They scheduled the shoot for the following Friday at four p.m., the hour chosen with the casual precision of men who already knew the city would be bleeding into weekend traffic and the light in the Chelsea studio would be perfect. That same night, while Jordan rinsed the last of the Chicken satay salad plates and Ben sprawled on the sectional scrolling the new flood of DMs, the contract arrived: a crisp PDF from Gideon Black, subject line simply “Let’s make history.” Ben’s thumb hovered over the signature field, eyes bright with the same reckless hunger that used to flare when he talked about buying a motorcycle they couldn’t afford. Jordan caught his wrist before the stylus touched glass. Not yet, he had said. Lawyer first. They booked Marcus Chappell the next morning, a shark-sleek attorney at Cohen & Park who specialized in image rights, privacy law, and the particular brand of digital fuckery that came with adult content. The office smelled of leather and eucalyptus; Marcus wore a watch that cost more than Ben’s old truck and read the contract with the bored efficiency of a man who’d seen every trick in the book. Forty-five minutes later he slid it back across the desk.
“Clean,” he said. “Generous, actually. No perpetual license, no non-compete, no morality clause that isn’t standard. You keep your solo brand, they get one scene. Sign it.”
The next few days carried an unreal shimmer, as if the city itself had slipped into a fever dream Jordan couldn’t wake from. He caught himself pinching the inside of his wrist more than once under the Hale & Harrison’s conference table, in the gym locker room, on the subway home, just to confirm this was still real life: Ben was going to fuck Ezra Johnson on camera, on purpose, for money and strangers’ applause, and Jordan had shaken the hand that sealed the deal.
He clung to routine like a life raft. Provenance reports and client calls on work, sets and reps that left his muscles burning at the gym. Back home, he and Ben would move around the loft in practiced silence, hips bumping, hands brushing, everything normal except the electric current humming beneath every glance. They still collapsed on the couch afterward, Ben hugging Jordan close, Precinct 12’s familiar sirens wailing from the TV while Jordan pretended to watch. But the second his focus slipped, the future slithered in, vivid and relentless: Ben kissing Ezra. Ezra on his knees. Ben behind him, above him, beneath him. Jordan’s stomach flipped every time, a nauseating cocktail of dread and want. He told himself it was just nerves. He told himself it would be fine. He told himself a lot of things.
None of them felt really true.
This time, unlike the days preceding the stream, Ben was nervous too. It lived in the restless bounce of his leg whenever he sat still too long, the way his knee hammered up and down like a piston that had forgotten how to stop. It showed in the sudden, compulsive cracking of his knuckles, one after another, the sharp pops echoing through the loft whenever his hands weren’t busy. He was at the gym constantly now, twice a day some days, coming home flushed and wired, muscles pumped so hard Jordan had to, very carefully, ask Ben to take it easy, remind him that he wouldn’t undo months of sedentarism and alcohol abuse in a single week of overtraining. “Now you want me to not go to the gym?” Ben had snapped at him, the words coming out harsher than either of them expected. The guilt hit Ben instantly; his face crumpled, shoulders folding inward like a kid caught breaking something precious. He’d pulled Jordan into his arms without another word, murmuring sorry over and over, promising he’d take it easier, voice thick with something close to panic.
Jordan held him tight, feeling the tremor under all that bulk, and knew he needed to say something, anything, to calm the storm churning inside the man he loved. But what do you say to your boyfriend the night before he steps in front of a camera and becomes, for one paid, recorded hour, a porn star? How do you tell the love of your life it’s okay to fuck someone else for money and strangers’ applause when every instinct screams mine? Jordan had no idea. He just held on tighter and hoped the silence sounded like reassurance instead of the anxious static filling his own head.
Like he promised, Ben eased off the gym, the daily double sessions shrinking to just maintenance lifts that left him loose instead of wired. But the freed hours didn’t go empty.
They went to porn. Ezra Johnson porn, specifically.
