ever could.
Sometimes, the good boy and bad boy inside him felt at odds. Other times, they seemed to cover for each other—the quiet discipline and yielding ways of the good boy earning the love and security they both needed, giving the bad boy bold license to chase the intense sensations they craved.
Wrestling was another test—not as intimate as his late-night explorations, but rewarding in its own way. The shared sweat and effort felt oddly affirming. The camaraderie carried its own intensity. That’s how he became friendly with Rory, a solid, good-natured guy with an easy laugh, raised in a family of athletic boys.
When practice ended late on a Friday, Rory, still out of breath, clapped Evan on the shoulder. “Sleepover at my place? My mom’s out of town, just my dad and us boys.” Evan felt his stomach flutter.
Sleepovers had been tricky. He hadn’t gone to one since—well, since the incident he couldn’t name.
He’d been a younger teen then, soft around the edges and still awkward in growth spurts, spending the night at a friend’s house. They’d been play-wrestling—just boys roughhousing, nothing sexual. But at some point, his arm, recently stronger and thicker, pinned his smaller friend. It was a moment of raw, unplanned power. His hips moved without thought, a subtle, predatory sway, grinding lightly against the weaker body beneath him.
That’s when his friend’s mother walked in, her voice cutting sharp. “EVAN—what are you doing?” He scrambled off, flushed and sweaty, suddenly painfully self-aware. He didn’t fully understand what he’d done, but the horror in her voice stuck with him.
He hurried home, hot and breathless—not from exertion, but from the feeling crushing him. Not just mundane embarrassment, but something darker—mortifying. Shame.
That night, desperate to smother it, he ate until he was numb. Then ate some more.
He refused wrestling and other sports, letting himself grow soft and hidden—told himself he was meant for books and quiet, denying the uncomfortable power he'd felt. But his bad boy self’s late-night explorations offered a secret purpose he couldn’t deny.
One day, the bad boy inside him picked up one of the free weights untouched since his father left. Why deny himself the thrill of lifting, the feeling of power coiled in his body?
That first taste of strength awakened something he’d buried since that sleepover.
Now, looking at Rory’s open, expectant face, Evan felt a warm flush. The old shame still pricked, but this wasn’t the same—he wasn’t the same. His new body was an invitation, not a trap.
“Yeah,” Evan said, the word firm and surprising to himself. “Yeah, sounds good. I just need to tell my mom.”
2.
When Evan showed up at Rory’s that evening, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the door swung open before he could knock. Rory stood there, t-shirt and sweats, freshly showered, thick brown hair still damp. “Hey, man, glad you made it!” Rory grinned, clapping him on the shoulder and stepping aside.
The house was bigger than Evan’s, more spacious, but the air inside was thick with the scent of teenage boy: pungent sweat, the lingering sweetness of cheap cologne, and something vaguely metallic Evan couldn’t place.
Rory’s older brothers, Peter and Brendan Gallavan—the twins Evan barely knew, two years ahead at school—were out, leaving the house quiet, almost private.
As they headed toward Rory’s room, a door creaked down the hall. Mr. Gallavan appeared in the doorway of what Evan guessed was the master bedroom. Bruce, Rory’s dad, was a handsome man in his forties, ruddy cheeks, a thick build that echoed and amplified Rory’s own muscular frame. He wore dark jeans and a polo shirt stretched snug over his chest and around the swell of his biceps. Evan had seen him at wrestling meets before—a confident, grounded man who clearly took care of himself and knew his place in the world.
“Hey, boys,” Bruce rumbled, eyes flicking over Evan with a half-smile. “Evan, good to see you. Make yourself at home. Need anything, just ask.” The standard, polite welcome from a welcoming parent, but he turned and walked down the hall before Evan could properly thank him.
Rory’s room was a sea of barely controlled chaos—discarded clothes, gaming consoles, empty soda cans. A snarling pro wrestler’s poster was taped crooked above his bed. On the bedside table sat a bottle of hand lotion and a box of tissues beside his alarm clock—a bold admission Evan would never have dared leave where his mom could see.
Rory was a more seasoned wrestler, his lean build honed by years on the mat—leaner than Evan, his moves hard wired by training. Having just seen Bruce, Evan recognized the family resemblance again—Rory, a younger, slightly less dense version of his dad, with the same ruddy-cheeked handsomeness.
Evan tossed his duffel in a corner, and he and Rory settled into a video game. Rory’s quiet focus was punctuated by laughs, grunts, and occasional deep breaths. His sharp turns— elbows and knees brushing Evan’s—made the closeness of the shared bed charged, stoking Evan’s arousal.
