The cap and gown felt good. Nick stood in the line with the rest of his classmates, black polyester clinging to his shoulders, the tassel ticking against his cheek every time he turned his head. The sun was brutal, a hard blue sky that had no business being this perfect, not after everything they had survived to get here.

He found Kyle three rows ahead, blond hair visible under his cap. Kyle caught his eye and grinned. That crooked grin. The one that had been there since kindergarten, since scraped knees and stolen popsicles and secrets that used to be small enough to hold in one hand. Now the secrets were bigger. Now the future was bigger. Now everything was about to change.

“Nicholas Bennett.”

The principal’s voice crackled over the speakers and the world narrowed to the stretch of stage between them. Nick walked. Each step felt heavier and lighter at the same time. He shook the man’s hand. Took the leather folder that held his diploma. The weight of it settled into his palm like a door closing and another one swinging wide open.

He scanned the crowd the way you were supposed to, looking for your people. His mother stood near the back, waving a little too hard, tears already cutting tracks through her carefully applied makeup. Joe stood beside her, clapping hard enough that Nick could see the force of it from the stage, chest puffed out like he’d done something to earn this moment. And right next to them, Kyle’s mother. She was cheering at the top of her lungs, one arm hooked through Helen’s, the other waving wildly, face shining with pure, unguarded pride. The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder like a single unit of love and relief and leftover fear finally letting go.

Nick’s throat closed. He had to look away before he lost it in front of everyone.

Kyle’s name came a few minutes later.

“Kyle Walker.”

Kyle crossed the stage like he was strutting out like a rock star, head high, shoulders loose. The second his name left the speakers, his mother lost it completely, cheering so loud the people around her laughed and clapped along. Helen wiped at her eyes. Joe’s big hand settled on the back of her shoulder, steadying her, steadying all of them. Kyle looked out into the crowd, found the three of them standing together, and something raw and grateful flashed across his face before he took his diploma and kept walking.

They found each other after the ceremony in the chaos of families and flash photography and the thick, glittering knowledge that this was it, the last shared day of the lives they had always known. Kyle pulled him into a hard hug, and for a second the gowns pressed together and Nick could feel Kyle’s heart hammering through the cheap fabric.

“We did it,” Kyle murmured against his shoulder, voice cracking. “We’re actually done.”

“Didn’t get expelled,” Nick managed, but the joke came out thick. “That’s the victory.”

Kyle laughed, wet and shaky, then pulled back just enough to look at him. Both of them were blinking too hard.

Kyle glanced past Nick’s shoulder. “She’s here.”

Nick turned. Samantha was standing at the edge of the bleachers, her family clustered behind her. Mike and Brenda looked nothing like the last time he’d seen them in the hospital, sunken, shallow, carved hollow by the accident. Now they stood tall and healthy, smiling wide, proud as hell of their daughter. Color in their faces. Light in their eyes. The kind of easy happiness that only comes after surviving something that should have broken you.

Samantha caught his eye and held up one finger, wait. She looked different too. Lighter. Freer. Like something heavy had finally been set down.

She said something to her parents, touched her mother’s arm, and walked over.

“Nick.” Her voice was steady, warmer than he expected.

“Sam.” His throat tightened. “You look… you look good. Really. Happier.”

The hug was real, tight, brief, the kind that said everything without needing more. She smelled like the same perfume she’d worn senior year, but the weight that used to sit behind it was gone.

“NYU,” she said, eyes shining. “Full ride, almost. I’m gone in three months.”

Nick nodded. “St. Louis. Full scholarship. Football.” He paused, tasting the words. “I’m excited. For the first time in a long time.”

Something flickered across her face, not pain, not anger. Just quiet acceptance, and something that looked a lot like peace. “That’s good, Nick. That’s really good.”

He started the apology he’d practiced a hundred times in the shower, in the car, in the dark of his bedroom. She cut him off with a small shake of her head.

“It’s fine. Really.” Her eyes held his, clear and unflinching, lighter than they’d been in years. “I hope your dad gets to live his truth one day. And you too. Whatever that looks like.”

She squeezed his arm once more, then walked away toward her smiling, proud parents and a future that no longer included any of them.

Kyle found him again ten minutes later, gown already half-unzipped, that crooked grin in place even though his eyes were still a little red. “Engineering program. New England. Full acceptance.” The words tumbled out fast, almost disbelieving. “We’re really leaving, Nick. Both of us.”

“Fuck, Kyle. That’s incredible.”

The future was already reaching for them, St. Louis. New England. Separate cities. Separate lives. The same secret still thrumming under their skin.

“Lara’s gone,” Kyle said it before Nick could ask. “I got tired of the cling. I ended it cleanly three weeks ago over distance since I’m moving to the other side of the country.” He shrugged, but something flickered in his eyes. “She took it with dignity. Surprised us both.”

Nick let that settle. Three weeks. Kyle hadn’t mentioned it.

The three of them, Joe, Nick, Kyle, were the only constants left.

Summer moved in a strange, golden blur. Nick packed boxes for St. Louis, label-maker clicking, flight confirmation sitting on his desk like a ticket out. His mother kept making lists of things he’d need, towels, sheets, a first-aid kit, and his father kept making himself scarce, and the house buzzed with the hum of endings.

Joe was scheduled to drive Kyle east for the three-day haul to campus, but first there was one last trip.

Echo Point.

Just the three of them.

They loaded the SUV at dawn, sleeping bags and coolers and a worn camp stove. Kyle rode shotgun. Ten minutes onto the highway he was already leaning over the console, fingers reaching for Joe’s belt with the ease of long practice.

Joe’s hand caught his wrist.

“Wait,” Joe said, voice low and rough. “Lick it through my underwear first. Smell my crotch. You can take it out when I tell you.”

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Mark POV
The sheets were cool against his skin, but Mark’s body burned from the inside out. Sarah lay beside him, her breathing slow and even, one hand tucked beneath her pillow. The soft moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver stripes across her sleeping face.

Mark stared at the ceiling, his mind nowhere near rest.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tyler’s cruel grin, heard the mocking voice calling him fag, felt the thick, brutal stretch of the gear stick splitting him open. His cock twitched under the covers, pressing against his thigh, already half-hard despite the exhaustion that weighed down his limbs.

That kid. Fucking that kid. Tyler was a bully, a prick, the exact kind of arrogant jock who made high school a living hell for anyone weaker. He took what he wanted without asking, laughed while he hurt people, treated Mark like a piece of garbage to be used and discarded.

And Mark loved it.

His hand drifted down beneath the blanket, fingers brushing the base of his softening cock. He bit his lip, holding back a groan. Sarah shifted beside him, murmuring something in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

The memory played on a loop: Tyler shoving his cock down Mark’s throat, the taste of sweat and pre-cum and teenage dominance flooding his senses. The way Tyler’s hips snapped forward without mercy, holding Mark’s head in place while he gagged and drooled and loved every second of it.