It felt like every time Jordan glanced over, Ben was glued to the laptop screen, earbuds in, onehand resting on the trackpad, the other absently palming the growing bulge in his sweats. Jordan didn’t even need to look at the screen to know what was playing: Ezra on his knees, pretty mouth stretched wide around some stranger’s cock, eyes watering but hungry; Ezra bent over, back arched like a bow, taking it deep and hard while his moans climbed higher; Ezra shaking, wrecked, cum streaking his perfect abs as another orgasm tore through him. The loft filled with the low, wet sounds leaking from Ben’s earbuds, the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, Ezra’s unmistakable whine rising and falling like a siren call. Ben watched it all with the intensity he used to save for job blueprints, eyes narrowed at every thrust on screen, his free hand drifting lower to squeeze himself through his clothes, slow and deliberate. One night, with no prompting, as if he needed to explain himself, Ben told Jordan it was just research. Preparation. Just a top studying the bottom he was about to claim. And Jordan could see the reasoning behind that, could understand why Ben felt he needed to know more of Ezra, what made him tick, what made him moan, what made him beg for more. But the way Ben’s breath hitched at certain clips, the way his fist tightened when Ezra begged for more, the way he rewound the same thirty-second stretch of Ezra’s hole clenching around a cock the size of Ben’s own, Jordan couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting under their feet.
When Thursday finally arrived, Ben’s nerves had vanished like smoke in the wind, leaving only that quiet, lethal confidence Jordan had fallen for years ago. He stood in the bedroom doorway, ready to leave for the studio, and Jordan’s breath caught in his throat.
Ben looked handsome, baggy jeans hung low on his hips, the denim worn soft and pale at the thighs, riding just enough to hint at the heavy sway beneath. A white tank top stretched tight across his chest and gut, the cotton clinging to every new ridge of muscle and the plush curver. Over it, the new vintage leather jacket hung open. He had new sunglasses too, Wayfarers this time, black and classic, perched on his nose even indoors, hiding whatever storm might still be brewing behind his eyes. His hair was slicked back with some product Jordan had never seen him use before, dark strands gleaming under the loft’s low light, beard trimmed sharp enough to cut glass. He looked like a man who knew exactly what he was walking into and couldn’t wait to own it.
They were waiting on the sidewalk outside the building, the November wind whipping down the avenue, when the car that would take them arrived. It was a gift from Ezra, Gideon had explained that morning (and to Jordan too, of course, Gideon added just a minute too late.) Jordan had expected something nice, a Mercedes maybe, something comfortable and modern. Not a fucking Rolls Royce, long and obsidian-black, chrome glinting like a blade under the streetlights, the Spirit of Ecstasy poised on the grille like she was judging the whole block. Or the driver that stepped out in full uniform, smooth and polite, telling he would be ready for them whenever they were. Jordan’s jaw actually dropped. Ben let out a low, appreciative whistle when they entered the Vehicle, sinkinginto butter-soft cream leather, the cabin smelling like new money and polished wood.
Eza Johnson was rolling out the red carpet for Ben.
Gideon had rented space at Iron Loft Studios, a hulking three-story warehouse conversion in the far western reaches of West Village, where the old meatpacking rails still rusted overhead and the buildings wore their industrial bones like armor, exposed brick scarred by decades of hooks and chains, steel beams painted matte black, freight elevators big enough to swallow a truck. The ground floor housed a discreet reception; the upper floors were raw concrete and timber, soundproofed just enough that the city’s noise, and whatever happened inside, never leaked out. The place was legendary in certain circles. Right now, on the second floor, another scene was rolling: a gangbang with seven hung guys circling one famously greedy bottom, the kind of shoot that would break the internet by morning.
