The next morning, Csongor woke to the sound of water hammering in the pipes. Someone else was already in the shower, and the rattle of it punched straight through the guest-room wall, vibrating in time with his skull. He lay there, sweating under the single sheet, and tried not to think about how many new fluids had soaked into the cot during the night. The air was still and stank of three separate bodies; a strange, greasy happiness filled the small space between him and Zétény, who slept with his face in the pillow and his whole body draped over the edge of the mattress, like he might try to slither away in his sleep.
When Csongor finally sat up, he felt the bruises first: a stiff ache in his lower back, a hot, scraped band just above his hip. He checked the damage. The red marks had darkened, a perfect, mean set of stripes from the prior night’s entertainment. He ran his finger over them and winced, then smirked. That was one way to keep a memory.
On the floor, Ákos’s bare feet shuffled through the mound of dirty clothes, hunting for something not already caked in sweat or other fluids. He was the one who’d taken the first shower; his hair was still wet, slicked straight back, and beads of water ran in a line down his spine to disappear under the waistband of last night’s gym shorts. He glanced at Csongor, grinned, then made a flexing motion with one arm before snapping the waistband against his hip.
“Shower’s open,” Ákos said. “If you want to keep your skin.”
Csongor rolled his eyes. “I’ll risk it.”
He heard Zétény groan into the mattress. “Not if you want to keep your balls. Hot water’s gone by now.”
“Who needs balls, anyway?” Csongor said. He got up, felt the ache in his thighs and the ooze of half-dried cum clinging to his dick, and stretched like he was made of old elastic. When he turned, he caught Zétény watching him—not directly, but through a half-lidded squint, expression unreadable. Their eyes met for a fraction, just long enough to trigger the memory of the night before: Zétény’s hand on his cock, the greedy press of Ákos’s mouth, the hot rush of the last, almost-accidental finish. Csongor looked away first, but not with regret. If anything, he was glad to see the other guy looking.
He showered quick, cold, and used the cheap pink soap that smelled like his grandmother’s old apartment. It burned on every scratch and raw spot, but he scrubbed hard, ignoring the pain, enjoying it a little. Out in the hall, he towelled off, then pulled on the cleanest t-shirt from his pack. He paused to check himself in the bathroom mirror: the face was the same—blond hair wild, blue eyes slightly puffy, mouth wide and soft. But the body was new. Marked up, a few hickeys at his collarbone, a smear of bruises at his ribs. A different kind of badge.
In the kitchen, the uncle was already at the table, shirtless, a cup of coffee the size of a cereal bowl cradled in his hands. The man’s arms were thicker than most people’s thighs, and his chest hair was dense enough to need mowing. He didn’t look up when Csongor came in, just nodded once and jerked his chin toward the loaf of bread and the pack of sliced meat on the counter.
“Eat,” he said, voice graveled with cigarettes and age. “If you’re going out to the lake, you’ll need more than sugar air in your gut.”
Csongor poured himself a mug, slathered a heel of bread with something that was probably supposed to be butter, and sat at the end of the table. The uncle was reading a hunting magazine upside-down, so there was no use trying to guess what he was thinking.
Ákos arrived next, fully dressed and still looking a little too pleased with himself. He popped the fridge open and made a show of digging for pickles, then pulled the jar and forked out two at once, crunching both before he even made it to the table. He sprawled out in the chair opposite Csongor and gave him a look like: “So, did that really happen, or was it just a dream?” The answer was all over his face.
Zétény was last, hair flattened on one side and a raw scrape visible on his chin where he’d run a razor dry. He wore yesterday’s jeans, a loose tank, and a poker face so blank it might as well have been a mask. But he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed bread and a stack of sausage, slumped into the seat next to Csongor, and started eating with one hand while using the other to scroll his phone. He kept his elbow well away from Csongor’s, which Csongor noticed immediately and filed away — not with hurt exactly, but with the specific discomfort of not knowing what the distance meant.
The four of them chewed in a silence thick with everything that had not been said that morning. The house was cool, the table old and scarred, the food barely edible but exactly what you wanted after a night spent emptying yourself out. Csongor dunked bread in coffee and tried not to read anything into the six-inch gap between his arm and Zétény’s. He failed.
