Rhett woke around nine thirty that morning, his dick hard as it always was when he woke. He reached for his phone out of pure habit and started scrolling through the usual rotation of porn and Twitter while his hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers. He gave himself a slow, lazy stroke, eyes half closed, thumb circling the sensitive head, when the memory of last night slammed into him full force.
Fuck. Last night was wild.
He could not believe what they had done. He could not believe what Tommo had done. His best buddy had completely fagged out over him, arching that fat ass back, leaking slick, choking on his cock and then letting himself be used like a little bitch. It was gross. The thought of his best friend turning into such a desperate hole right in front of him should have turned his stomach. But fuck. That little hole had been so tight. It felt so good on his dick, so wet and warm and silky, gripping him like it never wanted to let go. He lazily tugged on his cock at the thought of it, squeezing a little harder as he remembered the way Tommo had fluttered and clenched around him, the sweet musky smell that had filled the basement while he bred him.
He had already decided last night that he was going to keep Tommo around. Obviously they could not be best friends anymore. That part was dead. But the boy could definitely still be of use. And he might as well start now. Rhett climbed out of bed, his thick cock tenting the front of his gym shorts, and headed downstairs. He would start the day with using one of Tommo’s holes. Show him exactly how things were going to be from now on.
For Tommo the morning had been far less pleasant. He woke early, cold and stiff on the battered sofa in the basement. Just like Rhett it took a moment for the sleep fog to clear. But when it did the full ache of his body hit him at once. Every muscle felt bruised and used. His head was pounding from lack of sleep and the haze of the party the night before. His legs, especially his thighs, burned from where they had been shoved up toward his chest for so long. His stomach muscles were tight and sore. But his hole. Christ. His hole felt like it was screaming with every tiny shift of his hips, a deep raw throb that reminded him exactly what had happened.
Fuck. Last night. Rhett. The mat. God. What had he done. What had Rhett done. Why had he allowed Rhett to humiliate him like that. The look on Rhett’s face when he walked out played across his mind again, that cold twist of contempt that had cut deeper than anything else.
He checked his phone. Seven thirty. He knew Rhett would be up late. He was not a morning guy. He had to get out of there. He could not bear to see Rhett or confront what they had done. How would Rhett react. Anger. Blame him for seducing him. Call him a fag again. Hit him even. No. He had to leave.
He pulled himself up with a sharp hiss. His entire body seemed to scream in protest. He crossed to the pile of clothes where they had been discarded the night before and pulled on his jeans. The rough denim dragged over his bruised thighs and made his hole burn fiercely as he moved his legs. Then he dragged on his hoodie. He picked up the destroyed singlet. It smelled of sweat and sex and underneath that an unmistakable waft of Rhett. He buried his face in it for a moment and a single tear ran down his cheek. This was not how things were meant to have been. He shook the moment off, pulled on his trainers, balled the singlet up, and left.
It was another two hours before Rhett woke up properly and headed downstairs into the basement with a clear plan to dump a fresh load into Tommo.
When Rhett opened the door to the basement he was feeling pretty good. A nice morning blow job was going to be fucking amazing. “Morning, Tommo,” he called out, voice still rough with sleep. “Hope you slept well, girl, because I’ve got your breakfast right here.” He groped his crotch as he said it, thick cock already half hard in his shorts at the thought. Then he noticed the room was empty.
“Tommo?” he shouted again. No response.
He headed back upstairs to look there but Tommo had gone. Rhett exploded in blind rage. How dare that fucking homo run out on him. Who the fuck did he think he was. He was screaming and cursing, voice echoing through the empty house. It was a good job he had the place to himself. He grabbed his phone and rang Tommo. No answer. He rang him three more times in quick succession then started firing texts off.
📲 You better answer me now.
📲 Get your fag ass back here asap.
📲 When I tell you to do something you fucking do it.
None of the calls or texts were answered.
At Tommo’s house his parents were shocked to see him home so early but he just told them Rhett was going out early so he had headed back. Then he slipped upstairs. He quickly stripped off and examined his body. His hips, legs, and ass were covered in dark bruises from Rhett’s rough grip.
He headed into his ensuite and, worried, turned and examined as best he could his asshole in the mirror. It was so sore he expected blood or serious inflammation but there was nothing. It was perhaps a little redder than normal but he could not be certain. Other than that it was entirely as it always looked. No sign that it had been used by his best friend so savagely the night before. No sign that, according to Rhett, it was now a pussy.
He turned the water on and took a long, long shower, trying to scrub away the dirt he felt after being used like that. The hot water stung against the bruises but he stayed under the spray until his skin was pink and raw.
Then he dried off, pulled on some grey sweats and a big hoodie, and took a nap. He was exhausted and his head continued to thump. He was so tired he fell asleep quickly and did not wake until three in the afternoon.
When he finally roused himself and checked the time on his phone he had fifteen missed calls and even more texts from Rhett. He glanced at the texts. They were awful. Called him all the names and insults he could imagine and demanded he respond immediately. Jesus. What had he got himself into.
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