"Christ, look at him move," Marcus murmured into his husband's ear, fingers tightening around his whiskey glass as his gaze tracked Ethan's hips rolling in perfect, liquid rhythm across the crowded dance floor. The neon lights caught the sweat glistening on his toned abdomen, his white tank clinging to every dip of muscle like a second skin.
Jamie exhaled sharply, knuckles whitening against the edge of their booth. "That ass—fuck—it's illegal." And it was: Ethan's shorts rode dangerously low, the fabric stretching with every deliberate grind, revealing the sinful curve where his lower back met the swell of his cheeks. Marcus remembered bouncing Ethan on his knee at birthday parties when he was six—now all he could picture was bending him over the nearest surface.
One of their friends whistled low, nudging Jamie's shoulder. "Who's the muscle god wrecking the dance floor?" Marcus didn't miss the hungry way the guy's tongue swiped his bottom lip. Ethan chose that moment to arch backward, fingers raking through his damp curls, throat bared—a living temptation in the strobing lights.
Jamie's laugh was rough, uneven. "Friend's kid." The lie tasted bitter, but the truth was worse: *We watched him grow up.* The thought should have sobered him, but Ethan was rolling his hips now, slow and filthy, fingers hooking into his waistband like he knew exactly how many eyes tracked the motion.
Ethan turned—*Christ, those lips*—and froze mid-step when he spotted them. Recognition flared in his dark eyes, then something hotter, hungrier. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip before he grinned, all white teeth and knowing.
The crowd parted as he strutted toward them, his stride loose-hipped and deliberate, the kind of walk that made men's throats go dry. Marcus could smell him before he reached them.
"Uncle Jamie," Ethan purred, the words dripping with something darker than nostalgia as he dragged his palms up Jamie's chest in a slow, invasive hug that lingered too long at the small of his back. His breath was hot against Jamie's ear when he added, "Still lifting, huh? Feels like you got bigger." The chuckle that followed was pure sin—low, throaty, the kind that vibrated against skin.
Marcus didn't miss how Ethan's fingers dug into Jamie's hips before he turned to him, those same hands sliding up his shoulders with deliberate pressure. "Marcus," Ethan murmured, mouth brushing his earlobe in a way that couldn't be accidental. "Missed your stupid dad jokes." The scent of him—salt, cheap cologne, and something muskier underneath—flooded Marcus's senses as Ethan pressed flush against him, the unmistakable heat of his erection grinding briefly against Marcus's thigh before he pulled away with a smirk.
"Haven’t seen you for a while, kid," Marcus managed, throat tight as he watched a bead of sweat trail down Ethan's collarbone. "How's college going?" His voice cracked on the last word when Ethan licked his lips, slow and obscene. "Still playing football?" It was a pathetic attempt at normalcy while Ethan's thumb traced circles over his pulse point, the calluses from years of gripping a ball rough against his skin.
Jamie cleared his throat too loudly, fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach out—*Christ*, Marcus could practically hear his husband’s thoughts: *those hands could rip me apart*. "We should introduce you to the guys," Jamie said instead, gesturing toward their friends, who were already leaning in too close, eyes raking over Ethan’s body like they wanted to peel his clothes off with their teeth. One of them—Derek, Marcus thought vaguely—was already palming himself through his jeans, shameless.
Ethan grinned, slow and filthy, rolling his shoulders back until his pecs strained against the damp fabric of his tank. "Sure," he murmured, letting Jamie steer him toward the group with a guiding hand on the small of his back that lingered just a second too long. Marcus watched, stomach tight, as Ethan’s ass flexed under the thin shorts with every step—*like two fucking cantaloupes*, Derek mouthed to someone, earning a choked laugh.
Derek’s eyes zeroed in on the way Ethan’s thick thighs strained against his shorts when he leaned against the booth, the way his biceps flexed as he reached for Jamie’s whiskey without asking, fingers brushing Jamie’s knuckles deliberately. "So," Ethan drawled, tongue swiping the rim of the glass before he tipped it back, throat working as he swallowed. The neon pink light caught the sweat beading at his temple, sliding down the corded muscle of his neck. "You guys come here often?"