The uncle finally broke the silence, eyes still on the upside-down magazine.
“Lake’s a half-hour walk, if you don’t dawdle. Don’t drown each other. If you see a green Lada in the woods, keep your heads down. The cops get bored in this weather.”
Ákos snorted. “What if the cops want to join us?”
The uncle didn’t smile, but one eyebrow twitched. “Then make sure they pay up front.” He turned a page, sipped from his bowl, and set it down with a heavy thunk. “I don’t care what you get up to, as long as you don’t come home in a bag.”
It was the most approval Csongor had heard from an adult all summer.
Zétény clicked his phone off and looked at the uncle for the first time all morning. “We’re not idiots,” he said, which was technically true.
The uncle looked directly at Zétény, then at Csongor, then at Ákos, his gaze sweeping the table like a flashlight in a dark room. “Idiots don’t know they’re idiots,” he said. “That’s what makes them idiots.”
For a second, nobody breathed.
Then Ákos burst out laughing. “He’s got you there, Zétény.”
Zétény snorted, but didn’t seem mad. “Good thing I’m not the one who can’t swim.”
Ákos lifted his hands. “Hey, I float just fine. You’re the one with hollow bones.”
Csongor grinned, feeling the conversation slip back toward normal. “We could tie empty milk bottles to your arms. Like a flotation device.”
“Or a leash,” Zétény said, a flash of his usual cruelty, but it was more affectionate now.
Ákos stuck out his tongue, then finished his pickle and wiped his hands on his shorts. “As long as nobody’s dragging me back by the dick, I’m happy.”
The uncle grunted. “If you come home smelling like fish, I’m hosing you down in the yard.” He went back to the magazine, but there was a new ease in his posture, like he knew exactly what the boys were really talking about and had already decided it wasn’t his problem.
The kitchen was warm, the coffee strong enough to scrape rust, and the smell of meat and vinegar stuck to the inside of Csongor’s nose. He felt his body relax, the tension from the prior night draining off bit by bit. Across from him, Zétény caught his eye, raised one eyebrow, and for the first time in days, gave him a real smile—small and private, but there.
When they finished eating, Csongor and Zétény shouldered the backpack with towels, a bottle of juice, and half a pack of smokes. Ákos was already halfway to his feet, pack in hand, when the uncle’s voice came from the doorway. “Ákos. Tractor won’t turn over. You know engines.”
Ákos went still. He looked at the pack, then at the uncle, then at Csongor — a long, flat look that said everything about how little he wanted to spend the morning on his back under a machine. The uncle’s face was patient, unhurried, and offered no exit.
“Yeah,” Ákos said finally. He set the pack down. “Go on without me.”
He didn’t wave. Csongor and Zétény stepped out into the heat, and that was that.
The sun was already punishing by the time they reached the fork in the trail. Zétény stopped and pointed left, into a wall of reeds that bowed over a narrow, almost invisible track.
“Shortcut,” he said.
Csongor looked at it. “That’s not a shortcut. That’s where you go to lose a shoe.”
“Faster,” Zétény said. “And nobody back home will know.”
Csongor shrugged. “Might as well.”
The shortcut was hell. Reeds over two meters high, mosquitos out for blood, dragonflies hovering in blue clouds right above the marshy ground. Csongor’s legs got cut to shit by the serrated edges of the grass, but he barely noticed it over the building, electric tension in his stomach. The air under the reeds was thick as soup, all humidity and living things, a world with its own set of rules. They ducked through it single file—Zétény in front, Csongor behind—saying nothing, the only sound their synchronized breathing and the slap of their shoes against mud.
After ten minutes of this, the world opened up all at once: a ragged clearing, sudden and bright, and beyond it the lake, shining like a strip of tinfoil under the cloudless sky. The shoreline was nothing special—a half-moon of packed earth and greyish sand, bordered by patches of stunted wildflowers and dense thickets of reed. The waterline was dotted with smoothed stones, flattened by years of floods, perfect for skipping or for sitting on with your bare ass. The lake was smaller than Csongor expected, maybe fifty meters across, but deep—black in the center and blurring to pale green at the edge.