As the evening wore on, the scent of sweat, pizza, and teenage boy musk thickened the room—a heady mix for Evan, used to his antiseptic, tidy bedroom, where his growing stash of toys and magazines was carefully hidden, along with the sweat and fluids he always cleaned up in secret.
Late into the night, they finally called it. No mention of a guest bed or sleeping bag. Rory stripped down to his briefs and slid under the covers, leaving room for Evan beside him.
3.
They lay side by side in Rory’s bed, his chest rising and falling, sleep nowhere in sight. The air hung thick and warm, and Evan couldn’t find comfort in it.
“Can’t sleep?” Rory murmured, voice low.
Evan shook his head. “Nah.”
“Me neither.” Rory shifted, restless, his shoulder brushing Evan’s.
They were so close Evan felt the heat radiating off Rory—the subtle flex of muscles, even the soft brush of leg hair against his own.
Rory nudged Evan’s hip playfully. Evan pushed back, a snort escaping him. Suddenly they were grappling—half-wrestling, half-laughing—rolling in the sheets. Hands grabbed limbs and sides, their restless energy unleashed.
Rory moved like he did on the mat—quick, practiced. With a grunt, he rolled and straddled Evan’s waist, pinning his wrists. The small victory turned up the growing heat between them, and Evan felt Rory’s hard cock grind against his own— undeniable to both.
Evan’s arms tensed for a moment—he almost rolled Rory off, the reflex to resist another’s dominance rising. But just as fast, he let his muscles relax, soften. A profound quiet settled in him.
There was strength in being on top—he knew that, and had it in him. But there was strength too in surrender, in yielding—a strange, liberating relief to be the one beneath, rather than the one with the heavy, misunderstood power. He felt a new power growing in him, replacing the old.
Rory leaned in, face hovering just above Evan’s, close enough to see the green and amber flecks in his irises. Silent, he let their hot breaths mingle, searching Evan’s eyes. Evan parted his legs, relaxed, tilted his hips up—a clear invitation. Rory reached down, tugged Evan’s pajamas, then fumbled for his lotion, and squeezed a generous slick into his palm with an audible squelch.
Rory shifted, pinning Evan’s wrists, more out of habit than need. The lotion’s first cold touch at Evan’s hole made him gasp as fingers pressed in, opening and stretching him. His cock jumped against his belly—signaling his readiness. He’d practiced this alone, with fingers and other things—bigger, deeper—but Rory had no way to know that.
Rory eased his grip, pushed his briefs down, and smoothly shifted Evan onto his side, then onto his belly—completely surrendered for Rory’s use. Rory lined up his erection and slid in, a tremor catching his breath as the slick, lotioned hole engulfed him.
Evan clenched, then relaxed, ready for the deep, filling slide he knew so well—but this time at another’s will. Rory pulled back, testing. Seeing Evan’s willingness, he thrust harder and deeper—Evan’s breath caught.
He pulled back and thrust again, shifting into harder, faster movements. Yes, yes, Evan wanted to say, but he feared breaking the spell of Rory’s desire driving into him. His only move was grabbing a pillow, wedging it under his hips, needing something for his own cock to press into as Rory fucked him harder.
Rory’s pace quickened, thrusting harder and faster. “Fuck… fuck…” he groaned, wild and frantic. The squelch of lotion on skin filled the room, every urgent thrust pressing Evan’s cock into the pillow’s soft folds.
Soon—far too soon—Rory tensed with a final hard thrust, cumming deep inside Evan, hot and pulsing. That was enough. Evan’s muscles clenched, his own climax spilling onto the pillow, his tight hole gripping Rory’s cock, feeling the weight of his friend and his spent desire.
Rory pulled free and flopped onto his back, leaving Evan lying there—satisfied, but his insides hollowed—suddenly empty.
4.
They drifted off tangled together, and for a while, Evan slipped into a deep, spent doze, Rory’s breathing slow and steady beside him. The slick lotion in the cleft of his ass and the churning in his bowel reminded him just how good it had felt to be with Rory.
But real sleep never came. Evan woke again and again as Rory shifted—his leg draped over Evan’s hips, an arm across his chest. The touch was a comfort, but also a distraction that kept Evan from sinking fully under.
Quietly, he slipped free from Rory’s hold, careful not to wake him. Tugging on his pajama bottoms, he stepped into the hallway. The cooler air was a relief against his bare chest and back. More restless than he’d thought, he stretched, glad to move.