The table erupted in laughter—too loud, too eage. "Only when we need a view," he said, gaze dropping pointedly to Ethan’s chest. Ethan smirked, rolling the glass between his palms, letting the condensation drip onto his wrist before licking it off slowly.
The guys invited Ethan to join them and made room for him, Jamie and Marcus in the booth. Jamie’s fingers tightened around his own drink, knuckles white. "Scoot over," he muttered to Marcus, jerking his chin toward the crowded booth. Ethan spread his legs wider under the table, his knee brushing Marcus’s—*accidental*, surely—until he leaned back, arching his spine.
Derek’s hand landed on Ethan’s shoulder, thumb digging into the muscle there. "So," he said, voice rougher than before, "you always dance like that?" Ethan smirked, rolling his shoulder under Derek’s grip, flexing deliberately. "Only when I’m trying to get fucked," he said, blunt as a hammer to the chest, and the table went silent—except for the choked sound Jamie made, whiskey sloshing over his fingers.
Ethan’s knee nudged higher against Marcus’s thigh, deliberate now, pressing in just enough to make Marcus’s breath hitch.
Derek’s fingers trailed down Ethan’s bicep, tracing the veins there like he was mapping a route to ruin. "Prove it," he challenged, voice thick, and Ethan didn’t hesitate—he twisted in the booth, swung a leg over Marcus’s lap, and settled there, thighs bracketing Marcus’s hips with a weight that sent heat licking up his spine. The fabric of Ethan’s shorts rode up, the bare skin of his inner thighs scorching against Marcus’s slacks.
Ethan rocked forward, grinding down once—slow, deliberate—and Marcus’s hands flew to his waist on instinct, fingertips digging into the divots above Ethan’s hips. The gasp Ethan let out was filthy, head tipping back to expose the column of his throat, and Derek’s laugh was more of a growl as he leaned in to bite at the tendon there.
Somewhere in the haze of whiskey and neon, Marcus registered Jamie’s fingers slipping higher, tracing the hem of Ethan’s shorts before dragging a calloused thumb over the sensitive skin beneath. Ethan shuddered, hips stuttering, and Marcus felt the hot press of him through his slacks—thick, insistent—before Ethan ground down again, this time with enough force to wrench a ragged moan from Marcus’s chest.
Derek’s hands were already working the button of Ethan’s shorts loose, fingers dipping beneath the fabric to palm the swell of his ass, spreading him roughly. The booth’s vinyl groaned under their shifting weight as Ethan arched into the touch, his tank riding up to expose the taut ridges of his abdomen. Someone’s whiskey glass toppled, ice skittering across the table, but no one moved to right it—too busy watching Derek’s fingers disappear into the cleft of Ethan’s ass, dragging a slick path lower, lower—
Marcus leaned forward to bite at Ethan’s collarbone, tasting salt and desperation as Ethan’s hips jerked forward, grinding against him in an unbroken rhythm. The club’s bass thrummed through them, a relentless pulse syncing with the ragged hitch of Ethan’s breath when Derek’s finger breached him, pressing in just enough to make his thighs tremble. Ethan’s fingers tangled in Marcus’s hair, tugging hard enough to sting, his other hand fumbling blindly for Jamie’s belt buckle—the metal clinking loud in the charged space between them.
The neon lights flickered overhead, casting Ethan’s sweat-slicked skin in alternating hues of violet and crimson as Derek finally worked him open, his fingers twisting deep, drawing out a choked moan that Ethan muffled against Marcus’s throat. Jamie’s palm slid up Ethan’s thigh, fingers digging into the flex of muscle there before slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts, finding him already dripping, hot and slick against his knuckles. Someone—Marcus couldn’t tell who—groaned something filthy into Ethan’s ear, and the way Ethan shuddered, whole body going taut, sent a thrill down Marcus’s spine.
