The Bay Area had a way of making you feel poor even when you weren’t. I wasn’t poor, technically—the entry-level Customer Success position I’d landed paid what would have been a comfortable salary in any other zip code. But out here, surrounded by Teslas and artisanal everything, I was just another guy counting down the days until my next paycheck.
The plan had been different. The plan had involved Heidi and a one-bedroom apartment in Oakland with decent light and a commute that didn’t quite make either of us suicidal. We’d dated for two years through college, the kind of comfortable relationship that feels permanent until it isn’t. When the tech firm that hired her decided to relocate her team to their Texas office for tax purposes, she’d looked at me across our favorite coffee shop and I could already see the exit strategy forming behind her eyes. She was starting to eye a life on her own. I’d already signed my offer letter in California. The breakup was practical, almost clinical. We split the dishes we’d accumulated, I’d been kicked off our shared Spotify, and that was that.
Now I was twenty-three, single, and living in a studio that cost more than my parents’ mortgage. The walls were thin enough that I could hear my neighbor’s alarm clock every morning at five-thirty. The kitchen was a hotplate and something just larger than a mini-fridge. The bathroom had mold in the grout that no amount of bleach could kill. I’d been here four months, and the novelty of West Coast living had worn off somewhere between my third ramen dinner in a week and my fourth rejection from slightly-better apartments.
The gym was the one place I didn’t feel like a complete failure. I’d played baseball in college. Not well enough for any professional attention, but it’d kept me in shape. The gym down the street was overpriced and crowded with tech bros who treated workouts like an exercise in optimization, but it had free weights and a shower that actually got hot. I went five days a week, more out of habit than dedication, and kept my head down.
The guy approached me on a Tuesday. I was between sets at the bench press, scrolling through rental listings I couldn’t afford on my phone, when a shadow fell across the screen.
“You’re new here, right?”
I looked up. He was about my age, maybe a year older, he had obviously perfected the instagram build with his cut arms sticking out from a sleeveless shirt that showed definition even at rest. His hair was buzzed short and he had one of those easy smiles that came from never having to worry about whether people wanted to talk to you.
“Shane,” I said, offering my hand.
“Todd.” He shook it with a firm grip. “I’ve seen you around. You looking for something to do this weekend?”
The question caught me off guard. I’d spoken to maybe three people at this gym in four months, and none of them had been this direct. “Depends on what it is.”
“There’s this party. At this guy’s place in the Hills.” He said it the way people say things they expect you to be impressed by. “Gunnar Vance? The tech guy?”
The name rang a bell. Gunnar Vance was one of the first Gen Z wunderkinds who’d cashed out before he was even legal drinking age—some app or platform or something that had made him stupid rich practically overnight. His face had been on a few magazine covers I’d seen in the break room at work, usually next to headlines about disruption or the future of whatever.
“I don’t really run in those circles,” I said.
Todd laughed. “Nobody does. That’s the whole point. He hires guys like us to hang out with him.” He gestured out our respective builds.
I must have looked as skeptical as I felt, because he held up his hands.
“Look, I know how it sounds. But it’s not like that. He’s just one of those nerds who never figured out how to be cool, and now he’s got enough money to buy the feeling. You know? He wants hot guys around him so he can pretend he’s one of them. It’s sad, honestly, but the parties are insane. Top-shelf everything, catering, pool, the works. Plus, there’s no small chance that you’ll walk out with a new iPhone or some sort of new tech.”
“You’re telling me a multimillionaire pays attractive men to attend his parties and there’s nothing weird about it.”
“I’m telling you it’s not a sex thing.” Todd shrugged. “I mean, maybe it is for some of the guys who go. But not with him. He doesn’t do anything. He just…likes having us around. Like decoration, I guess. Or validation. To be honest, I’ve only spoken to him a couple times. I mostly just hang out with my friends and enjoy the amenities.”
The logic was flimsy, but so was my social life. My weekend plans consisted of binging streaming shows and trying not to leave my apartment because that inevitably meant spending money. “How much does he pay?”