Ben and Ezra were booked for the third-floor loft. A smiling receptionist, petite, tattooed, bubblegum-pink hair, led them up the metal stairs, heels clicking, tablet tucked under. As they passed the sealed double doors on the second floor, Jordan strained his ears for anything: a moan, a slap, the wet slap of skin on skin, some proof of the chaos supposedly unfolding twenty feet away. Nothing. Not a gasp, not a grunt, not even the creak of a bedframe leaked through. Just the echo of their own footsteps climbing toward whatever waited on three.
They climbed the last flight of metal stairs and stepped into the third-floor loft: concrete floors, twenty-foot ceilings, north light pouring cold and silver through a bank of industrial skylights. The set was simple: a king-size bed on a low platform draped in white satin, racks of lights and 4K cameras on tripods, softboxes glowing warm against the chill. A half-dozen crew members moved with quiet efficiency: a tattooed lighting guy adjusting a rim light, a sound tech clipping a lav to a boom pole, a makeup artist unpacking brushes.
“Ben! The man of the hour!”
Gideon’s voice boomed across the space as he strode toward them, arms wide, that salesman grin dialed to eleven. He grabbed Ben’s hand and pumped it like they were old war buddies, eyes flicking appreciatively over the leather jacket and the way the tank clung to Ben’s pumped chest and gut.
“Enjoy the ride? Nice car, right?”
“Yeah, fancy as hell,” Ben rumbled.
Gideon turned to Jordan then, smile still in place but dialed down a notch, polite a professional, but nowhere near the hero-worship he’d aimed at Ben. “How you feeling, Jordan? Ready to do it?”
Jordan swallowed, forcing his voice steady. “I’ll just be watching.”
Gideon laughed, bright and quick. “Here, let me introduce you guys. You already know Mika?” He gestured toward the pink-haired receptionist from downstairs. Then he waved the rest of the crew over, rapid-fire intros: Dan on camera one, Leo on two, Sasha lighting, Raven makeup, and a couple of PAs whose names Jordan immediately forgot because his pulse was hammering too loud in his ears. All men, Jordan noticed, except for Mika who was already going back to her post at the reception. The set hummed with quiet anticipation, everyone stealing glances at Ben like he was the storm they’d all been waiting for.
“This is Victor Reyes, our captain”, said Gideon, gesturing to a man that Jordan recognized immediately. The moment Gideon said Victor Reyes would be directing, Jordan had googled the name. Victor was legit, an actual director with a résumé that read like a map of near-misses and quiet triumphs: music videos for indie singers who never quite broke, slick commercials for craft beer and men’s grooming lines, a string of cable episodes Jordan had never heard of, even two HBO pilots that died in development hell. He’d been courted by the straight studios for years, but Victor always turned them down. Gay porn had been where he finally spoke fluently, and he wouldn’t change it for nothing. Reyes was in his early forties, not especially handsome in the conventional sense, a receding hairline he’d shaved down to a tight buzz, skin weathered from too many years under hot lights, but there was a raw, magnetic sex appeal that fit his job like it had been custom-made. Lean and wiry, all sharp angles and coiled energy, sleeves rolled high on a black button-down to show forearms corded with veins and faded tattoos, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a voice like smoked bourbon that could shift from velvet encouragement to a barked command in half a heartbeat.
“Big Ben in the flesh”, he said, showing a crooked grin that showed a gold canine. “You made quite the splash on the scene with your videos, my friend. Glad to have you onboard”
Ben took the hand, grip firm as he sized Victor up. “Appreciate it. Let’s see if I can keep the wave goin’.”
Before Ben could say more, a voice floated in from behind them, playful and teasing, edged with that unmistakable whine Jordan had heard a hundred times through headphones and late-night loops.
“Gid, you’re not gonna introduce me too?”
He didn’t even need to turn. He knew that voice: breathy, needy, climbing into desperate little gasps when the stretch got too good, cracking into high, broken sobs when the cock wouldn’t stop. He’d heard it begging, moaning, screaming for more in clip after clip, Ezra’s soundtrack to half their own frantic nights.
