JD parks his Honda in front of a block the same shade of brown as every other one in the neighborhood. The balconies are stacked like shoeboxes, their windows cluttered with satellite dishes, and, I think, life here is nothing extraordinary.
As I watch the building, it seems to tilt toward me, as if testing my worth before letting me in. I pull my bag from the trunk, the strap cutting into my shoulder again while the six-pack drags my arm down, tendons stretching to their limit. Meanwhile, JD balances the golden cargo on his thigh while trying to slam the trunk with his elbow. At one point it threatens to fall, but he saves it, cussing blasphemously through his teeth. I can’t help the corners of my mouth twitching upward. He exhales in relief, and I nod in agreement—and even admiration.
Then I hear flip-flops smacking against concrete and glance over to see shorts brushing lean calves, and hair falling loose to the shoulders from which a stretched T-shirt dangles. Ivan. His grin flares open like a spark. He is slimmer than I expected, his torso long, his walk energetic, almost galloping. Before I can set down everything I’m carrying, Ivan hugs me tightly. I stumble, my chin landing in the hollow above his collarbone. The faint scent of smoke and fruity deodorant presses into me. He murmurs my name repeatedly—Benny, Benny, Benny—like we’ve just known each other forever. Behind us, JD watches with a smirk, arms crossed, clearly entertained.
When Ivan finally lets go, his voice surges with excitement—he’s just too big and too alive for this idle neighborhood. Everything about him is loose and oversized: his stance, his gestures, the way he fills the space. I feel the pull immediately. I notice tattoos scattered across his arms and fingers, though I can’t catch the details.
I mutter something about being glad to finally meet him, but my voice shrinks against his, and he only laughs, as if I’ve said the dumbest thing in the world. He yanks the six-pack from my hands, swings it against his hip, and the three of us head toward the entrance.
Inside, the air smells of boiled cabbage and stale dust. The elevator sits in the corner. Ivan taps the button with his foot, casual and playful, and the door yawns open with a slow, mechanical sigh.
We squeeze inside, my bag at my feet devouring half the floor space, our bodies pressed so close I think we’ve fused into a single living thing. The doors slide shut, the box groans, and then we lurch upward.
When Ivan leans in, I feel his voice rather than hear it—his breath brushing the tiny hairs above my lip—and it makes me giddy. He talks about ordering pizza, that it’ll be here any minute. He talks about tidying up, about how awesome it is to have me here. I watch his lips shape the words, his uneven teeth flashing with every exaggerated articulation, and I want to crawl inside his mouth, to be rolled by his tongue like dough and swallowed whole.
I murmur my thanks, try to express my excitement—though inside I’m dancing and screaming like never before, unable to comprehend the level of luck I’ve stumbled into. But, stupidly humble as always, I keep saying they’ve already done more than enough. Then JD’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder, and he tells me not to be stupid. So I’m not.
When the elevator hits the eighth floor, Ivan moves forward to lead us down the corridor. A strong beam of light cuts through the corner window, illuminating two pots of greenery. The door to the den waits at the end. Ivan jingles the keys against the lock, his body twitching with eagerness. He twists his wrist, swings it open, and before I can catch my breath, I’m pulled inside.
The first thing I notice is a full shoe rack. I slip off my shoes almost automatically, as if I’ve lived here for years. The air is thick and alive—not dirty, just full—three men condensed into one space—and it makes my chest expand. If someone bottled this, the shelves would be empty in less than a minute.
Ivan vanishes around the corner, and I hear the clatter of cans as he unloads the beer onto the counter. I follow nervously, JD closing the doors—and the world—behind us. The kitchen is a narrow passage of cabinets and equipment leading to a fridge plastered with magnets and menus. A tall figure squeezes past Ivan, heading toward me, and the sight steals my breath away. It’s Tomasz.
He’s only in his underwear, a white strip of cotton clinging to his hips, supporting a meaty bulge that demands every bit of my attention. His nakedness is loud, open, and unapologetic. His physique gives off a different vibe than JD’s—where JD shows roughness, Tomasz radiates something sharper, sculpted, deliberate. His jaw is strong, and his eyes are mischievous. A slight goatee shades his face, and I can’t tell if it grows in like that or if he keeps it trimmed that way on purpose. His cheeks and shoulders are red, as if he’d been working outside shirtless all day. His ears stick out slightly, catching the light, and a couple of silver rings glint in the left one.
