The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the kitchen window of their flat, clean and bright, painting everything in a normal, domestic glow. It was the same light that had fallen on a thousand ordinary mornings. But nothing was ordinary anymore.
Jack sat at the small table, his hands wrapped around a cold mug of tea. His head throbbed with a hangover that was more emotional than physical. The images from the garage played on a relentless, filthy loop behind his eyes. Tim’s cock. James’s grin. Ryan’s face, painted white. And his own hand, moving in the dark.
His eyes were fixed on Ryan’s back. Ryan stood by the kettle, wearing nothing but a pair of tight, white cotton briefs. The fabric clung to the perfect, muscular swell of his arse like a second skin, each cheek defined, the cleft shadowed and tempting. He hummed softly, waiting for the boil. The same way he did every Sunday.
For a whole fucking year, Jack thought, the words a silent scream in his skull. A year of this. A year of him coming home to me, smelling of their sweat, Tim's cum. A year of kissing me with that mouth.
Ryan’s ability to compartmentalise was nothing short of astonishing. There was no guilt in the line of his shoulders, no remorse in the casual way he scratched his stomach. He was just Ryan. His Ryan. The man who kissed him goodbye, who cuddled him during bad telly, who said ‘I love you’ with a conviction that had never once felt like a lie until last night.
Jack didn’t recognise the creature he’d seen on its knees, begging for cock, screaming that he was a cheating slut. That was some other Ryan. A Ryan that existed in the dark, fueled by beer and betrayal and a need so deep it terrified Jack. But which one was real? The loving boyfriend by the kettle, or the desperate whore in the garage?
He knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that he didn’t want to break up. The thought of losing Ryan, of this flat being empty, of coming home to silence… it was a deeper void than the betrayal. He loved him. A stupid, clueless, lovesick idiot’s love. And Ryan loved him. He’d said it, even with Tim’s cock in his mouth. ‘I still love him.’ That had to mean something, didn’t it?
Ryan turned, two mugs in his hands. He smiled, a warm, easy smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. “You look rough, babe. That tequila really did a number on you last night.” He set fresh mug down in front of Jack, then leaned in and kissed him, deep and passionate. His tongue swept into Jack’s mouth, claiming it.
Jack’s body reacted on instinct, a surge of warmth and want that warred violently with the memory of that same tongue licking Tim’s shaft clean. He kissed back, his hands coming up to grip Ryan’s biceps, feeling the solid, familiar muscle. It was a perfect kiss. A loving kiss. It tasted of toothpaste and tea and a lie so profound Jack felt dizzy.
“Love you,” Ryan murmured against his lips, pulling back and ruffling Jack’s hair.
“Love you too,” Jack heard himself say, the words automatic. He decided, right then, to take it day by day. To live in the lie, because the truth was a monster he couldn’t face.
*
The next after-party was at James’s place, a shared house in Brixton with a decent-sized courtyard out back. The energy was the same—loud, boozy, aggressively masculine. But Jack’s internal world was a fortress of cold, unassuming observation.
He accepted the first beer from Tim with a nod. “Cheers, mate.”
“No worries, Jack. Go easy, yeah?” Tim said, his dark eyes glinting with a secret amusement.
Jack took a sip, letting the bitter fizz hit his tongue. He waited for his moment. When Tim was pulled into a debate about a referee’s call, Jack casually turned, pretending to examine a poster on the wall, and poured three-quarters of the bottle into a large, thirsty-looking fern in a pot by the door.
He repeated the ritual with a vodka mixer someone handed him, and then with a shot of something amber that James pushed into his hand. “Get this down you, Burrows! Hair of the dog!”
By the third ‘drink’, his system was mostly clean, but he began his performance. He let his words slur, just a little. He wobbled on his feet, grabbing the back of a chair for support. He let his eyes go slightly unfocused.
He saw the exact moment James noticed. The blonde man’s gaze cut across the crowded room, found Tim, and a slow, shared smirk passed between them. A smirk of conspiracy. Of ownership.