He’s just a boy, Mark thought, but the thought didn’t cool the heat in his veins. It made it worse. Tyler was eighteen, still young enough to be his son, hell, he was Brandon’s age. But Tyler had a fire in his eyes that Brandon lacked. A cruelty. A hunger.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut, picturing it: Tyler grabbing him by the hair, slapping him, calling him a dumb faggot. The way his thick, veiny cock felt ramming into Mark’s throat, balls slapping against his chin. That was a real man. That was an alpha, young and raw and unapologetic in his dominance.

I wish Brandon was more like him.

The thought surfaced unbidden, and Mark’s hand tightened around his cock. He stroked once, slowly, the friction sending a jolt through his groin.

Brandon was too hesitant. Too conflicted. He had the hunger, Mark saw it in his eyes when he fisted him, when he watched Mark get used by the others. But Brandon held back. He second-guessed. He got scared.

Tyler didn’t hesitate. Tyler saw a hole and took it.

Mark’s breathing quickened, his hips bucking into his own fist. He pictured Tyler’s face, that cruel smirk, the way his eyes gleamed when he called Mark a disgusting fag. The way he didn’t ask, he commanded. And Mark obeyed, because there was nothing in the world that made him feel more alive than being broken by a man who didn’t care.

Fuck. He was hard now, painfully hard, the tip wet with pre-cum. Sarah rolled over, her arm draping across his chest, and he froze. Her hand was warm, innocent, resting over his heart.

He lay there, rigid, his cock throbbing against his stomach, the need a burning ache. But he didn’t move. He just stared at the ceiling and let the fantasy consume him.

Tomorrow he'll steal Tyler’s number from Brandon’s phone, and beg Tyler, see what else that young alpha can do to me.

---

The phone alarm screamed at six-thirty. Mark silenced it before the second beep, sliding out of bed with practiced care. Sarah groaned, pulling the covers over her head.

“Coffee’s in the pot,” she muttered, already half-asleep again.

Mark grunted, pulling on his work slacks and a fresh button-down. His body ached in delicious places, his ass still sore, his throat raw. Every twinge was a reminder.

He dressed quickly, grabbed his keys, and slipped out into the grey morning light.

The drive to the office was twenty minutes of tense anticipation. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Would Tyler ever use him again? Had the kid gotten what he wanted and moved on? The thought sent a cold spike of anxiety through him, followed by a deeper, hungrier need.

Please. Please let him use me again.

He didn’t have to wonder any longer, he pulled into the lot, the gravel crunching under his tires. His heart stuttered.

Tyler’s truck was parked near the entrance, dusty and familiar.

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Leo sat on the edge of the motel bed, the cheap mattress sagging under his weight, laptop open on the scarred desk. The live feeds from the cabin filled the screen in a neat grid, dungeon, hallway, master bedroom, and the kitchen camera he’d placed high in the corner above the stove.

The kitchen feed was the one that held him.

Alex and the twink moved around the kitchen like domestic servants who’d just woken up from a hard fuck and decided to cook dinner. Both wore nothing but black thongs and matching leather collars. The thin fabric of the thongs stretched tight over the outlines of their metal cages, the silver bars and locks clearly visible through the sheer material every time one of them bent or turned.

Alex stood at the stove, stirring a pot of pasta sauce with a wooden spoon, the muscles in his back and ass flexing with every slow circle. The twink worked beside him, chopping vegetables, the cage pressing against the front of his thong.

At the kitchen table, Frank, Steven, and Glen sat with open beers, laughing about something from the boat. Ron was still standing.

He walked over to Alex, casual as if he were checking the seasoning, and hooked two fingers into the side of the black thong. He pulled the fabric aside, exposing Alex’s still-puffy, used hole, and slid two thick fingers straight in.

Alex’s back arched instantly. The spoon clattered against the side of the pot. A low, slutty moan spilled out of him.

“Fuck, Daddy—”

Ron didn’t stop. He worked his fingers deeper, curling them, watching Alex’s hips push back. “Keep stirring, boy. Don’t burn the sauce.”

Alex’s voice came out broken and needy. “Please… please fill my pussy. It’s so empty…”

Ron laughed under his breath, pulled his fingers free, shoved his cock out of his shorts, and sank into Alex in one smooth thrust. The slap of skin on skin mixed with the simmer of the sauce.

Ron started fucking him right there at the stove, slow and deep, one hand on Alex’s hip, the other still holding a beer. He turned his head toward the table like nothing unusual was happening.

“Day on the boat was perfect,” Ron said, voice steady while his hips rolled. “Sun, water, those two little holes getting stretched the way they needed. We should do it every weekend.”

Frank chuckled into his beer. Glen and Steven nodded, eyes flicking to the show without missing a beat.

Alex kept stirring the sauce with trembling hands, moaning every time Ron bottomed out, thanking him between breaths like a good little house whore. Inside his head the world had narrowed to the thick stretch of Ron’s cock and the heat flooding his face. He felt filthy and perfect at the same time, standing at the stove in nothing but a scrap of black fabric and a cage, getting fucked while the other men drank beer and laughed ten feet away. Every deep stroke punched soft, needy sounds out of him. The cage ached uselessly against the front of the thong. The collar sat snug around his throat.

Glen snapped his fingers under the table.

The twink dropped to his knees immediately, crawled between Glen’s spread thighs, and opened his mouth. Glen’s cock disappeared between his lips. The wet, rhythmic sounds of the twink sucking joined the wetter sounds of Ron fucking Alex.

Ron lasted maybe three minutes. He buried himself deep, grunted, and unloaded into Alex with a low curse. Hot pulses flooded Alex’s hole. He kept stirring, thighs shaking, whispering, “Thank you, Daddy,” like he’d just been handed a tip.

Ron pulled out, wiped his cock on Alex’s ass, and sat down. Cum immediately started leaking down the inside of Alex’s thigh.

Ron pointed at the twink, who was still under the table with Glen’s cock in his throat. “Finish Glen off, then get over here and clean that load out of Alex’s pussy. Tongue only.”

Glen came with a satisfied groan a minute later. The twink swallowed, wiped his mouth, and crawled over to Alex. He dropped to his knees behind him, pulled the thong aside again, and buried his face between Alex’s cheeks.

Warm, wet tongue pushed inside, licking, sucking, chasing every drop of Ron’s cum. Alex’s hips jerked. He had to brace one hand on the counter to keep from collapsing into the stove.

The twink’s voice was muffled against his hole. “Push it out for me.”

Alex’s face burned, but the order went straight through him. He bore down.

A thick, wet cumfart forced its way out, spraying Ron’s load straight into the twink’s open, waiting mouth. The sound was filthy. The feeling was even filthier.