For a second, neither of them moved. Zétény broke the spell by stripping off his shirt in one clean motion and hurling it over a clump of flowers. He stood there, shirtless and pale, his arms loose at his sides, the network of last night’s scratches and bruises blooming across his skin. The breeze off the lake hit them both, and Csongor felt the sweat on his neck go cold all at once, the skin tightening from his collarbone up.
“Let’s just get in,” Zétény said, and unzipped his jeans.
Csongor followed, peeling off his t-shirt and then working his shorts and briefs down at the same time. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to stand naked in the open air, with only the reeds and the insects to witness. The sun burned on his shoulders, and the wind cooled the sweat on his spine. His cock stiffened immediately, not all the way, but enough to be unmistakable. He glanced over at Zétény, who caught his eye and shrugged.”
They left their shoes and clothes in a heap on the sand and headed for the water, picking their way over pebbles and sharp sticks. At the edge, Csongor tested it with his foot; the lake was cold, numbing, a shock after the sticky air. He waded in up to his knees, then plunged forward in a single, shivering dive. The water closed over his head, and the world went silent for a split second, just cool pressure and a fizz of bubbles.
He surfaced ten meters out, gasping, hair plastered to his forehead. The water was so clear he could see straight down to his toes, the sunlight fracturing over the pale silt. Zétény was next to him, also gasping, treading water with a lazy, practiced motion. His cock bobbed at the surface, thick and unbothered by the cold. Csongor let himself stare, no longer pretending otherwise.
They floated there, close enough to feel the current of each other's kicks, the sun making patterns on their skin, the world reduced to this one strip of lake and sky. Csongor splashed Zétény, who splashed back, and in seconds they were wrestling, arms and legs tangling, dunking each other under, both of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe. It was so simple, so clean, that for a minute he forgot everything that came before.
After a while, they swam back to the shore, clambering up the bank with hands and knees. Their bodies steamed in the hot air. The moment their bodies hit the rough, sun-warmed blanket, they went down hard and stayed there—limbs splayed, chests heaving, cocks already half-hard and glistening in the golden afternoon light. The air smelled of crushed grass and lake water, of salt and musk and the faint metallic tang of sweat drying on skin. Neither made a move to cover themselves. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick, electric, the kind of quiet that hummed with possibility, with the unspoken promise of what came next.
Zétény lay flat on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the blinding sun. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, the defined ridges of his ribs casting faint shadows across his skin. A smattering of red marks—half-healed scratches from god knows what—marred the smooth plane of his stomach, leading down to the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the thick, heavy weight of his cock. It lay against his thigh, already thickening in the heat, the head flushed a deep pink, a single bead of precome welling at the slit before sliding down the veined shaft in a slow, lazy trickle.
Csongor rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze raking over Zétény’s body with shameless hunger. The lean muscles of his own stomach clenched as he took in the sight—the way Zétény’s cock twitched under his stare, the way his balls, heavy and full, shifted against his thigh. Csongor’s own dick was already hard, the shaft flushed and throbbing, the head swollen and leaking, a thin string of precome dripping onto the blanket beneath him.
“What,” Zétény drawled, his voice rough, unhurried. “You gonna just stare at it all day?”
Csongor grinned, slow and wicked. “It’s a *nice* dick.” His fingers twitched, itching to touch.
Zétény didn’t even flinch. “Yours isn’t bad, either.” His voice was low, almost a growl, the words vibrating through the humid air between them.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Csongor reached out, his movements deliberate, fingers dragging slow across Zétény’s stomach. He traced the lowest scratch mark, dragging his fingertips down the trail of dark hair until they curled around the thick base of Zétény’s cock. It was warm and solid against his palm, heavier than he expected. He squeezed gently, watching as Zétény’s hips jerked involuntarily, a sharp hiss escaping his lips.
“Go ahead,” Zétény murmured, voice barely above a whisper, rough with need.
Csongor stroked him, slow and teasing, the way he liked it when he touched himself—firm pressure at the base, a lighter grip as he slid up to the sensitive head, thumb swiping over the slit to smear the precome down the shaft. Zétény’s cock swelled in his hand, the head darkening, another fat drop of precome welling up and rolling down the underside in a glistening trail. Zétény’s breathing hitched, his chest rising faster now, hips lifting with each stroke, seeking more.