“Couple hundred a night, sometimes more if it’s a bigger event. Plus whatever you eat and drink, which is always premium.” He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number. I’ll text you the details.”
“Are you just recruiting for him?”
Todd laughed, “Nah, but you seem chill and it’s a fun time. He never minds a new face.”
I wasn’t convinced. But I was bored, I was broke, and the alternative was depressing.
The party was exactly what Todd had described and nothing like it at the same time.
Gunnar’s house was a modernist monstrosity perched in the Berkeley Hills with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the entire bay. The driveway was full of cars from brands I was too poor to recognize. Inside, the furniture was all sharp angles and uncomfortable-looking surfaces, the kind of design that prioritized aesthetics over actually sitting down. There were probably thirty people there, and every single one of them looked like they’d stepped out of a fitness influencer’s Instagram.
And then there was Gunnar.
I spotted him immediately, not because he stood out in a good way, but because he was the only person in the room who didn’t seem to belong. He was shorter than most of the men surrounding him, and slighter. He didn’t have the insane musculature of these male models. That’s not to say he was some slouch, he just looked completely average. He wore a backwards baseball cap—an affectation that looked like a costume on him rather than a style choice—and his energy was different from everyone else’s. Higher. More anxious. He gestured wildly when he talked and laughed too loud at his own jokes, and the circle of guys around him laughed back with the forced enthusiasm of people who knew where their paycheck was coming from.
I snorted into my whiskey. It was good whiskey, too. Something Scottish and peaty that I’d never have been able to afford on my own.
I grabbed a drink and it wasn’t long before Todd appeared beside me with a plate of food from the catering spread. “See? Did I tell you so or what?”
“It’s exactly as weird as I thought it would be.”
“Maybe. But the whiskey’s free.” He clinked his glass against mine and wandered off toward a group near the pool.
I spent the rest of the night drifting. The other guests were mostly friendly in the way people are when they’re all getting paid to be somewhere—surface-level chatter about workouts and supplements and the ridiculousness of the housing market. Nobody asked what I did for a living. Nobody seemed to care. We were all just bodies filling space, making Gunnar feel like he was the center of something worth being the center of.
I came back the next weekend. And the weekend after that. It was comfortable, I could disappear in the crowd but still felt like a social life, or at least something more than what I’d had before.
Over the next month, I settled into the periphery of Gunnar’s rotating cast of hired companions. I never made it into the inner circle—those were the guys who got the real money, the gifts, the trips—but I was tolerated at the edges. Free food, free drinks, free access to a lifestyle I had no business participating in. I was aware there were other meet ups and events outside the typical weekend party but I was never on those lists. It was enough.
Gunnar always had a new group of young studs around him. Some would disappear after a few weeks, replaced by fresh faces with better abs or more convincing laughs. The ones who stuck around had figured out the formula: hang on his words, touch his arm occasionally, never let the energy dip. It was performance art, and Gunnar was both the audience and the unwitting star.
Meanwhile, my real life was spiraling. My apartment was going to raise my rent in a few months. My car needed new brakes I couldn’t afford. The credit card balance I’d been telling myself was temporary had crept up to a number that made my stomach clench every time I looked at it. The job was stable, boring, utterly insufficient for the cost of living in the Bay Area. I started picking up freelance gigs on weekends, which cut into my party time, which made me more anxious about losing my spot in the rotation.
It was somewhere around month three that I made a decision. If I was going to keep riding this particular gravy train, I needed to make myself indispensable. Or at least noticeable.
Gunnar’s interest in the muscular men he surrounded himself with wasn’t exactly subtle. The way his eyes tracked certain guys across the room. The way he leaned into touches a beat too long. The way his voice pitched up when someone particularly attractive complimented him. Maybe Todd had been right that it wasn’t a sex thing, in the sense that Gunnar wasn’t actually fucking any of these dudes. But he wanted something from them. That much was obvious.