The twink moaned and swallowed greedily, tongue working deeper, cleaning every last string of cum while Alex stood there shaking, stirring sauce with one hand and pushing more out for the boy on his knees.

He felt so slutty it almost hurt. So hot he could barely breathe. Nothing else mattered. Just the stretch, the mess, the way his body opened for anyone who wanted it.

On the motel screen, Leo watched the entire exchange in high definition. His stomach turned.

His cock was hard anyway.

His hand drifted into his shorts without conscious thought.

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He was fifteen years old, a prefect because his mother had scrubbed floors so he could earn that stripe, and he’d been checking the corridors for stragglers before curfew when he heard it. A thud. Muffled. Then a sound like a wet cough coming from the stairwell door that led down to the old heating system.

David stopped. His torch flickered. The corridor was empty, the portraits of dead headmasters staring down at him with their painted eyes.

He should have walked away.

He opened the door instead.

The steps were concrete, worn smooth by decades of boys’ shoes. The air got thicker with each step down, the heat from the pipes wrapping around him like a damp blanket. Voices drifted up. Male voices, older than his, full of the particular cruelty that came from never having been told no.

“…hold him, you useless prick. Hold him down.”

“He’s fucking biting, Tim. The little shit bit me.”

“Then hit him harder.”

David’s blood went cold. He knew that voice. Tim Hawthorne. Captain of the rugby first XV. His father was Geoffrey Hawthorne, whose name was on three buildings on campus and whose donations kept the school running.

David reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

The boiler room was lit by a single naked bulb that swung from the ceiling, casting long, jittering shadows. The pipes along the walls dripped condensation. The floor was damp concrete stained darker in patches that David told himself were water.

Oliver Whitfield was on his knees.

Fourteen years old. Scholarship boy from Reading. His mother worked at a bakery, his father drove a delivery van. Oliver played the violin, had been first chair in the school orchestra, and had a smile that made the younger boys look up to him. He was small. Narrow shoulders. A blazer that was a size too big because his parents had bought it second-hand and hoped he’d grow into it.

He was crying.

His shirt was torn open, buttons scattered across the floor like teeth. His trousers were around his ankles, his pale legs scraped and bleeding from the concrete. Tim Hawthorne stood behind him, one hand fisted in Oliver’s hair, the other gripping his cock. Two other boys held Oliver’s arms, their faces flushed with adrenaline and something uglier.

“Please,” Oliver said. His voice was small. “Please stop. Please, I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just please—”

Tim laughed.

It wasn’t a cruel laugh. It was casual. Bored. The laugh of a boy who had never faced a consequence in his entire privileged life.

“You’ll tell,” Tim said. “They always tell. But by then it doesn’t matter, because no one believes the scholarship kids, do they? Your word against mine. Against my father’s money.” He yanked Oliver’s head back, exposing his throat. “Now open your mouth before I get bored and make it worse.”

Oliver’s eyes found David’s.

David remembered that moment. He would dream about it for years. The way Oliver’s face shifted from terror to a desperate, fragile hope when he saw a prefect standing at the bottom of the stairs. The way his lips parted, a breath of relief escaping him.

“Help me,” Oliver whispered. “Please. You’re a prefect. You have to help me.”

David’s feet refused to move.

His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth.

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Matthew from *The Gardener’s Affair* and Kyle from *Coach’s Pet* think they’re just starting classes. Instead, a sadistic dean drops them straight into the football team’s private Frat House, a locked-down den of sweat, spit, and constant use.

By day they sit in lectures like any other students. By night the hierarchy takes over. Thanks to those faces and those bodies, Matthew and Kyle are placed at the top of the house-slave ranking and become the team’s instant favourites. While the lesser freshmen scrub floors with their tongues and sleep in a heap on the basement concrete, these two are kept clean, kept locked, and kept close, sleeping curled at the foot of the players’ beds like prized pets, ready to be dragged up and used whenever a cock stirs.

But it isn’t just the team. The dean takes his cut whenever he wants. Certain professors who are in the know pull them into offices after class, lock the door, and use those same mouths and holes before sending them back to the Frat House dripping. Day and night, campus and bedroom, the pretty favourites are never off-limits to the men who run the place.

One last filthy chapter of *The Gardener’s Affair* and *Coach’s Pet* is coming… then the real meat starts.

**Frat House Heat** where looking this good means everyone who matters gets a turn.

The elevator ride down was silent. The drive home was a blur of brake lights and the ghost of pleasure still humming in his spine. He slipped into bed at 1 1 pM beside Paige, her breathing soft and even, her body warm and trusting and completely unaware.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the phantom weight of Luke’s cock in his throat and the real, drying soreness of his jaw. The shame was so hot it should have been visible. But beneath it, coiling hotter, was something else, something that made his spent cock twitch against the sheets. The way Luke had held him down. The way the orders left no room to think. The raw, humiliating relief of being used until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

He hated how much he was starting to crave it.

He hated that the memory made him hard again.

He hated that part of him already wanted the next call.

When does this end? The thought circled him like a shark.

It didn’t have an answer. And for the first time, a quieter voice inside him whispered that maybe he didn’t want one.

Wednesday he reviewed the quarterly projections. Saturday he took the twins to soccer practice and clapped at the right moments while his mind replayed the wet sound of Mark’s whimper on the phone. Sunday arrived with alarming speed.

Across the city, the late-afternoon sun slanted through sheer curtains, casting the living room in a warm, domestic glow. Mark’s fingers traced the edge of the invitation sample, the heavy cardstock cool against his skin. He sat beside Phoebe on their sofa, the coffee table buried under a chaos of wedding detritus: fabric swatches in ivory and champagne, a binder thick with vendor quotes, a half-eaten plate of cheese and crackers, three open bottles of wine breathing on the sideboard.

“I still think the calligraphy is too formal,” Phoebe said, leaning into his shoulder. She smelled like citrus shampoo and the faint sweetness of Chardonnay. “Look at how the ‘S’ curls. It’s pretty, but it feels stiff. Like something my mother would pick.”

Mark smiled the exact smile he had practiced for two years. Warm. Attentive. In love. He turned the sample so the light caught the gold foil. “You’re right. It’s elegant, but maybe we go with the softer script. The one that looks handwritten. More us.”

Us.

The word sat in his mouth like a carefully measured dose of medicine. He loved her. That part was true, sealed in its own vault. Phoebe was sunshine and safety, the only person who had ever looked at him without wanting something broken. She believed in the Mark who planned stag nights and argued seating charts, the Mark who got hard when she climbed on top of him in the dark. That Mark was real enough to function, real enough to hold her hand in public, real enough to mean it when he said “I love you” every night before sleep.

But the other Mark, the one in the locked room behind his eyes, was already hardening at the thought of later.