Then Zétény reached over, not to push him away, but to grab Csongor’s wrist and yank him closer. Csongor let himself be pulled, their bodies crashing together, skin slick with sweat and lake water, the heat between them almost unbearable. Zétény’s cock pressed against his stomach, thick and hard and dripping, the wet head leaving a sticky trail across his skin. Csongor’s own erection throbbed against Zétény’s hip, the contact sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his balls.
Zétény rolled him onto his back in one fluid motion, straddling his hips, pinning him to the blanket with his knees on either side. His cock jutted out, heavy and flushed, the head swollen and leaking, hovering just above Csongor’s. The sight of them together—two thick, veined shafts, both slick with precome, both aching for friction—made Csongor’s breath catch in his throat.
Zétény leaned down, his lips brushing against Csongor’s collarbone before moving up to his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just hard enough to leave a mark. His hands roamed, rough and demanding, gripping Csongor’s thighs, digging into the firm muscle of his ass, dragging his nails down his chest until every inch of his skin burned with sensation. Csongor arched into the touch, his fingers clawing at Zétény’s back, nails digging in just enough to leave red welts in their wake.
He bucked his hips, grinding their cocks together, the wet slide of skin making them both groan. The friction was perfect—hot, slick, desperate. Csongor could feel Zétény’s precome smearing against his stomach, could feel his own leaking onto Zétény’s thigh, the sticky mess only making him want more.
Zétény shifted, lining their cocks up side by side, and wrapped his hand around them both. His grip was tight, fingers curling around the thick shafts, thumb pressing into the sensitive undersides as he stroked them together—long, slow pulls from base to tip, the pressure just right. The sensation was overwhelming, the perfect mix of pleasure and need, like the best parts of jerking off and getting fucked all at once. Csongor’s head tipped back, the sun burning orange through his eyelids, the air thick with the scent of sweat and grass and sex.
They moved together like that for what felt like hours, hips rocking, cocks sliding, the wet sounds of skin on skin filling the air. The world outside faded—first the far bank of the lake, then the sky, then everything except the heat between them, the catch of breath, the way their bodies had learned each other so quickly, every shift answered before it was finished. Csongor’s balls drew up tight, the pressure building at the base of his spine, his cock throbbing in Zétény’s grip. He could feel Zétény’s dick pulsing against his, the heads rubbing together, slick and swollen, fighting for the same release.
And then—there it was. The edge. The moment when everything narrowed down to the tight, desperate ache in his groin, the way Zétény’s breath hitched, the way his cock twitched in Csongor’s hand. They were both getting so close, flailing their toes in the air, a single spoonful of condensed milk about to spill over the edge.
The reeds on the far side of the lake shivered even when there was no wind. It was Sanyi who crouched lowest, eyes level with the thin slats of sunlight slicing through the green. Every part of him ached—knees, back, jaw, even the cuticles of his dirty fingernails—but the ache was part of the job. Next to him, Pali squatted wide, one hand braced on his thigh, the other gripping a half-empty vodka bottle like it might float away if he let go. He was built like a cement truck, and had the same knack for staying perfectly still until he was ready to crush something.
Gyuri and Béla were a little farther down the line, hiding by the collapsed birch where last year’s storms had laid it flat. Béla kept picking at the same scab on his wrist, flicking the blood away whenever it re-opened. Gyuri’s only movement was the restless, hungry dart of his tongue over his cracked lips.
Sanyi had the best view. Two teenagers, one blond and soft, the other all bone and edge, were lying flat-out on a threadbare towel at the shore. Both were naked, their bodies tangled like they’d never learned how to keep their limbs to themselves. Sunlight hit the boys just right, highlighting every hair on their thighs, every mark and bruise on their skin. Sanyi stared and stared, and the longer he watched, the more impossible it was to look away.
At first, he’d thought they were just jerking each other off—no big deal. Then the bony one rolled onto his back, pulling the blond with him until they lay side by side, hips pressed tight. Their cocks slid together—thick, flushed, leaking—skin slick with sweat and precome. The blond rocked into him, slow at first, then faster, their shafts rubbing in a wet, desperate rhythm. The bony one groaned, fingers digging into the blond’s hip, urging him on. Their bodies moved like they were made to fit this way, breath hitching in unison as the friction built between them. Sanyi felt his cock stiffen in his shorts, sick and electric, but the feeling was buried under something older, deeper—a memory of being thirteen, cornered in a cold barracks shower, a ring of faces watching him as he got broken in for the first time.