Seeing Ezra in person was like a punch straight to the gut, the kind that knocks the air out of you and leaves you reeling. Fuck, the camera really didn’t do him justice. He was Jordan’s height, maybe an inch taller, and built like temptation incarnate: lean muscle carved under bronze skin that somehow still glowed in November, a gift from the Lebanese mother Jordan remembered reading about in some interview months ago, before he even dreamed about meeting Ezra in person. Barefoot, low-slung sweats riding dangerously low on sharp hipbones, the waistband barely clinging for dear life. A cropped hoodie rode up just enough to flash a smooth, ridged torso that looked airbrushed in real life, dark hair tousled in that effortless old-money cut every influencer was chasing these days, like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed and still looked ready to ruin lives. Pretty in a way that felt almost unfair, lips parted in a lazy, knowing smile that promised every filthy thing the internet already swore he could deliver, eyes flicking straight to Ben like Jordan had vanished the second they walked in.
Invisible.
Jordan stood there, and felt the floor tilt under his feet. He was no insecure man, never had been. He’d heard it a dozen times over the years by friends, strangers at bars, even his own mother once, half-joking over Thanksgiving turkey: “Jordan, you’re the pretty one. Ben really reached when he landed you.” He’d dismissed it every time, but he understood why they would think that. He knew how he looked: sharp jaw, gym-cut body, the kind of face that turned heads in SoHo galleries and got him free drinks without trying. But right now, standing two feet from Ezra Johnson in the flesh, Jordan felt like a fucking oaf. Ezra glowed under the skylight like someone had dialed the saturation up just for him and Jordan’s shirt suddenly felt cheap, his arms too bulky, his face too ordinary. Next to this bronzed god, he was just… mortal.
“Hi, Ben,” Ezra said, not waiting for Victor or Gideon or anyone else to make the introduction. His voice was pure honey, dripping sugar and sin in the same breath. He rose onto the tips of his toes and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss to Ben’s cheek, lingering just long enough for the contact to feel like a promise.
“I’m so glad you decided to do this with me,” he murmured, pulling back only far enough to meet Ben’s eyes, lashes fluttering like he couldn’t believe his luck. “I think we’re gonna make something really special.”
“Yeah?” Ben drawled, smooth, one eyebrow cocked behind the Wayfarers.
“Yeah, one hundred percent,” Ezra breathed, smile widening, perfect teeth flashing. “You got this… magnetism. It’s rare, even in this business. Can’t believe it took so long for you to join us.”
Ben’s arm slid around Jordan’s waist. “Well, you can thank Jordan for that.”
Ezra’s gaze flicked to Jordan then, polite, curious, a little amused, like he’d just noticed the third person in the triangle. Jordan forced a smile that felt carved from wood.
“Hi,” he managed. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, Jordan.”, said Ezra. “You’re so pretty, oh my god. Are you guys sure this isn’t a couples operation?”
The compliment landed genuine, Ezra’s dark eyes flicking over Jordan’s face with open appreciation. But the moment passed in a heartbeat, and those same eyes slid back to Ben like gravity, something almost predatory flickering behind the lashes, hungry, calculating, already tasting what he’d come here to take. Jordan felt it like teeth grazing skin: Ezra couldn’t wait to sink into Ben and tear a piece away for himself.
“No,” Jordan answered, lamely. “Just, uh, Ben.”
“Well, you’re a rockstar for supporting Ben through all of this,” Ezra said. “I promise I’ll deliver him back in one piece, okay?”
“Can’t promise the same, though,” Ben rumbled, voice low and flirty, the words rolling out like he was already halfway undressed.
Victor barked a laugh, Gideon joining in a beat later, the sound bouncing off the concrete like he’d just heard the best punchline of the year. Jordan forced one out too, thin and mechanical, the kind of laugh you give when you’ve almost forgotten other people are in the room and suddenly remember you’re supposed to be part of the joke. Ezra didn’t laugh with them. He just smirked at Ben, slow and private, eyes locked in a way that shut the rest of the world out, like the two of them were sharing a secret joke no one else was ever meant to understand.