The memory of three nights ago was a live wire in his chest. Paul’s cock inside him, thick and desperate and strange, while Luke controlled everything from behind. The phone call. The risk. The shame that had detonated through him so violently he’d come untouched.

He wanted to be sick. His cock twitched.

Both reactions arrived at once, tangled and impossible to separate.

He set the invitation down and reached for Phoebe’s glass, topping it off without being asked. “Try the other bottle. Softer finish, less likely to knock people out before the first dance.”

Phoebe laughed, accepting the pour. “You’re spoiling me.” She took a long sip, eyes fluttering closed. “God, that’s good. Keep this up and I’ll be asleep on this couch before we finish the seating chart.”

Mark’s pulse kicked once. He filed the information away without letting it show on his face.

The doorbell rang at 6:12.

Phoebe bounced up, flushed from the wine. “That’s Luke! He said he’d bring the final florist quotes. We’re so late on the deposit.”

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*A late-night Zoom call with a Jehovah’s Witness elder living a secret life of faith, family, and anonymous desire

I almost didn’t release this; I sat on it for over a month.

When Nathan first agreed to talk, I thought I knew what the story would be. A religious man leading a double life. An elder who cheats on his wife. Secret hotel rooms, anonymous bodies, hot group sex with strangers. The kind of piece that writes itself, scandalous, salacious, easy to sell. I pictured the headline and new subscribers.

What I actually got was the complete opposite.

This profile is raw and honest and, quite frankly, ugly. It is not glamorous. It is not sexy in the way I expected. It is the sound of a man coming apart in real time, carrying decades of silence, fear, and self-erasure. I sat with the recording for a long time afterward, wondering whether anyone needed to hear it. In the end I decided the truth of it mattered more than the version I had imagined.

I started the call with a pause long enough to feel deliberate. I sat in my dim home office, the light from the monitor catching the edge of a cold coffee mug. On the other side of the screen, Nathan was in a hotel room somewhere on the road. A single lamp threw soft light across a plain wall. He looked tired in the way that sleep cannot fix.

“I’ve been carrying pieces of your story around in my head for weeks,” I said. “Mind if I ask you some real shit tonight? Nothing off-limits.”

His answer came quiet and already frayed. “Go for it. Ask away. Nothing’s out of bounds… not tonight.”

What followed was not a clean interview. It was a slow unravelling of a man who has spent decades living inside two irreconcilable worlds.

---

Nathan no longer believes the organisation is “the truth.” He remains for his children. Sarah, his wife, is deeply devoted; she would never leave. He loves his kids more than anything. The secret income has allowed him to place them in private schools and set up college funds, things the organisation discourages. “I want them to have the choice I never felt I had,” he told me.

If Sarah found out the full truth, he was certain of the outcome. “She leaves. I lose everything. Kids. Parents. Friends I’ve known for decades. The whole life I’ve built goes up in flames.” He has pictured it so many times it already feels like a memory.

To understand the weight he carries, I had to understand the world that shaped him.

Jehovah’s Witnesses do not simply hold religious beliefs; they inhabit a total system that claims exclusive access to divine truth. The organisation presents itself as God’s sole channel of communication on earth. Every major doctrine, every moral boundary, every decision about who belongs and who must be cut off flows from that central claim. To question the organisation is, in effect, to question God.

Sexuality sits near the heart of that system’s control. Homosexual acts are classified as serious sin and are treated as grounds for judicial action. A baptised Witness who engages in same-sex behaviour and does not demonstrate sufficient repentance can be disfellowshipped. Disfellowshipping is not merely removal from membership. It is a formal cutting-off that requires other Witnesses, including close family members in many cases, to severely limit or cease contact. In practice it often functions as social death.

Nathan grew up inside this framework. He learned early that certain desires were not merely inconvenient; they were evidence of spiritual danger. The prescribed response was prayer, Bible study, increased activity in the ministry, and rigorous self-suppression. When those methods failed him as a teenager, he buried the feelings deeper and performed the expected role more convincingly. He eventually became an elder, one of the men entrusted with shepherding the flock, hearing confessions, and deciding who remains in good standing and who must be removed.

That position intensifies the contradiction. He has counselled other young ones struggling with same-sex attraction. For years he delivered the official line and felt like a hypocrite every time. “I’m sitting across from a terrified sixteen-year-old and telling him the same things that failed me. Prayer. Study. Suppress. And the whole time a quieter voice is screaming that I’m a fraud.” Most of those young ones eventually leave. He envies their courage. The ones who stay often grow quieter, more withdrawn. “Like the light goes out of them.”

Then came the tragedy that changed everything.

One of the young ones he had counselled took his own life. Nathan does not give the name. He does not need to. The moment he begins to speak about it, his eyes fill. The tears come quickly and without warning, the same tears that will later overwhelm him completely. His voice drops and cracks as he describes the aftermath, the quiet conversations among the elders, the carefully worded announcements, the way the congregation moved on while he could not. That death sits in him like a permanent fracture. After it happened, something in him shifted permanently. He could no longer deliver the official counsel the same way.

He still meets with young ones who come to him in quiet desperation. But now he counsels differently, and he does it in secret. Alongside the expected scriptural suggestions he is still required to offer, he finds ways to slip them information they are not supposed to have. He gives them support hotlines for gay youth, numbers they can call in private, without their parents or the congregation ever knowing. He tells them, carefully and without preaching, that they are not alone and that help exists outside the walls of the organisation. He does this knowing the risk. He does it because he refuses to watch another young person disappear the way that one did. The change is quiet, deliberate, and entirely against the rules he is sworn to uphold.

Twenty years after they last saw each other, Nathan ran into Caleb at a Darklands party. The memory still undoes him. “It was like the floor disappeared,” he said, voice already cracking, eyes wet again. “We both just stood there and cried. Twenty years vanished in a heartbeat. All those old feelings rushed back so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was completely in love with him back then. And if I’m honest… part of me never stopped.”

Caleb had been his closest friend in the congregation until the age of sixteen. When the elders disfellowshipped him and he was put out on the street, Nathan was left shattered. “I’ve been an elder myself,” he said. “They handled it the way the organisation trained them to. I don’t blame them for following the guidelines. But back then it destroyed me. I was suicidal. And those thoughts never fully left.”

The psychological toll of the dual life is the part he had the hardest time naming.

“It’s eroded me,” he said. “Not all at once. Slowly. Like water wearing down stone. There are two versions of me that never get to meet, and the space between them is where I live most of the time.”

He described constant low-grade panic mixed with numbness. Hypervigilance in every room. A self that has been split into roles, elder, husband, father, until the person in the middle has grown smaller each year. Intimacy with his wife has become complicated by guilt and distance. He is present with his children and simultaneously calculating how much of himself is safe to show. “She thinks she has a whole husband,” he said. “She has pieces.”