As Evan padded down the hall toward the bathroom, low voices drifted from the living room. Passing the open doorway, he spotted the source—Peter and Brendan Gallavan, the twins—lounging across the sectional sofa. Both had that thick brown Gallavan hair falling over their foreheads, broad, solid frames shaped by lacrosse—a different kind of strength than their younger wrestler brother.
Peter’s eyes flicked over Evan’s bare torso, taking in the sculpted chest, the curve of his belly, the arch of his back. “You’ve changed.”
Evan hadn’t known the twins knew he existed. But this notice—the recognition and direct acknowledgment of his transformation—coming from one of the handsome Gallavan twins—hit like a jolt of adrenaline.
“Looks different, but still a good boy, huh?” Brendan teased low, eyes dropping to Evan’s crotch. The words—the implicit dare—landed like a dare deep in Evan’s gut.
Evan swallowed and stepped forward, the tent in his pajamas obvious, his bad boy heart steady.
Peter shifted, making room. “How about we see how good you really are?” he said, glancing at Brendan, whose grin grew wider. “Let’s open you up, Evan. Really open you up.”
Peter moved first—predatory and confident—his hand sliding over Evan’s hip. Brendan followed, gripping Evan’s shoulder and gently turning him to look down the curve of his back, then his rear in pajamas.
“Let’s see what you’ve got back here,” Brendan murmured, voice rough. His cock pressed against Evan’s thigh through his sweats.
His fingers traced Evan’s bare stomach, found the drawstring, and tugged, dropping Evan’s pajamas—baring his ass and thighs, freeing his cock, thick and hard, though not the subject of the twins’ interest.
Peter’s thumb pressed wetly at Evan’s hole, circling, then pushing in. The sudden, deep sensation was a sharp contrast to Rory’s earlier gentle touch. His hole felt tender but relaxed, already slick with Rory's leftover cum and moisturizer.
“Little bro leave you wet?” Peter teased with a chuckle. “Good.”
Brendan’s lips crashed onto Evan’s—hungry and forceful. Evan opened for him, letting Brendan’s tongue take his mouth. But it was brief, as hands moved, guiding Evan to his knees, the twins looming above.
Brendan stepped close, thumbing his sweats down to free his cock—thick and glistening at the tip. One hand gripped Evan’s jaw, tilting his face up as Brendan pressed the head of his cock to Evan’s mouth. Instinctively, Evan parted his lips, and Brendan’s cock slid in—stiff and warm, inch by inch. “Oh yeah, good boy.”
Behind him, Peter joined on the carpet, hands gripping Evan’s hips. The thick head of Peter’s cock pressed against Evan’s slick entrance. Peter sighed as he sank in, driving hard, stretching Evan quickly in one deep, rough thrust.
Peter fucked him with a force his younger brother hadn’t shown—hips slapping, hands gripping Evan’s muscled chest and belly—while Brendan guided Evan’s head to take him deeper.
Brendan slid his thumb between Evan’s lips and cock base, pushing in, making Evan gag up thick mucus that slicked his mouth and throat. “That’s it, Evan. Open up.”
The twins were relentless, filling Evan at both ends—Peter driving deep inside, Brendan down his throat. The sensations overwhelmed him, stars flickering behind his eyes, skin prickling with sweat. It was almost too much, but Evan found a deeper surrender, opening in his core, taking more.
Blindly, he reached down, stroking his leaking cock as Brendan gripped his shoulders and Peter pulled his hips back, driving into him. The rhythm grew frantic—three bodies lost in it.
Peter’s pace quickened—then in one hard slam he seized up, moaning as he emptied inside Evan—a hot, thick rush of cum that made Evan clamp tight. Hearing Evan’s muffled moan, Brendan let out a low, drawn-out “Fuuuuck.” His cock thickened, choking Evan before spilling into his mouth—salty and hot, filling his throat. Evan gagged, nearly retched, but Brendan held his head steady, and Evan swallowed, his body obeying, taking it all.
His own climax hit without warning, his cock erupting in a second shuddering release, wedged between the twins, their cocks still filling his holes.
He sagged back, Brendan’s funky taste on his tongue, hole aching—every nerve alive.
5.
Peter gave Evan’s shoulder a rough squeeze as he passed, while Brendan offered a lazy, absent-minded pat on his ass. “Good job,” Peter muttered.
They slumped onto the sofa, breaths easing, faces slack with satisfaction. The TV flickered to life, casting pale light across the room, but their attention was already elsewhere. To them, Evan was just a convenient tool, something casual and easy.