Ethan’s breath came in ragged bursts now, his hips rocking between Derek’s fingers and Marcus’s lap, his cock straining against the confines of his shorts as Jamie’s hand worked him with rough, practiced strokes. The booth’s leather was sticky with spilled drinks and sweat, the air thick with the musk of arousal as Derek leaned in to lick a stripe up Ethan’s neck, murmuring something that made Ethan’s hips stutter. Marcus watched, transfixed, as Ethan’s lips parted around a silent plea, his fingers tightening convulsively in Jamie’s shirt—right before Derek crooked his fingers just so, and Ethan came apart between them with a ragged cry, his release streaking hot across Jamie’s fist.
The club’s bassline drowned out the wet sounds of Jamie’s hand moving faster now, working Ethan through it until he was shuddering, oversensitive, his thighs clamping around Marcus’s waist. Derek’s laugh was a dark rumble against Ethan’s shoulder as he withdrew his fingers, glistening in the strobe lights, and pressed them against Ethan’s slack mouth. Ethan’s tongue darted out obediently, lapping at the taste of himself with a dazed hunger that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in Marcus’s gut. Jamie’s grip on Ethan’s waist tightened, his other hand sliding up to fist in Ethan’s damp curls, tilting his head back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat—a silent demand for more.
Derek didn’t need prompting. He hauled Ethan off Marcus’s lap with a rough yank, spinning him around to press his chest against the sticky tabletop, shorts yanked down to his thighs in one fluid motion. The booth’s occupants shifted, making room as Derek dragged Ethan’s hips back, the round swell of his ass glistening under the club’s lights, already stretched and slick. Marcus caught the fleeting hesitation in Jamie’s eyes—just a flicker—before he leaned in “You sure?” Jamie murmured, low enough that only Marcus could hear the tremor in it. Ethan’s answer was a roll of his hips, deliberate and filthy, his voice wrecked when he hissed, “Fuck me already.”
The first thrust drew a collective gasp—from Ethan, from the guys crowded around, from Marcus’s own choked exhale as Derek sheathed himself to the hilt with a groan. Ethan’s back arched, his fingers scrambling for purchase on the table’s edge as Derek set a punishing pace, each snap of his hips jolting Ethan forward into Jamie’s waiting hands. Marcus watched, mesmerized, as Jamie’s thumb brushed over Ethan’s parted lips, smearing the remnants of his earlier release—then lower, tracing the heaving line of his chest before pinching a nipple hard enough to make Ethan sob. Derek’s knuckles white where they gripped Ethan’s hips.
Someone’s drink spilled again, ice cubes skittering across the table and onto Ethan’s bare back, the cold shock making him jerk violently against Derek’s hold. “Fuck—fuck—” Ethan’s voice cracked, his thighs trembling as Derek dragged him back onto his cock with a wet slap of skin. Jamie’s palm smoothed over the ice-melt on Ethan’s skin, the contrast of heat and cold drawing goosebumps in its wake before he leaned down to lick the droplets from the dip of Ethan’s spine. Marcus couldn’t resist then—he shoved Jamie aside just enough to sink his teeth into the meat of Ethan’s ass, tasting salt and sweat and the faint metallic tang of Derek’s precome smeared between his cheeks. Ethan’s moan was ragged, his body bowing under the dual assault, his cock dripping untouched against the table.
The booth’s vinyl squeaked under their shifting weight as Derek pulled out abruptly, his grip bruising on Ethan’s waist as he flipped him onto his back. Ethan’s legs fell open without prompting, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed with a hunger that mirrored Derek’s own. Derek spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly before driving back in, this time with Ethan’s ankles hooked over his shoulders—deeper, impossibly deeper. Ethan’s shout was lost in the bass, his fingers scrabbling at Derek’s forearms as his body stretched to accommodate the new angle. Marcus caught the exact moment Ethan’s pleasure tipped into something sharper—the way his thighs tensed, his toes curling, his mouth forming a silent ‘O’ as Derek’s cockhead brushed that spot inside him.