It began small. Catching Gunnar’s eye across a crowded room and holding his gaze a second longer than necessary. Finding excuses to stand close to him at parties, close enough that our arms would brush. When I approached him to say hello, I’d squeeze his shoulder just to let my hand rest there afterward feeling the reaction of his tense muscles and watching the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly.
Each time I pushed the boundaries a bit, I expected to be uninvited. Each time, the details for the next party would come through in my messages like nothing had happened.
The touches got bolder. A hand on his lower back as I guided him through a doorway. Sitting close enough on the couch that our thighs pressed together, the heat of his body seeping through the fabric. I’d never been particularly good at flirting with women—I’d somehow fumbled my way into a relationship with Heidi through sheer proximity and shared classes—but with Gunnar, it was different. Easier. Maybe because I didn’t actually want anything from him beyond his money and his continued tolerance of my presence.
Whatever the reason, it worked. I found myself moving closer to the inner circle, included in more intimate gatherings, receiving slightly larger cash transfers at the end of the night. Gunnar started seeking me out at parties, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me, his face brightening in a way that made something complicated twist in my chest.
I ignored it. I had rent to pay.
The night Chris approached me, I was nursing a beer by the pool and watching Gunnar hold court with a group of new guys. He needed a chance to test out the fresh meat and by now I was feeling more secure in my position. They were all taller than him, broader, effortlessly masculine. Just how he liked it. Gunnar was telling some story about a meeting with investors, his hands moving through the air like conductors, and the new guys were mostly laughing on cue. There was an art to it. They’d figure it out eventually.
I turned. The guy beside me was leaner than most of Gunnar’s regulars, with short cropped hair and a jawline dusted with dark stubble. He looked familiar and I was sure I’d seen him at a few parties, always hovering at the edges like me.
“The thing you’re doing.” He nodded toward Gunnar. “The touching. The eye contact. He eats it up.”
I took a long pull from my beer, buying time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” The guy—Chris, I remembered now—shifted closer. “I’ve been around longer than most. Seen plenty of guys cycle through. You figured out something most of them miss.”
“That Gunnar wants something he’s too scared to ask for.” Chris’s voice was low, pitched just for me. “And the guys who give him a taste of it are the ones who stick around.”
I set my beer down on the concrete ledge. “They told me this wasn’t a sex thing.”
“Todd’s an idiot. There’s a reason he’s not around much anymore.” Chris’s mouth curved. “It’s always a sex thing even if there’s no sex. Gunnar’s not going to bend you over the couch and fuck you. But he gets off on the attention. On being desired. You think a guy like that doesn’t know what he’s doing, surrounding himself with shirtless gym rats? He knows. He just can’t admit it.”
The twist in my chest tightened. “So what are you doing here?”
Chris glanced back at Gunnar, who was still talking, still performing, still surrounded by men who were pretending to care about his investor meeting. “I’ve been in his orbit for almost a year. I’ve seen him buy cars for guys who made him feel special. Seen them disappear when someone newer comes along.” He paused. “I’m pretty sure he’s getting bored of me and I’m not done milking this cash cow. I need to do something to stay relevant.”
“And you want my help because…”
“Because you’re new enough to be interesting and bold enough to push the limits.” Chris met my eyes. “Together, we can give him something he can’t get from just one person. We can control the situation. Keep him hooked without having to actually—” He made a vague gesture. “You know. Cross the line.”
The way Chris was talking and looking at me like I was already going to try to ‘cross the line’ made me uncomfortable. I considered turning around and walking out right then. But the credit card bill was due in a week, and my car was making a concerning noise every time I braked, and the thought of losing access to Gunnar’s world made my throat tighten with something that felt dangerously like panic.
“What did you have in mind?”
The opportunity came sooner than expected.
The following weekend, Gunnar hosted a morning gathering—a smaller affair, just a dozen guys shooting hoops on his private basketball court and drinking before noon. The sun was bright and hot, the kind of California heat that was unseasonable for the bay and made sweating feel justified rather than gross. Most of us had stripped off our shirts within the first twenty minutes, and the court was a tableau of glistening skin and competitive posturing.