He used to believe the two lives could coexist indefinitely if he was careful enough. He no longer does. “The dual life doesn’t just take energy, it takes pieces of you that don’t grow back.”

When I asked what he needs most that he cannot have, his answer was simple and devastating.

“To be known. Completely. Without the mask. Just once. To sit with someone and not have to edit a single word or gesture or memory. I’ve been performing so long I don’t even know what the unperformed version of me sounds like anymore.”

That is when he broke.

The words caught. His face tightened, then collapsed. The tears that had already appeared when he spoke about the young one who died now came without restraint. He turned slightly from the camera as if privacy might still be possible, but it was too late. A broken sound escaped him, half sob, half gasp, and then the years of containment came apart all at once.

“I can’t… fuck… I can’t do this anymore”

His shoulders shook. He pressed both hands hard against his face, but the tears came too fast. The crying was raw and ugly, the kind that has been waiting a long time. His breath arrived in short, desperate pulls. Everything he had held, the dead young person he could not save, the living ones he now tries to protect in secret, the family he is terrified of destroying, the self he can no longer locate, poured out of him in that moment.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he said, voice muffled and cracking. “Tired of the lies. Tired of the masks. Tired of sitting in the Kingdom Hall looking like I have it all together when half of me is still somewhere else the night before. Tired of looking at my kids and knowing that if they ever found out the truth it would destroy them. Tired of touching my wife and feeling like a fraud. Tired of the dark places. Of the nights I sit on the edge of a hotel bed and think about just ending it so the noise finally stops.”

He dropped his hands. His face was wet, red, completely open. He no longer tried to wipe anything away.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore. The elder. The husband. The father. They’re all fighting for space inside the same body and there’s nothing left in the middle. I keep waiting for the day someone finds out, and part of me is terrified… and part of me is just ready for it to be over. Because at least then I wouldn’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

He folded forward until his forehead nearly touched the desk. For almost a full minute the only sound was the unfiltered noise of a man who has held himself together for too long finally coming apart.

I stayed quiet, present. “I’m right here. You’re not alone in this right now. Just breathe. You don’t have to hold it together for me.”

His voice, when it returned, was small and wrecked.

“I don’t know how to stop holding it together. It’s the only thing I’ve known how to do since I was sixteen and they threw Caleb out. I learned to survive by splitting myself into pieces. And now the pieces don’t fit back together. I’m scared that if I keep going I’ll disappear completely. And I’m scared that if I stop… everything I love will burn.”

He lifted his head. Eyes swollen, face streaked, stripped of every controlled version of himself that began the call. He looked directly into the camera without armour.

“I needed someone to see this. Not the version I show the Hall. Just… this. Whatever’s left of me when all the roles fall off.”

---

Only after the tears had slowed did the conversation turn to the other life.

Nathan travels constantly for work. Most of the scenes he films for his OnlyFans page happen far from home. No tattoos. No distinguishing marks. His voice is filtered in post-production every single time. Still, the paranoia never leaves. It lives under everything like a low electrical hum. He cannot film locally. The danger is too close to the territory he works and the congregation he serves.

Preparation happens in secret, even during ordinary workdays. A strict diet. Almost no food on filming days. A plug worn under a tight thong through meetings and deadlines so that by evening he is already open, already ready. “There’s something lonely,” he told me, “about sitting in a conference room while carrying that constant physical reminder of the other life.”

The money is carefully separated. Everything is registered in his Doms’ name (Dean). Profits are split. Nathan’s share moves into an account his wife does not know exists. Every three months he transfers a portion into their joint account and calls it a quarterly bonus. The rest stays hidden. When I pressed him for a figure, he finally said the word with a tired smile that did not reach his eyes: millions.

Dean is also higher up at the same company. The power dynamic follows Nathan into the office. There are days he is exhausted, deadlines pressing, and the last thing he wants is to drop to his knees in a locked room. Then he is reminded of what he is. “For a few minutes the stress disappears under something sharper,” he said. “Something that feels almost like relief… until the shame floods back the moment he walks out.”

The origin of the porn work was slow. It took a year and a half. Dean was patient and persuasive. Nathan had already been carrying a massive porn addiction for years — DVDs stashed in the attic while still deep in the Jehovah’s Witness world. The gangbang and cumdump side of his content evolved under Dean’s careful training. What began as fantasy became structure, then routine. Scenes can last hours. His body pays for it. Sometimes he needs chemical help to stay in the zone. There is a moment in almost every long session where his mind simply leaves. “I float,” he said. “That’s the part that scares me most. How easy it is to disappear inside it.”

The biggest risk he has taken so far was walking the streets of Folsom on a collar and leash without a hood, publicly available to strangers. The thrill of almost being seen is the same fear that could destroy everything. Both feelings live in the same breath.

When I asked how it felt to read a heavily fictionalised version of his life, he gave a soft, broken laugh. “Surreal. Awkward as hell. Seeing pieces of myself on the page felt like someone had reached into my chest and held the mess up to the light.”

Outside the hotel room window the city continued, indifferent. Inside, for a few suspended minutes earlier in the call, the performance had stopped. The elder, the husband, the father, and the man who disappears into anonymous scenes had all fallen quiet at the same time. What remained was simply a person who has spent decades trying to survive inside a structure that offered him no honest place to exist, a man suspended between lies and lust, still searching for the self that was lost somewhere between the two.

I sat with that silence long after the call ended. The hot story I thought I was chasing never arrived. What I was given instead was something far heavier, and far more true.

End of part one.

The Kingdom Hall felt heavier than usual that Sunday morning. Nathan stood near the literature cart after the meeting, nodding to the brothers and sisters as they filed past, but his attention kept drifting to the back row.

Ethan Morrison sat alone at the end of a bench, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Thinner than Nathan remembered. Hollow cheeks. Dress shirt sleeves hanging loose. Eyes red-rimmed and fixed on nothing. He worried the edge of his Bible with one thumbnail until Sister Laura called softly, then he stood and followed, head down, as if walking required all the strength he had left.

Nathan’s chest tightened.

He knew that look. The same quiet, desperate isolation he’d seen on Caleb’s face the night the elders finished with him. The same weight of a secret that could cost everything. Ethan was fourteen. Confused. Terrified. Already beginning to disappear inside himself.

Nathan wanted to cross the room. Put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Say something true, that the feelings weren’t a demon, that the shame didn’t have to swallow him whole, that there was a life beyond these walls.

He stayed rooted instead. The perfect elder. Offering the same empty counsel he’d given the Morrisons weeks earlier.

Celibacy. Prayer. Wait for Paradise.

The words tasted like shit as soon as they left his mouth.

When Ethan glanced up and their eyes met for half a second, something cracked open in Nathan’s chest. He managed a small, warm smile. Ethan looked away immediately.