Jamie’s hand slid between them, wrapping around Ethan’s neglected cock with a twist that had him arching off the table. “Look at you,” Jamie breathed, his thumb swiping over the leaking head, spreading the wetness down the shaft. “Taking it like you were made for this.” Ethan’s hips stuttered, his body caught between the relentless push of Derek’s thrusts and the slow, torturous pull of Jamie’s fist. Marcus leaned in then, capturing Ethan’s gasp with his mouth, swallowing the broken moans as Derek’s pace turned erratic, his hips stuttering. Ethan came first—a silent, full-body convulsion, his release striping his stomach in thick pulses—and the clench of him dragged Derek over the edge with a guttural groan, his fingers digging bruises into Ethan’s thighs as he spilled inside him.
The booth reeked of sex and sweat, the air thick with the musk of spent desire as Derek pulled out, his cum dripping down Ethan’s thighs. Before Ethan could catch his breath, Marcus yanked him upright by the hair, dragging him onto his lap with a wet slap of skin against skin. “My turn,” Marcus growled, the words hot against Ethan’s ear as he guided Ethan’s hips down onto his straining cock. Ethan whimpered, oversensitive, his body still twitching from the aftershocks, but Marcus didn’t relent—he fucked up into him with a sharp snap of his hips, the angle forcing a punched-out gasp from Ethan’s throat. Jamie’s fingers traced the mess on Ethan’s stomach, smearing it across his abs before pushing two fingers past his lips. “Clean it up,” Jamie ordered, and Ethan’s tongue darted out obediently, lapping at the bitter taste as Marcus’s thrusts grew rougher, each one jolting him forward onto Jamie’s fingers.
Someone’s hand—Derek’s, maybe—gripped Ethan’s ass, spreading him wider for Marcus, the slick sounds of skin on skin was all that could be heard. Ethan’s moans were ragged now, his voice wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself up as Marcus pounded into him. Jamie’s free hand slid between them, thumb pressing against Ethan’s stretched rim where Marcus’s cock disappeared inside him, the pressure just shy of too much. Ethan’s thighs shook, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as Jamie leaned in to bite at his collarbone, murmuring something filthy that made Ethan clench around Marcus with a sob.
The table shuddered under their weight, glasses clinking as Ethan’s arms gave out, his chest hitting the sticky surface with a thud. Marcus didn’t slow—if anything, he fucked into him harder, his fingers bruising on Ethan’s hips as he chased his own release. Ethan’s cock twitched against the table, still oversensitive, but the rough drag of his abs against the cold vinyl sent sparks of pleasure-pain shooting up his spine. Jamie’s palm came down on his ass with a sharp crack, the sting blending with the relentless push of Marcus’s cock until Ethan couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the other began. Someone—maybe Derek again—leaned and whispered, “Bet you could take one more, couldn’t you, pretty boy?” Ethan’s answering moan was lost in the cacophony of the club, his body already shifting, pliant, towards the next pair of hands waiting to claim him.
Derek hauled Ethan off Marcus’s cock with a wet pop, spinning him around to face the booth’s other occupants—a row of hungry eyes and parted lips. Ethan’s knees hit the floor before he could register the movement, his thighs trembling as one of the guys—broad-shouldered, tattooed knuckles—fisted a hand in his curls and dragged him forward. The head of the stranger’s cock bumped against Ethan’s bottom lip, salty and leaking, and Ethan opened without hesitation, his tongue swiping over the slit before taking him deep. The guy groaned, hips jerking forward, and Ethan gagged around the sudden fullness, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as his throat convulsed. Above him, Marcus’s hand tightened in his hair, guiding the pace while Jamie’s fingers traced the stretched rim of his ass, still dripping with Marcus’s release. The dual sensation—mouth stuffed full, body stretched open—made Ethan’s cock twitch against his thigh, a fresh bead of precome welling up despite the overstimulation.