He stretches a hand toward me; the greeting is as formal as a handshake can be, yet seeing him like this makes it obscene—and it couldn’t be better. He definitely knows how to leave an impression. And looking at those briefs, his impression is hard to miss. Meeting this last flatmate, I feel the rules of my old life falling away completely.
Without hesitation, Tomasz takes the strap of my bag—gently, as if waiting for my consent—and I see his muscles tense. Then he places the bag under the doorframe of the room beside the fridge. He smiles at me, and it feels private, even with JD lining up six-packs in the fridge and Ivan bouncing on his heels, talking about how hungry he is. He slips his hands into his shorts without a second thought.
Interestingly, Tomasz’s hand finds the back of my neck and slowly guides me away from the chaos of the kitchen, toward the living room. His voice is low and calm; he asks about the trip, the train, whether the city feels too fast or exactly as I imagined. I nod, agreeing to it all, throat dry, letting his voice anchor me as my eyes take in the shape of the room.
It looks just like the photograph JD sent—only now in 3D. A new flat-screen sits on a stand that has seen better days, the contrast jarring but somehow perfect. Along the far wall stretches a wide corner couch, sagging slightly, but spreading like an open invitation—too generous, too soft.
I’m still soaking in the room when Tomasz’s hand tightens at the back of my neck; a slow squeeze pulls me out of my thoughts. His touch, his authority, ignites something inside me, and I feel eager for more. I smile at him, hungry and knowing—he catches it, reciprocates, but doesn’t act further, locking me in this craving to be under his control.
He guides me down the hall, mentions JD’s and his bedroom, two large beds opposite each other, and then guides me into the bathroom. From under the doorframe, I see the bathtub crowded with cheap bottles of three-in-one gel, the toilet jammed beside it, and the counter drowning in razors, half-empty cans, and too many toothbrushes. Tomasz explains where to leave my things, then his hand slides lower, tracing my back, pinching my T-shirt, and tugging me out playfully, steering me back toward the kitchen. I’ll go wherever while in his power.
In the kitchen, I see Ivan cramming some cookies into his mouth. When he notices us, he straightens like a kid caught red-handed and waves me to follow. Curious but hesitant, I glance at Tomasz and thank him for the tour; he only tells me to feel at home—but I already know this place is better than home. I squeeze past JD and see Ivan jump over my bag where Tomasz left it, and I follow him.
As I step inside the bedroom, a piece of fabric flies past my head. A T-shirt lands in the dirty clothes basket in the corner, and I glance, surprised at its origin. There, Ivan grins like an idiot—shirtless, shoulders spiky, chest neither flat nor pillowy. As he giggles, his abs appear and vanish in rhythm. Another tattoo peeks out—a shield with some banners on his ribs.
I compliment his throwing skills and ask if he’s into sports—basketball and such. He grins and says he prefers a different kind of ball game. I joke that it makes two of us; he laughs, then corrects me—four of us. I am sure I’m in heaven. Then he asks me about the sports and I sense he’s dropped the double-meaning banter, so I confess I played soccer in high school, though not very well. He says that there’s a small field down the road and suggests we can kick a ball around sometime. Then he asks if he can help me unpack while we wait for the food. I tell him I’m good—no need.
He smiles, says OK, and collapses onto his bed. He spreads his spidery legs, pulls out his phone, and slides a hand back into his shorts. It looks so mundane, and though part of me wishes he’d go further—go all out—I let him be.
I look around the room. It’s simple, rectangular—two beds on opposite walls, one desk in between them packed with various things—it’s probably Ivan’s. The second desk sits by the foot of the second bed. I push my bag to the open and empty wardrobe. I glance back at Ivan curiously: he isn’t jerking off—instead, he keeps scrolling through endless reels, absently rolling his cock between his fingers under the fabric.
It doesn’t take two minutes until I hear Ivan ask me, carefully, how I like it here. I step out of my wardrobe, smiling at him. I mean it when I say I do—very much. I ask him nervously if it doesn’t bother him to share a room, that he must be used to his privacy.