Evan stood still for a moment, mouth still tasting Brendan, his body warm and full from the twins. He clenched to keep Peter’s fresh cum from leaking down the inside of his thigh, and he felt a deep, low churning in his gut, a subtle gurgle.
But a hum of satisfaction ran through him—a mix of their plain desire to use him, their ease, and how quickly they moved on. There was a strange, giddy sense of accomplishment.
But he realized how sticky and sweaty he was, skin heavy with the scent of sex, finger shaped bruises already forming at his sides. He thought of Rory asleep upstairs and couldn’t imagine crawling back into that small bed, reeking of sweat and cum, nerves still buzzing. It felt impossible.
He needed to get away—to shower, get clean, and let his body settle enough to sleep.
He could call his mom to pick him up, but first, he had to let Mr. Gallavan know he was leaving—what any polite, good boy would do. The thought of knocking on Bruce’s door, waking him, made his heart skip. But this was different from the rush he’d just felt. This was a quieter kind of nervousness—a step back into the ordinary.
Moving quietly down the hall, Evan found the master bedroom door. A sliver of light slipped out from underneath. Good—Bruce was still up. Evan raised a hesitant hand and tapped softly.
“Come in,” a deep, rumbling voice answered.
He stepped inside a tranquil, softly lit room—a sharp contrast to the chaos of Rory’s. Bruce was propped against his pillows, on one side of the bed, a thick book resting in his hands. Shirtless, his broad, muscular chest bare, soft hair hugged his pecs, a five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. He looked up, glasses perched on his nose, unsurprised.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Gallavan,” Evan began, voice rough, saliva still thick. “I… I’m having trouble sleeping. Not used to sharing a bed. I think I should head home. I can call my mom.”
Bruce closed his book, resting it on his lap. His gaze lingering on Evan’s bare, flushed chest. For a moment, Evan wondered if Bruce could read everything written on his body. Could Bruce smell the layered scents of sex on him? Or hear the low churn in his used gut?
“No need for that,” Bruce said calmly. “It’s late. Your mom shouldn’t have to get up. My wife’s away, so there’s room here—king bed, plenty of space.” He gestured to the empty side, sheets still crisp and untouched. “I’m happy to drive you home. Or you’re welcome to crash here, if you’d rather stay.”
The bold offer surprised Evan. Sharing a bed with Bruce Gallavan? The thought hit him hard—unexpected but somehow exactly right. Clean sheets, quiet, and the steady presence of Rory’s father, powerful even just reading in bed.
The good boy knew how to be agreeable, how to accept a generous offer, and in that politeness, the bad boy grinned with anticipation—they weren’t really personalities, but ways to meet Evan’s ends.
But in this, the good boy and bad boy sides spoke as one. “Yes, please,” Evan said, breathy but firm. “Thank you, Mr. Gallavan.”
6.
Bruce set his book aside and pulled back the sheets. Evan hesitated for only a moment before sliding into the open side of the king bed. As he moved, he caught a glimpse of Bruce’s hip beneath the raised sheet—bare, exposed. The sight made his aching cock swell again.
The cool, fresh sheets felt like a relief against his still-sweaty skin as he settled into the vast space beside Bruce. His fingers brushed over the sparse hairs dusting his own chest—a stark contrast to the soft hair covering Bruce’s pecs, like a warm shadow.
“I’m sorry—I’m a little… sweaty, sir.”
Bruce turned slowly, shifting onto his side to face him, eyes calm and steady. He chuckled softly. “Did my boys wear you out? Ride you hard and put you away wet?”
“No, sir. Not totally.” Speaking like this, after years of secrecy, felt almost surreal to Evan. Was this what men did? Talk like this, with no women listening?
“Good,” Bruce said, voice deep and steady. He reached out confidently, placing a large, warm palm gently over Evan’s chest, right on his pounding heart.
“You’ve certainly put in the work, Evan,” Bruce murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles over Evan’s firm pectoral muscle. “Your body’s changed. Impressive.” His gaze drifted down, taking in Evan’s bare torso, streaked with dried sweat.
“Still got some left in you, Evan?” he rumbled as his thumb traced lower, following the curve of Evan’s abs.
Evan nodded, breath quickening as Bruce’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms. When it wrapped around his hardening cock, a soft groan escaped him. Bruce gave a slow, deliberate stroke that sent shivers through Evan’s body—but he shifted closer, instinctively opening to the touch.
“That’s a good cock,” Bruce said. “You could make someone very happy with that. But you’re built for more than that, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Evan whispered, tremors coursing through him.