On the drive home, Sarah talked about next week’s talk and whether they should invite the Morrisons over for a family study. Joshua asked about ice cream. Grace hummed a Kingdom melody from the back seat. Nathan answered on autopilot, the image of Ethan’s hollow face burned behind his eyes.

That night, after the children were in bed and Sarah had fallen asleep against his shoulder, his phone vibrated on the nightstand.

A single link from Dean.

Nathan slipped out of bed, locked himself in the bathroom, and opened it.

The video loaded in high definition. There he was, hooded, the sign around his neck, body slick with sweat and cum, being used from both ends while the camera circled. The audio was raw. Wet sounds. Men laughing. His own broken, muffled moans. Then the moment he pushed the thick load out and the camera zoomed in until the screen filled with nothing but his ruined, dripping hole.

Nathan watched all sixty-three minutes without blinking.

It was the most intensely arousing thing he had ever seen. Watching himself, his body, his submission, the total collapse of every boundary he’d spent two decades building, felt like staring at a stranger. His cock was rock-hard, leaking steadily into the toilet paper wrapped around it. Every close-up of his face through the hood’s eye holes, every glimpse of his stretched hole clenching around another stream of cum, sent fresh waves of shame and heat rolling through him.

When it ended, he came hard and silent, biting his forearm. Then he deleted the history, flushed the evidence, and sat on the closed lid for a long time, staring at nothing.

The following week they flew to Melbourne for training. Work had booked separate rooms on the twenty-second floor of a hotel near the office. Nathan never used his.

From the moment they checked in, he lived in Dean’s room. The first night set the pattern.

Dean had him strip naked except for his black dress socks, making Nathan stand at the wide hotel window while the city glittered below. The glass was cold against his palms. His breath fogged the surface. Behind him, Dean unbuckled his belt with deliberate slowness, letting Nathan hear every click and slide of leather.

“Look at you,” Dean murmured, stepping close, pressing his fully clothed body against Nathan’s bare back. A hand wrapped around Nathan’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. “Executive suite. City view. And the married elder bent over like a whore.”

Nathan’s cock pressed flat against the cold glass. He could see his own reflection barely, a ghost of a man with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes.

“Please, Sir.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me.”

Dean’s laugh was warm against his ear. “That’s my good slut.” And then his hand was gone, and a sharp slap landed on Nathan’s ass, and Dean pushed him forward until his chest was crushed against the glass, the entire city of Melbourne laid out below them like a witness to his surrender.

The first thrust made Nathan cry out. Dean was thick and merciless after four days of plugging, and the stretch was a fire that licked up his spine. He braced his hands against the window, watching his own reflection contort with each brutal stroke, while Dean fucked him with the city skyline as a backdrop.

“That’s it. Take it. Look at how desperate you are, preaching purity while your hole swallows me whole.”

Nathan came untouched, his release splattering against the glass and smearing as his body slid forward with each impact. Dean lasted longer, fucking him through the aftershocks until Nathan’s legs shook and his voice went hoarse with begging. When Dean finally released inside him, the heat flooding his guts made Nathan sob with gratitude.

They collapsed onto the plush carpet. Dean lay beside him, breathing hard, and for a long moment neither spoke.

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Sebastian POV

Morning came; Sebastian’s eyes opened slowly. The sheets on Simon’s side were cold. For a second his stomach dropped, then the memory settled: Simon had slept on the couch. Mike had told him so last night, right before he had pushed Sebastian against the shower wall and used his throat until his knees gave out.

Sebastian rolled onto his stomach and felt it at once. A deep, pleasant ache in his hole that made his cock twitch against the mattress. The stretch from Mike’s cock still sat inside him. Every small shift of his hips reminded him how thoroughly he had been taken in their bed, then again under the hot water while Simon slept downstairs.

He slid a hand back between his cheeks. One finger pushed in without resistance. Soft, slick, still wet. Mike’s cum had stayed in him overnight the way he had been ordered. Sebastian bit the pillow and let out a quiet moan as he worked the finger deeper, feeling the residual heat and the way his rim fluttered open. His cock hardened fast, leaking against the sheets.

Not now.

He pulled the finger free, wiped it on the mattress, and sat up. On the floor near the foot of the bed lay the torn blue thong. Sebastian scooped it up, walked to the laundry hamper, and shoved it to the very bottom under a pile of towels. He would throw it out later when Simon was at work.

Guilt flickered, then faded under the weight of Mike’s voice in his head. That hole belongs to me now.

He pulled on fresh red thong Mike had given him and clean shorts and a soft T-shirt, then padded down the hallway. Mike’s door was cracked. Sebastian paused just long enough to look. Mike lay on his back, the sheet tented high over a thick morning erection. Sebastian’s mouth watered. He forced himself to keep walking.

Downstairs the living room was quiet. Simon was curled on the couch facing the cushions, under a thin blanket. Sebastian crouched beside him and brushed hair from his forehead.

“Hey. Coffee?”

Simon stirred. “Yeah… what time is it?”

“Almost seven. You’ve got work soon. Go shower. I’ll make breakfast.”

Simon sat up slowly, nodded, kissed him on the cheek, and headed for the bathroom.

Sebastian watched him go, then moved into the kitchen and started the coffee. He cracked eggs, dropped bread in the toaster, and tried not to think about the way Mike’s cock had looked when it was still wet with his spit.

Simon POV

Simon stood under the spray with both hands braced against the tile. The water was hotter than usual. His cheek still carried a faint tenderness from the slap. Mike’s voice kept looping in his head, calm and final: You don’t get my cock for a week. Maybe longer.

His own cock was already hard, heavy between his legs, the head flushed and sensitive even to the air. He did not touch it. He had been ordered not to, and the order sat heavier than any self-control he had ever managed on his own. The denial was its own kind of pressure, a constant low ache that made every thought circle back to the same place.

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He paid cash for a ground-floor room that smelled of bleach and last year’s cigarettes. The door locked with a heavy clunk. Only then did the shaking start.

He sat on the edge of the stained mattress, head in his hands, and forced the images back: Alex in the sling, collar tight, cage locked, piss spraying while his father laughed and kept thrusting. The sound of Ron calling him a toilet. The way Alex had smiled through it.

Revenge needed more than rage. It needed proof.

At first light he drove three towns over and found a military surplus store still open under fluorescent tubes that hummed like insects. He walked the aisles until he found what he needed: a pair of high-powered binoculars with night capability, and a small selection of wireless micro-cameras, button-sized, battery-powered, motion-activated, the kind sold for “security” and “hunting.”

He paid, left, and returned to the motel only long enough to charge the devices and load them into a black backpack.

Destroy them all. That was the fantasy that had kept him awake. Burn the cabin, smash every face, make them feel a fraction of what he felt, but that would only end with him in handcuffs. He needed evidence first. Leverage first. Then the rest.