He suddenly sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread, cock pushing against his shorts like punctuation. The move feels sharp, almost aggressive, and I instantly regret asking. He waves a hand at the room, and at the apartment beyond it, telling me to look around. He says he doesn’t give a fuck about privacy. None of them do. It’s just guys here, and they don’t need doors. Why would they? They strip when they’re hot, they jerk when they’re hard, they let it out when it builds too much. No waiting, no shame, no pretending.
He says they don’t care if anyone’s watching—that it’s better when someone does. A hard-on is never something to hide. It’s proof a guy’s alive. It is there to be shown and shared. According to Ivan, every stiff cock is a small victory, and every load deserves to be seen. Thick, loud, dripping, hitting the floor, the sheets, their own stomachs—it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s real. That’s the way they live here. No secrets. Just whatever their cocks decide to do. Privacy is the last thing they’d ever need.
Ivan’s casual confidence—his cock swinging like a metronome under his shorts—leaves me dizzy. I glance down and feel the unmistakable pressure growing my pants. It feels like it could tear free in a way I’ve never experienced so openly.
The urge is brutal. The strength of it, the way it throbs. Normally I’d try to hide or cover myself—but not now. Instead, I feel proud. Proud of the rock between my legs, proud that he is watching. And I want him to see. To understand without me saying a word that I get it, that I’m in, that I want everything he mentioned, that I’m his kind.
He notices—of course he does. His mouth shuts mid-sentence. For a second, the room hangs heavy with silence. I break it clumsily, stuttering, blurting out that he can see I have no problem with that. My voice cracks, and I hate how stupid I sound, but it’s too late. The words are already out.
He grins—satisfied—and his hand cups his own bulge, firm and obvious. He tells me to save today’s load for tonight. And then it tumbles out of me, too fast to stop: that I already shot it on the train, that I couldn’t hold it in. My chest swells with pride even as I hear myself say it. It feels insane, exposing this part of me I’ve never shown anyone, but with him it comes out easy, natural. Like he’s dragged it out of me without even trying.
But then Ivan shoots up off the bed, face twisted like I just spat in it. He storms toward the kitchen, his cock bouncing comically with every step, and shouts to the others if they heard what I just said. His voice cracks with outrage: that I already jerked off today—on the train, no less!
JD and Tomasz look over, puzzled, and I rush to say my sorry. My ears burn so hot they feel like red iron. I stare at the floor, at their bare feet on the tiles, like a scolded dog. But JD and Tomasz break into laughter.
Ivan keeps barking, waving his arms, shouting that we were supposed to do that together, that we were supposed to have a proper welcoming party tonight, that I ruined it before it even started. Tomasz just rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, and JD grins wide. He steps toward me with authority, his eyes dropping to the obvious tent in my pants.
He calls for Jesus, and then his hand is on me, grabbing my bulge hard enough to yank me forward. The shock makes me moan without thinking, and he turns me—my cock hidden under the fabric of my pants—toward Ivan like I’m on a leash, and shouts at him to look. Ivan drops his eyes at JD’s fist and says that he sees it.
JD laughs, shaking his head. He tells Ivan that he should stop being a dumbass, that Benny—that I—am twenty-one and always ready for another round, that my balls won’t run out even if I tried. Tomasz starts giggling like a teenager. After this, even Ivan can’t keep a straight face. In the middle of it all, red-faced and burning, I nod and blurt out that JD’s right.
Then Ivan shoots me a worried look and asks how much I emptied my balls on the train. The way he asks it makes me smile—I can’t believe he’s treating it like an actual problem. I shrug, say not much, and I repeat that I’m sorry, that I couldn’t wait, that I was jerking it thinking about tonight’s party.
That does it—Tomasz lunges forward, hooks Ivan in a headlock under his arm, grinding his knuckles through his hair. Ivan fights back, red-faced, landing a wild punch to Tomasz’s stomach that makes him stumble back, laughing harder than before.
JD shakes his head, chuckling, and claps me on the shoulder. He tells me not to sweat it, not to take Ivan too seriously. That he’s a drama queen. That he’s unbearable when his balls are full. Ivan yells back, painfully, that they really are so full, clutching his crotch. The pain in his voice only makes it funnier.