Someone’s phone flashlight flicked on—crude, illuminating the mess of Ethan’s face, spit-slick and flushed, as the tattooed guy thrust deeper, his balls slapping against Ethan’s chin. The light caught the way Ethan’s throat bulged with each push, the way his lashes stuck together with sweat and tears. Jamie’s chuckle was dark as he leaned down, his thumb pressing against Ethan’s Adam’s apple, feeling the shape of the cock beneath. “Look at him,” Jamie murmured, and the guys pushed the table out of the way and shifted closer, their hands roaming over Ethan’s shoulders, his pecs, his ass—claiming, marking, as the tattooed guy fucked into his throat with short, brutal strokes. Ethan’s fingers scrambled for purchase on the guy’s thighs, his nails digging in as his body rebelled, his gag reflex kicking in, but the grip in his hair only tightened, forcing him to take it. The taste of salt and musk flooded his mouth, the guy’s hips stuttering as he came down Ethan’s throat with a groan, his release hot and bitter as Ethan swallowed convulsively, his own cock throbbing untouched between his legs.
The booth erupted into rough laughter and murmured praise as Ethan was yanked upright, his back hitting the chest of another stranger—this one with a grip like iron and the scent of leather and cigars clinging to his skin. Ethan’s head lolled back against the man’s shoulder, his body limp with exhaustion, but the hands on him didn’t relent. Someone guided the stranger’s cock to Ethan’s ass, still loose and wet from earlier, and Ethan gasped as the head breached him, the stretch different this time—thicker, blunter. The stranger didn’t wait for him to adjust; he just pushed in, slow and relentless, until Ethan was impaled on him, his thighs shaking with the effort of holding himself up. The stranger began to move, each thrust jolting Ethan forward onto the waiting hands of the next guy in line—already hard, already reaching for him. Ethan’s moan was ragged, broken, as the cycle began anew, his body passed between them like a shared fantasy made flesh.
Ethan was spun around again, his knees hitting the sticky floor with a thud that sent a shock of pain up his thighs. A new pair of hands—calloused, smelling of motor oil—grabbed his jaw, tilting his face up to meet the stranger’s smirk. “Open,” the guy ordered, his voice rough with want, and Ethan obeyed without thinking, his tongue heavy with exhaustion but still eager. The guy’s cock was slick with someone else’s precome, the taste bitter and unfamiliar, but Ethan took it deep, his throat working around the intrusion as the stranger fucked his mouth with short, brutal strokes. Above him, someone—stroked Ethan’s hair like he was a prized pet, murmuring praise that was drowned out by the bass thrumming through the floor. Ethan’s ass was full again—someone else this time, someone who didn’t bother with gentleness, just slammed into him with a grunt that vibrated through Ethan’s spine. The dual penetration left him gasping, his body strung tight between pleasure and overwhelm, his cock twitching pathetically against his thigh.
The next hands that grabbed him were slick with sweat and whiskey, dragging him onto the table with a wet slap of skin against vinyl. Ethan’s vision swam as he was flipped onto his stomach, his cheek pressed into a puddle of spilled vodka, the cold shock making him jerk. Someone’s knee forced his legs wider, the stretch burning now, and Ethan whimpered as a new cock pushed into him—this one curved just right to hit that spot inside him with every thrust. The guy’s breath was hot against Ethan’s ear, his words slurred with liquor but no less commanding: “Arch that pretty back, baby.” Ethan obeyed, his spine curving until his ass was high in the air, his body on display for the hands that roamed over him, pinching his nipples, slapping his thighs, tracing the sweat-slick dip of his lower back. The guy behind him groaned, his grip on Ethan’s hips tightening as he fucked into him harder, the table rocking with each snap of his hips. Ethan’s fingers scrabbled for purchase, finding only empty glasses and wet napkins, his moans muffled against the table as the pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, in his gut.