Pali grunted, low and disgusted, and shifted the bottle to his left hand. “Fucking little sluts,” he muttered. “Look at them. Like they’re on TV.”
Gyuri laughed, quiet and sharp. “What, jealous?” He made a jerking gesture with his fist, then licked his palm.
Pali’s face twisted, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I’m just saying, they’re not even trying to hide. Might as well set up a sign—‘free holes here.’”
Sanyi kept his mouth shut. He was hard enough that it hurt, but he wouldn’t let the others see it. He watched the two boys rutting, watched precum getting sticky on their bellies and thighs, and felt a weird, hollow ache in his chest—like he wanted to be one of them, just for a minute. Or maybe he wanted to tear the whole scene to pieces.
Gyuri nudged him with his elbow, sly and mean. “You ever do it like that, Sanyi? Or do you only fuck when someone’s holding your head down?”
Sanyi bared his teeth. “I’ll show you how it’s done, rat-boy.”
Béla made a noise—half a laugh, half a cough—and wiped fresh blood from his wrist onto the hem of his t-shirt. He never said much, but when he did, everyone listened.
“Leave it,” Béla said. His voice was soft, but it cut through the reeds like a blade. “Let them play a bit more. Then we go.”
The others nodded. For the next few minutes, all four watched in silence as the boys on the blanket drifted into a pure ecstasy of imitated fuck, their bodies moving in a slow, slick rhythm that was all friction and no release. Sanyi’s balls throbbed. He watched, restless—they weren’t finishing. The two of them just kept going, slow and slick, like they had nowhere else to be. He thought about letting himself come in his pants, just to get it over with, but decided to wait. The real fun was about to start.
He scanned the others. Pali’s face was flushed, sweat running down from his shaved scalp, his eyes locked on the bony kid’s ass. Gyuri was shifting from foot to foot, biting his lower lip, pupils blown wide with anticipation. Béla stared, unmoving, but the bulge at his crotch was as clear as the sun on the water.
Sanyi knew this pattern. He’d seen it in every foster home, every reform school, every fucking cellblock he’d ever been in. It was the hunger—the need to make someone pay for the way you’d been made to pay. They’d all been on the receiving end once, and now they took what they could get, no matter how ugly it was.
He waited for Béla’s signal. It came as a small tilt of the head, nothing more.
“Now,” Béla said.
Sanyi stood, stretching his legs, then led the way through the reeds, the others right behind. The four of them moved together, not fast but inevitable, like the tide. They broke from the brush at the same instant, fanning out across the sand. The two boys didn’t even see them coming, not until the first shadow fell across their bodies.
The blond looked up first, blinking, hair in his eyes. He scrambled back from Zétény, sand sticking to the sweat on his thighs and belly. His hands flew to his lap, trying to cover his still-hard cock with trembling fingers, but it jutted stubbornly between them. Zétény twisted away too, curling on his side, one arm thrown over his groin as he tried to shrink into the towel. Their breath came in ragged, panicked hitches—caught. For a second Csongor just looked at Sanyi, uncomprehending. Then his eyes went wide, and he scrambled backward, sand sticking to his ass and thighs.
Sanyi smiled, the ugly, lopsided grin that never reached his eyes. “Afternoon, boys.”
The bony one didn’t flinch. He got to his feet and put himself between Sanyi and the blond, cock still half-hard, hands balled into fists.
Pali whistled. “Fuck me, look at the balls on this one.”
Gyuri giggled, high and sharp. He reached down and adjusted himself through his jeans.
Béla stepped closer, silent as a cat. He planted both feet in the sand, arms folded, and stared at the boys like he was measuring them for a casket.