JD lets my cock go and tells me to really save it for tonight—otherwise Ivan’ll tear it off. JD’s authority is undeniable and just to play along, to throw myself fully into it, I straighten my back and salute him like a soldier receiving orders.
Then JD’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he mutters that he’s on his way. The food’s here.
I stay in the kitchen, willing my cock to calm down. Then Tomasz brushes past and hooks his arm around my neck, steering me down the hall. He’s talking about Ivan—how insane he is, but how they love him anyway, that I will too. His arm is heavy, steady.
Before I know it, he pulls me into the bathroom. He flips the toilet lid with his free hand, plants himself, and just—goes. No hesitation. His cock is out, thick and casual, and he’s pissing hard into the bowl. The sound is sharp: stream splashing against the porcelain, breaking the water at the bottom of the bowl, filling the space, and my whole body seizes. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I just watch, mesmerized, as this liquid escapes his body.
He keeps talking like it’s nothing—about him, about me, how he’s glad to have a younger bro now—but I barely hear him. His arm stays locked around my neck, his hand pressed to my chest. My cock stirs again shamelessly.
It’s not even that he’s showing off. He isn’t. That’s what makes it worse—or better. He’s just… doing it. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And me? I can’t believe I’m watching something so private and filthy from up close. It feels holy.
When he shakes out the last drops, there’s a strange focus on his face, almost vulnerable, and I ache to do something—anything—but I don’t dare. He flushes, drags me with him to the sink, his body hot and firm. He wets his hand, and then we’re heading back to the kitchen like nothing happened. My cock is heavy again, and I panic for a second that he’ll think I’m some kind of freak. But then it hits me—this is exactly what I came here for. We’re all freaks here.
Tomasz glances at me and asks if I’m good. I admit the truth—that this doorless life exceeds my wildest expectations, that I love it. I admit, stuttering, that it’s going to take me a minute to believe it’s real. He nods, steady, and tells me he gets it—that he already feels we’re the same. And I can’t believe it, that a guy like Tomasz thinks we’re the same.
The front door suddenly bangs open, and JD appears, balancing four pizza boxes on his forearm like he’s just carried home a treasure. The den comes alive instantly. I linger in the doorway, stomach tightening with hunger. My cock weakens, and I try to soak in the undeniable male energy, all the testosterone and unapologetic drive, and I realize I’m part of it now.
We crowd into the living room. JD drops the boxes onto the table, and Ivan opens them like a kid at Christmas. Tomasz sprawls on the right, the weight of his thighs locking him in the cushion. JD pats the spot in the middle, grinning, insisting until I sink down between them. He cracks open beers, foam spilling over his hand, dripping lazily down his wrist, and he wipes it on his shorts like nothing matters. Then he raises his can and says welcome.
We drink. We eat. No TV, no music, just voices, chewing, laughter bouncing sharp against the walls. I can’t follow every story—some jokes are already halfway over by the time I catch the thread—but it doesn’t matter. I start hearing it like a song instead of words: the rhythm of them, their voices overlapping like waves. The pizza disappears faster than I can track, yet it all feels unhurried, stretched, like nobody’s worried about time.
When JD drains his can, he crushes it lightly in his fist, then sets it down with a hollow thud. He wipes his mouth and stands, and his eyes hook on me. He says that since their newest brother—me—has already confessed to jerking off solo today, it’s only fair they come up with a proper punishment. That I have to prove I deserve to be living with them.
The words hang, and my stomach flips. I blink, caught in the crack between curiosity and dread. I manage to stammer what punishment he means. JD doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances at the others. A council forms in silence, wordless but undeniable, their eyes shifting and locking like I’m not supposed to hear what they’re saying. Then JD says I’ll hear it tonight. That it’s going to be a part of my initiation.
The word hits me like a strike—initiation. I sense the promises of humiliation and glory. Their smiles spread wide and knowing, a wall of grins that pins me in place, makes me feel cornered and chosen in the same breath.
JD lifts his eyebrows, holding the moment taut, and says they have a certain ritual in mind.
The air thickens. My pulse kicks.
I can’t wait.
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