By mid-morning the sun was already high and merciless.

Alex POV

Alex woke to the dull, delicious throb that lived between his legs. His hole felt swollen, puffy, used in the best possible way, raw around the edges, still slick, still open enough that the sheets brushed him like a second touch. He shifted and hissed, a low sound of pure satisfaction.

Beside him the twink slept on his stomach, face turned into the pillow, dark hair messy, body marked with the same night’s work. Peaceful. Completely spent.

Alex’s stomach growled. Coffee. Now.

He pulled on nothing but one of the discarded black thongs from the night before and padded barefoot down the hall. The kitchen was already alive. Glen and Steven sat at the long wooden table, shirts off, coffee mugs in hand, looking like men who had fucked hard and slept harder. Ron stood at the stove, spatula moving through bacon and eggs that hissed and spat. Frank was at the coffee machine, the rich smell of a fresh pot filling the room.

Glen looked up first. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his bearded face. “Morning, sunshine.”

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Your soul's half alive, and I'll be by your side

I've come to take you there, show you how to care

Just be aware, that you'll have to share

I want your love, I want it tonight

I'm taking your heart, so don't you fight

I'll be your answer, I'll be your wish

I'll be your fantasy, your favorite dish

From the back to the middle and around again

I'm gonna be there 'til the end

100% pure love

From the back to the middle and around again

I'm gonna be there 'til the end

100% pure love

Lara didn’t move. She stood in the sliding door’s frame, morning light spilling past her like a question that had already been answered.

A pale yellow sundress hung loose around her thighs. Her hair was pulled into a simple ponytail. Barefoot. She looked from Nick’s flushed face to Kyle, still on his knees, lips swollen, a dark bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a watermark.

Nobody spoke for a heartbeat.

Then Kyle scrambled up. The borrowed sweatpants sagged on his hips. Shame and something sharper, something like fear, flashed across his face. He crossed the deck in three quick strides and stopped in front of her.

“Lara… it’s not what it looks like. We were just talking. Fuck, I’m sorry”

She raised a hand. The gesture cut him off cleaner than any word. “It’s fine, Kyle. I’m not angry.”

He blinked. “You’re… not?”

“No.” She glanced past him at Nick. “I saw enough. I’m not angry.”

The words hung there, slippery and unfinished. Nick opened his mouth to speak, but heavy footsteps interrupted.

Joe stepped out in clean jeans and a soft gray t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, a few droplets clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. He took in the whole scene with one slow, measuring look, the lingering smell of sex hanging in the morning air. His expression didn’t change. But Lara’s did. Her breathing shallowed, just barely, as her eyes trailed over the broad swell of his shoulders, the way the damp cotton clung to the hard planes of his chest. She’d seen him only a handful of times, but never like this, never with that easy, confident swagger, that faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Her pulse skipped, and something warm and treacherous made her pussy twitch. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing her gaze away.

“Glad we cleared that up.” Joe pulled his keys from his pocket, the metal jingling softly. He didn’t even glance at Kyle, who was still frozen in place, barely breathing. “Let’s go get breakfast at the diner and talk. Need to get out of this house before your mother gets home.” He said it so casually, like this was just another Tuesday. But his eyes flicked to Lara for a half-second longer than necessary, and she felt that look like a touch. She swallowed hard, her sundress suddenly feeling too thin, too short.

No one argued. They moved like people who’d already crossed too many lines.

The SUV swallowed them whole. Nick drove. Joe rode shotgun. Kyle and Lara sat in the back.

For the first mile, the only sound was the engine, a low, steady hum that filled the silence like static. Then Lara spoke, staring straight ahead at the back of Joe’s head.

“I hadn’t heard from Kyle in a couple of days,” she said, her voice deliberately even. “He wasn’t responding to my texts. So I came over to check on him, figured he’d be here at Nick’s.”

From the back seat, Kyle shifted, his jaw tightening. “I turned my phone off for a while. Needed to clear my head.”

Lara nodded slowly, though her eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror where Joe’s gaze caught hers for a fleeting moment. “I was actually starting to worry. You’re never that quiet, Kyle. Not even when you’re busy being a shithead.”

Nick didn’t dare look back at her, didn’t dare glance at Kyle, still swollen-lipped and bruised in the seat beside her. He just kept his eyes on the road and let the silence swallow them again.

“I saw you Joe fucking Kyle on the deck the night of the accident.”

Nick’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, feeling the tension unable to speak.

“I watched the whole thing through the blinds,” she went on, voice flat and steady, like she was reading a weather report. “Heard him call you Master. Heard you call him a filthy faggot. And it made me so wet I came with my fingers while Samantha was screaming in the driveway.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Nick’s pulse hammered in his ears at hearing Sam’s name. In the rearview mirror, he caught the color draining from Kyle’s face.

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The flat was quiet, the only sound the soft rhythm of Ryan’s breathing from the bedroom. But outside, the city was stirring to life, the distant rumble of a morning bus pulling away from the stop, the low growl of traffic crawling down the street, the occasional beep of an impatient driver. Grey morning light crept through the kitchen windows, now streaked with the pale gold of a late rise, as he sat at the table under the harsh glow of his laptop screen, a cold mug of coffee forgotten beside him. His fingers trembled slightly as he scrolled through the PDF from Carter Investigations, page after page of meticulously compiled evidence. A courier van rumbled past, its diesel engine a dull counterpoint to his racing heart. He hadn’t slept, and the sounds of the waking world felt obscene, too loud, too ordinary for the chaos unravelling inside him.

Oliver Whitfield.

Fourteen years old. A bright, quiet good looking scholarship boy who loved art and played the violin. Found dead in the stairwell of St Paul’s boarding school in 2006, officially ruled an accidental fall. The autopsy photos, redacted but still gut-wrenching, showed extensive internal injuries. Rectal trauma. Ligature marks on his wrists and neck. Signs of prolonged beating.

Jack’s stomach churned. He read on.

Multiple former students placed Tim Hawthorne at the centre of it. Tim had been the ringleader of a brutal hazing ritual that escalated into something far darker. The witness statements painted a picture Jack couldn’t unsee. David Okonkwo, now a respected barrister, described walking in on the aftermath: Tim standing over the boy, breathing hard, while two others held Oliver down. “He looked… excited,” Okonkwo had written. “Like he was enjoying the power.”

Patel Sharma, a hedge fund manager, corroborated everything. Added details about the Hawthorne family’s intervention. Large “donations” to the school. Pressure on police. Destroyed CCTV footage. Threats to the witnesses’ families.

Jack cross-referenced the documents. Bank records showing suspicious transfers from Hawthorne Sr.’s accounts. Old newspaper clippings with different versions of events. A sealed juvenile file the PI had partially unsealed through contacts. It was damning. Not enough for an immediate conviction after nearly two decades, but more than enough for public ruin. Civil suits. Reopening the criminal investigation.