James weaved through the bodies, his expression one of exaggerated concern. “Aww, mate. You’re looking proper fucked. C’mon, let’s get you horizontal.” He slung an arm around Jack’s shoulders. The touch was repulsive.
Jack leaned into it, letting his body go heavy. “M’fine… jus’ need… air…”
“You need a bed, is what you need,” James said loudly. He glanced over at Ryan, who was watching, his smile faltering. “Ry! Your boy’s about to kiss the floor!”
Ryan was at his side in seconds, his face a mask of genuine-looking worry. “Jack? Shit, babe.” He looked up at Tim, who had joined them. How many drinks did you give him?
Tim shrugged, all innocence. “Just what he was drinking. He’s a lightweight, you know that.”
“He’s never collapsed like this before,” Ryan hissed, his voice low but sharp with an anger that surprised Jack. Was it real? Or part of the act?
Together, Ryan and Tim hauled Jack up, each taking a shoulder. Jack let his head loll, his feet dragging as they half-carried, half-walked him through a hallway and into a small, messy bedroom. They dumped him unceremoniously onto a single bed that smelled of stale laundry and cheap aftershave.
Jack kept his breathing deep and even, his eyes shut to slits. Ryan’s hand was on his forehead. “Jack? Can you hear me?”
He didn’t respond.
He heard Ryan step away, his voice a furious whisper. “For fuck’s sake, Tim. How much did you give him? This is getting out of hand. We could really be doing damage. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“He’ll be fine,” Tim’s voice was a low, dismissive rumble. “Trust me. He’ll sleep it off.”
“Trust you?” Ryan’s laugh was brittle. “This is mental.”
There was a shift in the air. Jack risked opening his eye a fraction. He saw Tim move into Ryan’s space, crowding him against the wall. Ryan put a hand on Tim’s chest to push him away, but the push was weak. Tim captured his wrist, then leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was a hungry, possessive, silencing kiss. Ryan’s protest melted into a muffled groan, his free hand coming up to clutch at Tim’s shirt.
The door opened. James stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand idly rubbing the prominent bulge in his jeans. “Everything alright in here? How’s the patient?”
Ryan broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He looked from Tim to James, his expression torn. “He’s out. Tim’s given him too much.”
“He’s fine,” Tim repeated, his thumb stroking Ryan’s lower lip. “C’mon. Let’s go back to the party. James can check on him every hour.”
James nodded, his eyes locked on Ryan’s flushed face. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll keep an eye on him.” He paused, his grin turning wicked. “I want in again, though. Like last week.”
Tim shot him a warning look. “Last week was a one-off.”
“Nah, mate,” James said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. “I think it’s permanent. If you want my silence.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “Fuck, Tim. This is getting too risky.”
“What choice do we have?” Tim muttered, his gaze locked on James in a silent battle of wills. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll grab you when we’re ready. But not now. Too many people. Wait ‘til it dies down.”
They filed out, leaving Jack alone in the dim room. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs, for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of the party gradually faded from a roar to a murmur, then to near-silence. The odd burst of laughter, the low hum of a final conversation.
He moved. Silent as a ghost, he slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall. The main living area was empty, just a few stragglers dozing on sofas. He saw a door leading to the courtyard and ducked outside into the cool night air.
At first, he saw nothing. Then, movement. In the far, dark corner of the paved yard, near a stack of empty beer crates. Two figures.
He ducked back inside, his mind racing. He needed a better angle. Unseen. He crept through the silent house, out the front door, and around the side, moving through a narrow alley choked with bins. He found a gap in a fence, a shadowy vantage point that looked directly into the courtyard corner.
The scene was both a repeat and an escalation.
Ryan was on his knees, his jeans and briefs pooled around his ankles. His perfect, round arse was bare and lifted, the cheeks clenched tight. He was bent forward, his head bobbing in Tim’s lap. Tim stood over him, one hand tangled in Ryan’s short brown hair, guiding his mouth onto his thick, hard cock. Tim’s head was thrown back, his jaw tight with pleasure.
“That’s it, you fucking whore,” Tim groaned, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night. “Suck it like you mean it. Get it nice and wet for your other hole.”