Bruce didn’t hesitate. He rolled Evan gently onto his side and pulled down his pajama bottoms. A large hand cupped his rear, fingers splaying across his ass cheek before two firm, saliva-slicked fingers pressed against his entrance.
After Rory and Peter had pushed him, the fingers met little resistance. They pressed into the snug ring, working in a slow, deliberate rhythm, stretching him open as shivers spread through his body.
“I think my boys have had their fun,” Bruce chuckled low, and Evan nodded, breathless.
When Bruce finally settled behind him, the full weight and size of him pressed against Evan’s back. No fumbling, no hesitation—with a low “Fuck,” Bruce’s cock pushed inside, the thick shaft spreading the ring of muscle as it sank in.
Evan’s muffled moan pressed into the pillow as Bruce filled the soft, worn tissue inside him, going deeper than anything before, delivering a satisfying, unstoppable stretch.
He gasped at the invasion, clutching the bedsheets—a last flicker of instinct to resist before settling into complete surrender.
“That’s it, Evan,” Bruce whispered, a low growl in his ear. “You can let go. Your body knows what to do.”
His cock pushed deeper into the slick remnants of his sons, pressing into stretched, yielding flesh. His hand rested on Evan’s pec, tracing a nipple, clutching the band of muscle beneath.
Bruce’s slow, deep thrusts—pulling almost all the way out before driving in again—were nothing like Rory or the twins. Bruce was a man, powerful and controlled, dominating and pleasing with steady rhythm. He gripped Evan’s hips firmly, driving in with deliberate strength. “That’s it Evan—fuck, you know how to take it.”
With a powerful shift, Bruce rolled Evan onto his back, mounting him face to face. Evan gasped, eyes locking with Bruce’s desire-darkened gaze. Without breaking contact, Bruce pulled one of Evan’s legs around his sturdy waist and pinned the other against his shoulder beneath his weight.
Face to face, Evan felt every deep thrust hit new spots inside him, some he hadn’t even known existed. His mind and body scrambled to adjust after each strike, composure crumbling with every hit. Their mouths met again and again—raw, open kisses as deep as the pounding.
Bruce’s hand slid from Evan’s chest to join his own, stroking his hard cock nearly in sync with the relentless rhythm, nudging into what felt like a second, hidden place. Evan gasped, a jolt of pure sensation coursing through him. He hadn't known there was so much capacity in him.
With a final, deep thrust, Bruce groaned—a low, shuddering sound—as he poured his hot, heavy load inside Evan, adding to the two already there. The rush of cum, paired with the firm hand stroking him, pushed Evan over a limit he’d never known existed.
His third orgasm tore through him—shuddering and more overwhelming than any before. His own release was meager, almost painful to produce, his whole body tensing to squeeze out a nearly dry cum.
For a long time, he trembled beneath Bruce, seized by this new, raw capacity for pleasure.
7.
Bruce lay heavy on top of him for a moment, breathing hard, his weight a grounding, comforting presence. As Bruce pulled out, rolling to his side, his cock, still thick, leaked a final, slow stream of cum, between them.
Evan, still buzzing, reached out, his fingers closing around Bruce's heavy shaft. With a quiet focus, he brought the head of Bruce's cock to his mouth, taking the last, thick drops and swallowing, mixing it with Brendan’s in his belly.
Bruce's hand came up, gently cupping the back of Evan's head, holding him there for a beat. Then, with a soft grunt, he shifted, pulling Evan with him as he rolled onto his back.
Evan found himself settled beside him, their bodies still warm from the recent friction. Sweat slicked his skin, his hole throbbed—stretched and filled to capacity. A deep satisfaction curled in his chest—the kind that comes from being taken completely, from proving what he could do.
Bruce’s hand cupped the curve of Evan’s firm belly, warm and steady. Then his voice, low and rumbling, broke the silence. “Look at you, full of seed. So fucking sexy.”
Evan chuckled softly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.
“You made me feel so good,” Bruce murmured, fingers running through Evan’s damp hair. “Tough boy—taking us all like that. I’m impressed.” His voice vibrated through Evan, settling deep in his core.
The words were comforting as Evan’s vision blurred. He made them all feel so good. The idea came to him, in that half-sleeping way they sometimes did, that the good boy and the bad boy inside him weren’t at odds, but were taking care of one another—always had been.
A final smile tugged at his lips, his eyes drifted shut—the subtle press of Bruce’s arm over his waist, the sweet lingering ache inside him—and he came to rest.
END
Author's note: if you'd like to be notified of future story drops please let me know at [email protected]. Your contact information will not be shared.