Gunnar had played a bit at the beginning but now he sat on the sidelines with his baseball cap backwards even as he lifted his hand to shield his face from the sun. But his eyes were everywhere, tracking the movement of bodies, the flex of muscles, the casual touches that passed between players. He yelled out a string of vaguely encouraging sports lingo, like he’d memorized the vocabulary but didn’t speak the language. He looked tense, though. His jaw was tight, and he kept checking his phone with a compulsive frequency. Obviously, work stress was bleeding into his ample leisure time.
Chris caught my eye across the court and raised an eyebrow. I nodded. This was as good a chance as any.
We waited until the game broke up, until the other guys started drifting toward the pool or the food table, leaving Gunnar alone with his phone and his furrowed brow. Then we moved.
“Hey, man.” Chris dropped into the chair beside him, casual and easy. “You look like you could use a break.”
Gunnar looked up, startled, then smiled when he recognized us. “Just some stuff at work. Nothing major.”
“Nothing major doesn’t give you that crease between your eyebrows.” Chris reached over and pressed a smoothing thumb to the spot, a gesture so intimate that Gunnar froze for a half-second before forcing a laugh.
“I didn’t realize I was being observed that closely.”
“You’re not.” I settled into the chair on his other side, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. “You just look like shit.”
Gunnar laughed again, more genuine this time. “Thanks, Shane. Really appreciate the honesty.”
“Anytime.” I let my hand land on his knee, a brief squeeze. “Seriously though. When’s the last time you actually relaxed?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen with an expression of barely concealed frustration.
“That’s what I thought.” Chris stood up, stretching his arms above his head in a way that made his torso elongate, the muscles in his abdomen shifting beneath the skin. “You’ve got that giant tub in your bathroom, right? The one with the jets?”
Gunnar’s brow furrowed. “The soaking tub? Yeah, but—”
“You should use it. Nothing like hot water and bubbles to melt away the stress. Especially after getting all sweaty.” Chris held out his hand. “Come on. We’ll help you relax.”
“That’s the problem, dude. You think too much.” I stood too, flanking him. “Let us take care of you for once.”
Gunnar looked between us, his expression a complicated mess of want and worry and something I couldn’t quite name. His phone buzzed again. He silenced it.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
The bathroom was ridiculous. It was double the size of my entire apartment, all white marble and chrome fixtures, with a walk-in shower that could fit six people and a tub that was more like a small pool. Chris started the water while I found the bath supplies and poured in a generous amount of something eucalyptus scented.
Steam filled the room as the tub filled, the bubbles rising in a white mountain. Gunnar stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, watching us like he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here.
“So, what’s all this?” Our benefactor asked.
“You’re stressed,” Chris said, his voice calm and reasonable. “It’s written all over you. So we’re going to help you unwind. That’s all.”
“In your tub.” I started pulling off my basketball shorts. “We do this all the time in locker rooms. It’s a guy thing. Nothing weird about it.”
Gunnar’s eyes tracked my hands as I pushed the shorts down my hips, then quickly looked away. His cheeks were pink and not from the steam.
Chris was already naked when I looked over, his body lean and cut in the afternoon light filtering through the frosted window. He stepped into the tub, the water swirling around his calves, and let out an exaggerated groan. “God, that’s good. Come on, Gunnar. Live a little.”
I stepped in after him, the hot water enveloping my legs, my waist, my chest as I sank down. The bubbles rose around me, obscuring everything below the surface. “Your turn,” I said, looking up at Gunnar.
He stood there for a long moment, his back against the marble counter, his fingers drumming against his arms. I could see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wanted this was fighting with the part that was terrified of what it might mean.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re all guys here.” He really was so easy to play sometimes.
Gunnar swallowed. Then, slowly, he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.
His body was unremarkable compared to the men he surrounded himself with. Thin but soft in the middle, with narrow shoulders and the kind of pale skin you’d expect from someone who spent most of his time indoors. But it wasn’t bad. There was a certain vulnerability to it that made something shift in my chest—the same complicated twist I’d been ignoring for months.