Then—suddenly—the weight on his back was gone, and Ethan was being dragged upright again, his body limp as a ragdoll as a new pair of hands—older, rougher—turned him to face Jamie. Ethan’s vision blurred, his lips parted around a silent plea, but Jamie just smirked, his fingers tracing the mess on Ethan’s chest before guiding him down onto his cock. Ethan’s mouth opened on instinct, his tongue swiping over the head before taking Jamie deep, the taste of him—whiskey and salt—flooding his senses. Behind him, Marcus’s hands settled on Ethan’s waist, his cock pressing against Ethan’s stretched rim, and Ethan shuddered as Marcus pushed in without warning, the stretch bordering on pain now. The dual sensation—mouth full, ass full—drove a broken sob from Ethan’s throat, his body trembling as Jamie’s fingers tightened in his hair, setting a rhythm that Marcus mirrored with brutal precision. Ethan’s world narrowed to the push and pull of their bodies, the way Jamie’s cock hit the back of his throat with every thrust, the way Marcus’s hips stuttered when Ethan clenched around him.
Someone’s phone was out again, Ethan caught the glint of the camera flash in his periphery—but the angle was deliberate, the frame tight on Ethan’s body but never his face. The footage would show only the flex of his back muscles as Marcus fucked into him harder, the way his thighs trembled when Jamie’s cock slipped past his lips, the obscene stretch of his rim around Marcus’s girth. The phone tilted lower, capturing the way Jamie’s thumb pressed against Ethan’s spit-slick bottom lip, stretching it obscenely before sliding in alongside his cock. Ethan gagged around the intrusion, his throat convulsing, but Jamie just chuckled, his free hand smoothing down Ethan’s spine like he was soothing a skittish animal. “Take it,” Jamie murmured, and Ethan did—his body pliant, his moans muffled, his tears mixing with the sweat and spit streaking his cheeks. The camera lingered on the way Ethan’s ass swallowed Marcus whole, the way his fingers clawed uselessly at Jamie’s thighs, the way his cock leaked untouched against his stomach—a portrait of debauchery with no identity attached.
Marcus’s rhythm faltered first, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through Ethan’s spine. Ethan felt it—the hot spill inside him, the way Marcus’s fingers dug bruises into his hips as he milked himself dry. Jamie followed seconds later, his release flooding Ethan’s throat with a bitterness that made his eyes water, but he swallowed obediently, his lips sealed tight around Jamie’s cock until he was pulled off with a wet pop. The camera caught it all—the way Jamie’s cum streaked Ethan’s chin, the way Marcus’s seed dripped from his stretched hole, the way Ethan’s body sagged between them, wrecked and used.
Later, in the dim glow of their bedroom, Jamie rewound the video again, pausing on the frame where Ethan’s back arched obscenely, his ass glistening with sweat and come. Marcus traced the screen with a fingertip, his breath hitching at the memory of how Ethan’s body had clenched around him. “Christ,” Jamie muttered, zooming in—no face, just flesh, the curve of Ethan’s shoulder blurred by motion but his ass in sharp focus, Marcus’s handprint still visible on the left cheek. The timestamp glowed in the corner: 2:37 AM. Long enough for the liquor to settle, for the guilt to curdle, but not long enough to dull the hunger.
Jamie’s thumb hovered over Ethan’s dad’s contact—*Mike*—the cursor blinking like a dare. Marcus didn’t stop him. The text field filled slowly: “See how great it is to be gay, fucked this college jock in the middle of the club.”The video attached with a click, buffering for a heartbeat before the preview loaded—Ethan’s body, Marcus’s cock, the wet slap of skin on skin. Jamie hit send before he could second-guess, the whoosh sound final as a gunshot. The read receipt appeared instantly. Then: typing. Stopped. Started again.
Marcus’s laughter was jagged, uneven. “Bet he’s jerking off to it.” Jamie didn’t answer, just rewound the video once more, his free hand palming himself through his sweatpants as Ethan’s moans—muffled, wrecked—filled the room again. On screen, Ethan’s fingers scrabbled at the table, his thighs trembling as Derek fucked into him harder, and Jamie’s breath caught. The phone buzzed—Mike’s reply, a single line: *You lucky fucks.* Beneath it, another message, this time a photo: Mike’s own cock, thick and angry-red, his fist wrapped tight around the base. Jamie exhaled sharply, his hips jerking forward. “Told you,” Marcus murmured.
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