“Why don’t I show you where you can change?” Ezra said, already looping his arm through Ben’s like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Ben didn’t move at first. He turned his head, eyes locking on Jordan beneath his Wayfare, a silent question hanging there: You good? Jordan nodded, too fast, too eager,, mumbling something like “Go ahead,” the words scraping dry in his throat. Only then did Ben let Ezra lead him away, the smaller man’s hand hooked possessively over Ben’s thick biceps like it had always belonged there. Gideon fell in step beside them, thumb flicking across his phone with a discreet little smile, the three of them disappearing behind a heavy black curtain at the far end of the loft. Jordan was about to pivot to Victor, desperate for any small talk to fill the sudden vacuum, when one of the P.A.s. jogged over, looking flustered, going on about wireless lavs and chargers being weird. Victor excused himself to Jordan and was already yelling for Leo, letting Jordan stand right there, alone.
Jordan drifted to the craft-services table shoved against the far brick wall, the one place that felt marginally less exposed than the middle of the open loft. It was a long farmhouse slab draped in white linen, crowded with tiered stands of pastel macarons, glistening fruit tarts arranged like stained-glass windows, a pyramid of perfect pain au chocolat. A silver coffee urn hissed softly beside a tower of artisanal doughnuts dusted with gold leaf and. Everything looked expensive, curated, and completely inedible. He picked up a chocolate croissant anyway. The first bite was supposed to be confort. Instead it turned to damp cardboard the second it touched his tongue. He chewed mechanically, swallowed like he was forcing down gravel, and chased it with a sip of burnt craft-service coffee that tasted of scorched regret.
Phone out. Shield up.
He leaned one hip against the table, thumb flicking through Twitter with the vacant rhythm of a man pretending the world still existed outside that building. He liked a meme about Mercury retrograde, retweeted a gallery opening he had no intention of attending, typed and deleted three tweets that all sounded like screams in disguise. Every thirty seconds he glanced up, half-convinced the entire crew was staring at the pathetic boyfriend loitering by the pastries like a plus-one who’d lost his invitation. They weren’t, of course. No one was looking at him at all. Dan adjusted a C-stand. Leo tweaked a light that was apparently half a stop too warm. Jordan took another bite of the croissant. It still tasted like nothing. He kept scrolling. Kept pretending. Kept swallowing ashes while the crew set up the shot that was about to star the love of his life and the most beautiful bottom on the planet, and no one in the room needed to look at Jordan to know exactly where he stood, alone, clutching a pastry he didn’t want, watching his boyfriend disappear with a man who look ready to steal him.
Jordan decided to give it five more minutes before he went looking for Ben, just five, no big deal, when a bright, unmistakable voice floated across the loft.
“Oh my god!”
Ezra’s laugh followed, high and delighted, followed by a ripple of giggles and low male chuckles. Jordan’s eyes snapped up from his phone. He found Ben instantly, impossible to miss, towering over the little knot of crew and P.A.s like a redwood in a flowerbed. The leather jacket and baggy jeans gone and in their place was a deep burgundy robe, thick, clearly expensive, the kind of thing that probably cost much more than the one Ben had back home. The color made his skin look warmer, the beard darker, like sin wrapped in velvet. It hung open like it had never occurred to Ben to close it. His cock was simply… out. Heavy, resting thick and shameless against his thigh as if this were their bedroom at two a.m. instead of a professional set surrounded by strangers. The two P.A.s were openly staring, eyes wide, lips parted, hunger written so plainly on their faces it felt obscene in its own right. One of them actually licked his lips without realizing he’d done it.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “It’s huge.”
“How big is it, Ben?” the other asked, voice cracking halfway through like he couldn’t help himself.
Ben’s mouth curved into that slow, smug grin Jordan knew too well.