He hesitated again at his cargo shorts, his fingers on the waistband. Chris and I waited, neither of us pushing, letting the silence do the work.
Finally, Gunnar pushed them down.
His cock hung soft between his thighs, and even flaccid, it was impressive. Thin but long, longer than mine, longer than any I’d seen outside of porn. It swayed slightly as he stepped toward the tub, and I had to consciously keep my expression neutral.
Gunnar settled into the water in the spot we’d left open between us, the bubbles rising to his chest, his eyes closed as the heat worked into his muscles. For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water and the distant hum of the jets.
Then I let my hand drift through the water and settle on his thigh.
Gunnar’s breath caught but he didn’t move away. His leg was warm beneath my palm, the muscle surprisingly firm for someone who spent most of his time at a desk. I let my thumb trace a small circle on the outside of his thigh, just above the knee.
“Stress lives in the body,” Chris said, his voice low and soothing. He moved behind Gunnar, his hands finding the tense knots in his shoulders. “You carry it here. Right in this spot.”
Gunnar let out a shaky breath as Chris worked his thumbs into the muscle. “That does feel…good.”
“See?” I let my hand slide a little higher on his thigh. Still innocent. Still deniable. “You just need to let people take care of you sometimes.”
His eyes were still closed, his head tilted back against the edge of the tub. The pink in his cheeks had spread down his neck and across his chest. Beneath the water, I could see movement—his cock stirring, filling, rising toward the surface.
Chris caught my eye over Gunnar’s shoulder. His expression was careful, calculating, but there was something else there too, like a flicker of hunger that he quickly suppressed. He gave the slightest nod. We had just planned to tease him a bit but the heat and the tension in the air were driving us to go further.
Gunnar’s cock was fully hard now, jutting up from the bubbles like a periscope. It was even more impressive erect. My own dick twitched in response, which I hadn’t entirely expected.
“You’re so tense,” I murmured, my hand brushing the crease where his thigh met his hip. “Just relax. Let go.”
Chris’s hands worked lower, down Gunnar’s arms, along his sides. His touch was clinical but deliberate, each stroke designed to heighten sensation, to blur the line between therapeutic and something else entirely.
Gunnar’s breathing had changed to something faster, shallower. His eyes were still closed, but his jaw was tight, his hands gripping the edge of the tub. He knew what was happening. He had to know. But he wasn’t stopping it.
I let my fingers brush the base of his cock.
Gunnar made a sound between a gasp and a moan that he tried to swallow. His hips shifted, whether toward my hand or away from it, I couldn’t tell.
“It’s okay,” Chris said, his mouth close to Gunnar’s ear. “We’ve got you.”
I wrapped my hand around his shaft.
The sound Gunnar made then was unmistakable—a raw, broken noise that echoed off the marble walls. His cock pulsed in my grip, hot and hard, and I felt my own arousal spike in response. This was happening. This was actually happening.
Was this how I was paying rent now? Stroking off some rich dude? Apparently, it was because I continued.
I started to stroke him, slow and steady, my grip firm enough to feel every ridge and vein. The water sloshed gently around us, adding a rhythm to the movement. Gunnar’s head fell back against Chris’s chest, his mouth open, his chest heaving.
Chris’s hands had moved lower too, one resting on Gunnar’s hip, the other tracing soapy patterns on his stomach. He was watching my hand move beneath the water, his eyes dark and focused.
“That’s it,” Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just feel it. Let us make you feel good.”
Gunnar’s hand found my thigh under the water, gripping hard enough to leave marks. His hips were moving now, tiny thrusts that pushed his cock through my fist. I matched his rhythm, tightening my grip, twisting slightly on the upstroke.
“Fuck,” Gunnar breathed. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“I know.” I leaned closer, my shoulder pressing against his. “Just let go.”
Chris slid back into his spot beside Gunnar and his hand joined mine, his fingers wrapping around the head of Gunnar’s cock while I worked the shaft. Our hands moved together, slick with water and bubbles, and Gunnar’s whole body went rigid.