Ryan moaned around the cock in his mouth, the sound desperate, hungry. He was lost in it. Jack could see the frantic working of his jaw, the way his throat convulsed as he took Tim deep.
Then Tim pulled him off by the hair, a string of saliva snapping. “Stand up. Turn around.”
Ryan obeyed, stumbling to his feet, his cock jutting out, hard and leaking. Tim spun him, pushed him against the rough brick wall, and yanked his jeans down further. He spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and without any further preparation, drove into Ryan’s arse in one brutal, deep stroke.
Ryan cried out, a sharp, pained sound that quickly morphed into a long, shuddering moan. “Fuck! Yes!”
Tim fucked him standing, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against Ryan’s arse with a wet, rhythmic smack. He was pounding him, using him, and Ryan was pushing back, meeting every thrust, his hands splayed against the brick for support.
“You love this, don’t you, Ry?” Tim grunted, his voice ragged. “Love being my secret little fuck-toy. Love cheating on your pathetic boyfriend.”
“I love it!” Ryan screamed, the confession ripped from him. “Fuck, I love your cock!”
Then, a new voice. Loud, angry, from across the courtyard. “You fucking cunt!”
James strode into the dim light, and he wasn’t alone. Another man followed him—tall, broad-shouldered, with a fresh fade and jet-black hair that gleamed even in the low light. Peter. Another Badgers player, his presence as commanding as his thick Essex accent.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, mate,” Peter drawled, his voice carrying that unmistakable lilt.
James smirked, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as he stepped closer to the scene. Peter lingered a few paces behind, his gaze sweeping over Ryan’s bare arse and Tim’s thrusting hips. His mouth curled into a sly grin.
“Caught ‘em red-handed, Pete,” James said, jerking his chin toward the pair.
Tim froze, his cock still buried deep in Ryan’s arse. “What the fuck, James? This is supposed to be a secret!”
“Oh, come off it, mate,” James laughed, walking closer. “He’s my best fucking friend. You think I wasn’t gonna tell him about tapping this perfect arse?” He gestured dismissively at Ryan. “And thanks for not telling me you already started, you dumb cunt.”
He didn’t even acknowledge Ryan as a person. He stepped right up to him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled his head back. He already had his cock out, hard and angry-looking. He shoved the fat, purple head against Ryan’s lips. “Open up, slut.”
Ryan, dazed and used, opened his mouth obediently. James fed his cock in, not gently, fucking his face from the start. “Damn,” James sighed, his eyes rolling back. “His throat’s as good as his fucking arse.”
Peter was already undoing his jeans, his eyes wide with lust. “Fuck me. I’ve wanted a piece of that since the first scrum.”
Tim, after a moment’s hesitation, just shrugged and resumed fucking Ryan’s arse, establishing a rough, competing rhythm with James’s face-fucking. “Fine. Fuck it. Just us four. No one else. Promise.”
Peter and James both nodded, their agreement given around grunts of pleasure. “Promise.” “Just us.”
Peter moved behind Tim, waiting his turn. It became a brutal, rotating fuck. Tim would pull out, his cock glistening and slick, and Peter would immediately shove his own thick cock into Ryan’s stretched, wet hole. Ryan was a ragdoll between them, his body used and passed around. James kept his mouth occupied, fucking his throat with short, brutal jabs, pulling out to let him gasp before shoving back in.
“Take it, you cheating slag!” Peter growled, his hands digging into Ryan’s hips.
“Suck my fucking dick, you whore!” James snarled, slapping his cock against Ryan’s spit-slicked cheek.
Ryan was incoherent, lost in a sea of sensation. His body rocked violently between Peter’s thrusts and James’s ruthless face-fucking, his voice a broken chorus of gagging, moaning, and screaming. “More! Fuck! Don’t stop! Use me!”
Peter laughed, his deep Essex accent dripping with disdain and arousal as he gripped Ryan’s hips tighter, slamming into him with brutal precision. “Fuck me, he’s just begging for it! What a hungry little slag. Can’t get enough of this cock, can you?” He paused for a moment, his hands sliding up to grope Ryan’s perfect, round arse, squeezing the firm flesh hard. “Christ, look at this arse. It’s fucking unreal, mate. Like it was carved by Greek gods. No wonder you’re such a cheating slut—how could anyone resist this?”