Sanyi closed the distance in two swift strides and grabbed Csongor’s wrist—his grip unbreakable. Csongor twisted, struggling to pull free, but Sanyi yanked him forward, slamming their chests together. He felt the frantic hammering of Csongor’s heart before spinning him around and wrenching his arm up behind his back. Csongor’s erection collapsed, his cock going soft and aching against his thigh, the flushed tip peeking from the dark tangle of hair. Zétény bolted, but Pali was already on him, a thick hand clamping his neck and driving his face into the sand. Gyuri circled behind, laughing, then forced Zétény’s legs apart, pinning his ankles with his knees as Zétény’s cock hung limp and tender between them, his balls drawn up tight.
Sanyi shoved Csongor down, grinding his face into the towel. Csongor kicked and cursed, but it was useless—they all knew the routine. No words, no hesitation, just the rehearsed violence of who held and who took.
He glanced at Béla, who was already dropping his shorts, his cock jutting out like a weapon. Béla’s voice was quiet, almost gentle.
“Hold them steady.”
Sanyi locked his arm around Csongor’s neck, tightening until the fight drained out of him. He felt Csongor’s breath stutter, then break. For a second, Sanyi hesitated—just a second. He almost said, *We don’t have to*, but the moment passed. He pressed Csongor’s head down and watched as Béla lined himself up, the tip of his cock slick with pre.
The first thrust made Csongor scream—a raw, guttural sound that split the air. Sanyi’s own cock twitched in his pants, hard as iron, and he hated himself for it even as he dug his palm into Csongor’s shoulder and held him in place.
Béla fucked him in brutal, relentless strokes, each one wringing another choked cry from Csongor’s throat. Pali had hauled Zétény up by the hair, his own dick out now, already glistening. He forced it into Zétény’s mouth, gripping his skull like a vice, and started face-fucking him with deep, vicious thrusts. Through watering eyes, Zétény saw Csongor’s body arch against the towel—not in struggle but in a grotesque parody of ecstasy. His friend’s cock was swollen and rigid, sticking out the very same way as it did in the shelter of the sweatpants on the bus. As Béla hammered into him, Csongor’s hips bucked helplessly and he came in thick, sudden spurts flying high in the air landing all over on his chest and stomach. Their eyes met for one fractured second—Csongor’s wide with shame and disbelief—before Zétény gagged around Pali’s thrusts.
Gyuri just watched, eyes wide, his hand working furiously at his crotch.
Sanyi trembled—not from fear, but from the old, gnawing pain that never left. He looked down at Csongor, saw the blood streaking his thigh, the come drying on his belly, and felt nothing he could name.
When it was his turn, he released Csongor’s neck, lined himself up, and drove in, ignoring the ache in his own chest. He lasted less than a minute, the heat and pressure erupting in a blinding rush. He didn’t look at Csongor’s face.
They all took their turns, the sequence brutal and precise. By the end, Csongor and Zétény were broken—faces streaked with tears and spit, bodies marked with bruises and sand and worse. Sanyi felt nothing. He wiped himself on the towel, zipped up, and stepped back, letting Pali finish with one last, grinding thrust.
Afterward, they left the boys where they lay, not bothering to clean up. Pali tossed the vodka bottle into the reeds, Gyuri cackled, and Béla just walked away, silent as always.
Sanyi was the last to go. He looked back at the two broken bodies, then looked away.
He spat into the sand, then turned and followed the others, the reeds swallowing him up.
The lake surface caught the sun the same as before. Somewhere in the reeds, a frog started up again.
After a while, Zétény managed to drag himself up to a sitting position, hugging his knees to his chest. His breath was ragged, but his eyes were clear now, the old light back in them. Csongor crawled over, collapsing next to him, shoulder to shoulder.
They sat that way, the blood drying on their legs, the sand stuck to the wetness, and looked out at the lake, which glinted like nothing had changed.
After a long time, Zétény spoke. His voice was raw, but steady.
“You okay?”
Csongor nodded, but didn’t trust himself to speak. He waited, and after a minute, the pain settled into a dull, manageable burn.
Zétény reached over and picked a grain of sand from the corner of Csongor’s mouth. He held it up, studied it, then flicked it into the water.
“This wasn’t in the badge book either,” Csongor said. Neither of them laughed. Zétény’s jaw worked once, then went still. They lay back on the sand, staring up at the blank sky.
Somewhere a dog barked twice and went quiet.