He saved encrypted copies to three different drives. Then opened a new document and began drafting a timeline.

At 9:15 a.m., his phone buzzed. Carter Investigations.

Jack answered immediately. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. Burrows.” The PI’s voice was measured, professional, but an undercurrent of intensity pulsed beneath it. “I assume you’ve reviewed the files thoroughly.”

“I have.” Jack’s voice came out steady. Colder than he’d ever heard it. “What are our options?”

“We have two living witnesses willing to speak on record and take the stand. Both credible. Both with nothing to gain and everything to lose by coming forward. We can submit everything to the Metropolitan Police’s cold case unit with a formal complaint. Given the cover-up evidence, the destroyed records, the bribes, they’ll likely reopen it.” A pause. “At minimum, we leak it strategically to a few trusted journalists. Hawthorne’s career in finance, his family name, everything burns.”

Jack exhaled slowly. The word hung in the air like smoke.

“Do both,” he said. “But quietly at first. I want him to feel the noose tightening before it snaps.”

“Understood. I’ll begin coordination. Expect updates within forty-eight hours.”

The line went dead.

Jack sat there, phone clutched in his hand, staring at the wall but seeing nothing. His heart beating like a drum, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was something sharper. More focused.

He spent the next hours methodically working. Researching data protection laws so nothing could be challenged on technicalities. Consulting a discreet solicitor friend under the guise of “hypothetical corporate risk.” Setting up anonymous forwarding addresses for any retaliation. By mid-morning, he had a clear operational plan: pressure Tim legally and publicly while keeping Ryan protected.

No more secrets between them.

The bedroom door creaked open around eleven. Ryan emerged, bleary-eyed, wearing only boxers that hung low on his hips. His hair was a mess, his hazel eyes still puffy from crying and too little sleep. He looked wrecked.

He also looked beautiful.

“Jack?” Ryan’s voice was rough. “You been up all night?”

“Yeah.” Jack pushed his chair back, held out his hand. “Come here, babe. I need to show you something. And I need to tell you something else.”

Ryan crossed the kitchen slowly, bare feet padding on the tile. Jack pulled him onto his lap, ignoring the stiffness in his own muscles, the exhaustion pulling at his bones. Ryan settled against him, warm and heavy, his head dropping to Jack’s shoulder.

Jack opened the laptop. “I hired a private investigator.”

Ryan tensed. “What?”

“Shh. Just read this first.”

Read more

Computer

Computer

Computer

Make these guys super gay and horny

Computer

Make these guys super gay and horny

Computer

Make these guys super, super gay

Computer

Make these guys super, super, super horny

Super, super

Super gay

Super, super

Super horny

No, wait, stop!

You've been programmed

Super gay

Super horny

Super

Super

Computer

Make these guys super gay and horny

Please, wait, no!

You've been programmed

You've been programmed

You've been programmed

(That's wild, that'll be nuts)

There's something in the water

I don't like the flavour, I don't like the taste

Searching for nirvana

Something that'll take it all away from me

Don't bother me, my misery

It's holding me, won't let me speak

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head (In my head)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

Tryna eat me, tryna feed me lies until I'm dead ('Til I'm dead)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

In my head

It's creeping and it's gonna get me by the end of the night

I'm sinking deeper still, I'm reaching for the end of the light

Burning in the lava

You can't go and pray this type of pain away

Don't bother me, my misery

It's holding me, won't let me speak

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head (In my head)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

Tryna eat me, tryna feed me lies until I'm dead ('Til I'm dead)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

I feel like I can't breathe, I feel like I can't sleep

How did I not see? I'm unwell

I feel like I can't breathe, I feel like I can't sleep

How did I not see? I'm unwell

(Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head, in my head)

(Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head (In my head)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

Tryna eat me, tryna feed me lies until I'm dead (In my head)

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

In my head

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

In my head

Please forgive me, I've got demons in my head

Mark’s confession hit like a freight train through a glass house. Brandon’s hand hung frozen mid-air, knuckles still red from the last slap, the sting still burning his palm. The words echoed, bounced off the walls, burrowed into his skull.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Mark lay sprawled on the carpet, blood trickling from his split lip, chest heaving under the black leather collar. The plug was still seated deep inside him, a silent, thrumming presence that pulsed with every ragged breath. He turned his head, eyes glassy but strangely clear for the first time in hours. A wet, broken laugh escaped him, morphing into a cough that sprayed tiny droplets of red onto the beige carpet.

“I’m not your real father, Brandon.”

The words landed like a sledgehammer between his ribs. Brandon staggered back, the room tilting. His knees hit the edge of the bed and he sat down hard, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. The world narrowed to a pinprick of cold, searing light.

“You’re lying.” His voice came out thin, reedy. “This is some fucked-up game”

“I wish it was.” Mark pushed himself up slowly, wincing, cum and sweat streaking his muscular torso. The movement made the plug shift inside him, a faint squelch audible in the stillness. He looked smaller somehow, the broad shoulders slumped, the powerful frame suddenly fragile under the weight of a secret carried for eighteen years.

He didn’t meet Brandon’s eyes. Stared at the floor instead, at the drying puddle of his own cum. “Your mother… Sarah got drunk at a college party her senior year. One night stand with some guy she barely knew. She didn’t even get his last name.” A pause, thick with shame. “Found out she was pregnant a month later. I’d been dating her for a few weeks by then. I loved her. Still do. I told her I’d raise you as my own. No one else ever needed to know.”

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Gotta get you out of my head

And I wonder why

I’m addicted to love

One day I will run away from you and this love

And I wonder why

I’m addicted to love

One day I will run away from you and this love

I’m addicted to love

I’m addicted to love

I’m addicted to love

I’m addicted to love

And I wonder why

I’m addicted to love

One day I will run away from you and this love

And I wonder why

I’m addicted to love

One day I will run away from you and this love

Te sientes sola y siempre 'toy ahí

Es una guerra de toma y dame

Pues dame de eso que tiene' ahí

Oye, baby, no seas mala (Oh, no)

No me dejes con la' gana'

Se escucha en la calle que ya no me quieres

Ven y dímelo en la cara

[Pre-Coro: Shakira & Maluma]

Pregúntale a quien tú quieras

Vida, te juro que eso no es así

Yo nunca tuve una mala intención

Yo nunca quise burlarme de ti

Conmigo ves, nunca se sabe

Un día digo que no y otro que sí

Yo soy masoquista

Con mi cuerpo, un egoísta

[Coro: Shakira, Maluma & Ambos]

Tú eres puro, puro chantaje

Puro, puro chantaje

Siempre es a tu manera

Yo te quiero aunque no quiera

Tú eres puro, puro chantaje

Puro, puro chantaje

Vas libre como el aire

No soy de ti ni de nadie