Upstairs, Rhett’s bedroom was dark except for the faint blue glow of his phone screen. He’d been staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours, one arm slung behind his head, the other resting heavy on his stomach. His mind wouldn’t shut the fuck up.
He had just fucked his best friend.
He’d known Tommo was gay since they were fifteen. Tommo had told him straight up one night after practice, voice shaking, eyes on the floor. Rhett hadn’t cared. Not even a little. Tommo was still Tommo. The same guy who’d spot him on bench, who stole his fries at lunch, who crashed in his bed after every sleepover. Rhett had always figured that if Tommo ever hooked up with a dude, he’d be the one doing the fucking. He was on the wrestling squad, built solid, quick on his feet. He’d be the top. The one in control.
But tonight… Jesus Christ.
Tonight Tommo hadn’t just been gay. He’d been a desperate little fag, arching that fat ass back, leaking slick like a bitch in heat, choking on Rhett’s cock and begging to be bred even while tears ran down his face. And the worst part, the part that made Rhett’s stomach twist, was the realization that Tommo had wanted him. For years. Had been staring at him in the locker room, jerking off to him in secret, probably dreaming about Rhett’s dick while they wrestled like nothing was wrong.
That felt like betrayal. Like he’d been played. Like every laugh, every bro-hug, every night they’d shared a bed had been poisoned with secret lust.
Rhett’s cock twitched under the sheet at the memory anyway.
Because the flip side, the part that made his blood run hot, was how fucking good it had felt. Better than any girl on any family holiday. The way Tommo’s hole had clamped down like it never wanted to let go. The power rush of forcing a strong, athletic guy to spread his legs and take every brutal inch even when it hurt. The wet, broken sounds he’d made. The way he’d still been leaking and fluttering after Rhett pulled out.
No girls at school. No regular pussy. Just Tommo downstairs, already trained to the scent of him, already stretched and sloppy with his cum.
Rhett’s lips curled in the dark. A hole. A warm, willing, no-drama hole he could use whenever he wanted. Tommo might cry about it, might pretend he didn’t want it, but who the fuck cared? That’s what fags were for. And Tommo should consider himself lucky, most bitches would kill to get railed by a hung, ripped stud like him.
Decision made, the knot in his chest loosened. He rolled over, cock still half-hard against his thigh, and let sleep drag him under.
Down in the basement the single bulb was still on, casting the same long shadows across the mats.
Tommo couldn’t find the same peace.
He lay exactly where Rhett had left him for a long time, legs shaky, hole pulsing with a deep, raw ache that flared every time he breathed. Cum was still slowly leaking out of him, warm and sticky, soaking into the torn edge of the red singlet and the mat beneath his ass. It should have been a dream, losing his virginity to the guy he’d been in love with since he was old enough to understand what love even was. Rhett was the reason he’d figured out he was gay in the first place. Those broad shoulders, that lazy grin, the way he smelled after practice. Tommo had wanted this for years.
But it hadn’t felt like love. It had felt amazing in flashes, white-hot pleasure when Rhett finally bottomed out, the stretch, the fullness, but mostly it had been pain. Sharp, tearing pain at first, then a brutal, pounding ache that never let up. And Rhett… Rhett hadn’t cared. Not really. He’d taken what he wanted, called him princess and hole and fag, used his throat like a fleshlight and his ass like it existed only for cock. No softness. No checking in. Just raw, selfish need.
The worst part was the look on Rhett’s face at the end.
That cold, ugly twist of contempt as he stood up, cock still wet with lube and cum and Tommo’s slick. Like he was disgusted by what he’d just done. By who he’d just done it to. Tommo had never seen that expression on his best friend before, and it hurt worse than the fucking.
Normally he’d be upstairs right now, showered and curled up in Rhett’s bed. They’d done that a hundred times. Tonight he was alone on the blue wrestling mats, sticky and sore and leaking.
Eventually the cold and the damp got too much. He pushed himself up with a hiss, every muscle screamed, especially the ones deep inside, and staggered to the battered old sofa in the corner. He thought about walking home, but it was a long way and his dad would ask questions he couldn’t answer. So he stayed.
The ruined singlet clung uncomfortably, the torn fabric chafing against his swollen hole. He peeled it off gingerly, wincing as the stretch pulled at tender skin, and dropped the shredded red rag on the floor. It was garbage now. Then he dragged his boxers back on, the soft cotton a small mercy against his aching cock and the mess still trickling from between his cheeks.
He curled up on the sofa, knees to his chest, and tried to sleep.
It was already the early hours of the morning. The house was silent except for the low hum of the fridge upstairs. Tommo stared at the cracked concrete wall until his eyes burned, mind racing through every second of what Rhett had done to him, every filthy word, every brutal thrust, and that final look of pure dislike.
It was nearly four when exhaustion finally won. His worried, racing mind quieted just enough for sleep to pull him under, still aching, still leaking, still alone.
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