Ryan’s response was a desperate, keening wail, his body trembling as Peter resumed his relentless pounding. “Yes! God, yes! Use me!”
Peter grinned, his cock buried deep, and leaned forward to whisper hotly into Ryan’s ear, “That’s right, you dirty whore. Take it all. You’re nothing but a fucking hole for us now.”
Hidden in the shadows, Jack was trembling. The betrayal was a physical ache. But the heat in his groin was an inferno. His cock was a rigid, throbbing line of need trapped in his jeans. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. He opened the camera, switched to video, and hit record. The red dot glowed in the darkness.
He pointed it through the gap in the fence, zooming in. He captured it all. The obscene stretch of Ryan’s hole around Peter’s cock. The way James’s balls tightened as he face-fucked him. The look of utter, degenerate ecstasy on Ryan’s face, streaked with dirt and spit.
As he watched through the screen, his other hand unzipped his jeans. He freed his aching cock, already slick at the tip. He began to stroke, his grip tight, his pace frantic. He hated himself. He hated the moan that escaped his own lips. He hated the way his eyes devoured the scene on the tiny screen.
He was a cuckold. A voyeur. Recording his boyfriend’s gangbang. And he was about to come.
Jack’s hand moved faster, his cock slick with precum as he stared through the screen of his phone. The scene unfolding before him was both a nightmare and a fantasy, a twisted blend of pain and pleasure that he couldn’t escape. Ryan’s moans echoed in his ears, the sound of his boyfriend’s ecstasy mingling with the crude taunts of the men using him. His Ryan. The man he loved, the man who kissed him goodnight, who whispered sweet nothings into his ear—now reduced to a trembling, begging whore in the grip of three men who couldn’t care less about him.
Through the screen, Jack watched as James pulled his cock from Ryan’s mouth, leaving him gasping for air. “Open wide, slut,” James growled, and Ryan obeyed without hesitation, his tongue lolling out like a desperate animal. James slapped his cock against Ryan’s face, leaving a trail of spit and precum across his cheek. “You’re nothing but a hole, aren’t you? Ryan nodded frantically, his hazel eyes glazed with lust. “Yes! I’m your hole! Use me!”
Behind him, Peter’s thrusts grew harder, his cock slamming into Ryan’s arse with a force that made Jack wince. “Take it, you dumb slag!” Peter snarled, his hands digging into Ryan’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Ryan screamed, his body convulsing as he was filled, his arse clenching around Peter’s thick cock. “Fuck! Yes! Don’t stop!”
Jack’s own cock throbbed in his hand, his grip tightening as his strokes grew faster. He hated himself for what he was doing, for the way he couldn’t look away, for the way his body betrayed him with every second of this sickening display. He hated Ryan. He hated Tim. He hated James and Peter. But most of all, he hated himself for how much he wanted this, how his cock ached for release as he watched his boyfriend being used like a worthless slut.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his free hand clutching the fence for support as he felt the pressure building in his groin. He was close—so close. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on the image of Ryan’s perfect arse bouncing under Peter’s thrusts, on Tim’s cock slapping against Ryan’s lips as he waited his turn. Ryan’s moans grew louder, more desperate, as he begged for more. “Please! Fuck me harder! I need it!”
Jack’s climax hit him hard, his cock pulsing in his hand as he came with a silent scream. His cum spilled onto the ground, a shameful release that left him trembling with both disgust and relief. He watched through blurry eyes as Ryan finally broke, his body shuddering as he came untouched, his cock spurting its load against the brick wall. The men around him laughed, mocking him, spitting on him, but Ryan didn’t care. He was lost in the pleasure, in the ecstasy of being used for nothing more than a set of holes.
Jack lowered his phone, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He hated himself. Hated Ryan. Hated everything about this. But as he zipped his jeans and wiped his hand on them, he knew one thing for certain, he would be back. He would watch again. He was a cuckold, and this was his shame.
to be continued...
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