“Little over ten,” he said, lazy, like he was talking about the weather.
The first P.A. let out a shaky laugh. “Ten inches is fucking massive, man.”
Ben chuckled, low and easy, shoulders rolling in a shrug that somehow managed to look modest and unbearably cocky at the same time.
“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at himself like he was noticing it for the first time. “It’s pretty big.”
“Can we touch?” the tattooed P.A. asked, voice barely above a whisper, already leaning in like the question was just a formality.
Jordan’s heart slammed against his ribs. Touch it? Here? In front of everyone? It felt wildly unprofessional, way past the hell over some invisible line, but before the protest could leave his throat Ben just shrugged, easy, unbothered, the same way he’d shrug if someone asked to borrow a pen.
“Sure,” he said, simple, casual, like it was nothing. Both P.A.s moved at once. Their hands reached out, greedy, reverent, wrapping around Ben’s cock like it was a prize they’d been waiting years to claim. His cock was so big that even with two sets of fingers circling it there was still flesh spilling over. The guy with the lip ring tried to close his fist and couldn’t; his fingers didn’t meet by at least an inch. A soft, involuntary sound escaped him, half laugh, half moan. Jordan stood frozen by the pastry table, chocolate croissant forgotten in his hand, watching strangers touch what used to be his alone, while Ben looked down at them with that same lazy, smug grin, chest puffed, robe hanging open like a king who’d just been crowned.
“Fuck, Ezra,” one P.A. breathed, eyes still glued to the thick cock filling both his hands. “He’s gonna split you in half.”
Ezra didn’t even glance down at the hands worshipping Ben’s cock. He just leaned a hip against a lighting stand, arms loosely folded, that same smug, knowing smile curving his lips.
“I can take it,” he said, voice velvet and certain, like he’d already felt it inside him.
He didn’t reach out, didn’t try to fight the P.A.s for a turn. He didn’t need to. The message was crystal clear: they could grope and gasp all they wanted right now, but in a few minutes that cock was going to be his and his alone. Ben’s gaze lifted from the hands stroking him, slow and heavy, and locked on Ezra. The look that passed between them was pure, naked hunger, raw, animal, the kind of stare that stripped rooms bare. Ben’s smirk sharpened. Ezra answered with a tiny tilt of his chin, a silent dare, a promise.
Jordan felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs.
He couldn’t remember the last time Ben had looked at him like that, like he wanted to ruin him, own him, burn the world down just to get inside him. The shiver that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the cold loft air.
As if he’d felt the shiver crawl across the room, Ben’s gaze broke from Ezra’s and swept the loft until it landed on Jordan. The eye contact lasted barely a second. No guilt. No apology. No flicker of shame. Just a calm, steady look, the same one he might give Jordan across the breakfast table on any ordinary morning. Like letting two strangers stroke his cock while Ezra watched was simply part of the job.
Jordan’s stomach twisted.
Should Ben feel guilty? They were here for exactly this, weren’t they? Sure, they could all say it was professional, a performance. An act for a paycheck. But the word professional tasted like a lie when Ben’s cock was still in strangers’ hands and his smile for Ezra looked exactly like the smile he used to save for Jordan in the dark, right before he pushed inside and everything else stopped mattering. So was Jordan jealous?He stared back at Ben across the humming loft, croissant crumbling forgotten in his fist, and realized the honest answer was yes. But there was something else there too, something stirred hotter, darker, gathering low in his gut like fire.
Arousal. Raw, undeniable, humiliating.
It made him dizzy: turned on and terrified in the same breath. Horny and hollow. Proud and small. He had no idea what to do with the feeling, only that it was growing, fast, and if he didn’t get it under control soon it was going to swallow him whole right there beside the untouched pastries, while his boyfriend got worshipped by everyone in the room except him.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Victor’s voice cracked across the loft like a starter pistol. He clapped his hands once, the sound sharp enough to make Jordan flinch. “Let’s roll.”