“I’m going to—” He choked on the words, his back arching. “I can't—”
“Do it,” Chris said. “Come for us.”
Gunnar came with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock pulsed in my hand, shooting thick ropes of white that disappeared into the bubbly water. His whole body shook, his fingers digging into my thigh, his face contorted in a way that looked almost painful.
I stroked him through it, gentling my grip as the spasms subsided, until he was softening in my hand and his breathing was starting to even out. Chris’s hand had moved to his chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath the skin.
For a long moment, nobody moved. The water was still, the steam hung in the air, and Gunnar sat between us with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. His expression was complicated—grateful and ashamed and wanting all at once—but underneath it all, there was something like wonder.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
I squeezed his thigh. “Anytime.”
Things shifted after our experience in the bath. Gunnar couldn’t keep his hands off us. Not in a sexual way, but in the way a man handles something precious. Chris and I became his favorites overnight, and the perks rolled in fast.
My rent got paid. Direct deposit, first of the month, no questions asked. Then came the watches, a Breitling for me, an Omega for Chris. Designer jackets hung in our apartments like Gunnar had measured us in his mind and sent his stylist shopping. We stopped paying for most things anywhere. Gunnar’s black card was always in reach.
We were at his place constantly. Just the two of us sometimes, no other boys needed. Mornings by his infinity pool, afternoons in his home theater watching whatever he wanted, evenings in his kitchen while his private chef cooked whatever we craved. Gunnar orbited us like we were the sun, and he was just grateful for the warmth.
I didn’t mind it. The money was too good, the lifestyle too easy. But there was a knot in my gut every time Gunnar looked at me with those hungry, grateful eyes. The bath had cracked something open, and none of us had figured out how to close it.
There was a Thursday when a client issue kept me at work late into the night and I missed an invitation to Gunnar’s place.
Chris went alone. I kept checking my phone when I could but didn’t hear from him. No texts. No updates. I figured they were just watching movies or some shit.
The next morning, my phone buzzed.
I stared at the screen as I was waking up. I’d made it home late and immediately passed out. I typed back with thumbs that felt thick and clumsy.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Chris: We were in the hot tub. He just leaned over and did it. On the mouth. I kissed back.
I leaned up in bed, the sheet tangling in my legs and holding me down. My throat tightened.
Shane: How far should we take this? He’s going to want more than handjobs eventually.
Chris: I’ll go as far as he needs me to. You see what he gives us? I’m not giving that up.
I read the message twice. The words sat flat on the screen, no hesitation in them. Chris had made his calculation, and the math was simple: Gunnar’s money was worth whatever he asked for in return.
I locked my phone without replying. Drove to work through fog-slicked streets, windshield wipers thumping like a heartbeat. Chris’s text glowed in my mind, bright and ugly. I wasn’t jealous—I told myself I wasn’t. But the thought of Gunnar kissing Chris in that steamy water while I was working for a barely livable wage made something acidic pool in my stomach.
If Chris was willing to go all the way, where did that leave me? I could probably push off the most intimate stuff onto Chris if I played my hand right but then I’d risk falling out of favor.
The next party was Saturday. There was a bigger crowd than usual at Gunnar’s place, and a different mix of people than usual. Some tech summit afterparty that spilled into his mansion like champagne from a shaken bottle. I wore the Brioni suit Gunnar had bought me. Charcoal gray, tailored so clean it felt like wearing a second skin. Chris was across the room in navy, working a cluster of investors with that easy smile of his. I wondered if he wasn’t already lining up his plan b if things with Gunnar didn’t work out.
Gunnar held court near the massive double-sided fireplace, drink in hand, laughing at something a woman in Valentino said. His eyes kept drifting to Chris, then to me, then back. That hungry look, the one that had been intensifying for weeks.
I returned it. And I watched.
I waited until he broke away from the group, heading toward the hallway that led to his private wing. Then I moved.
The hallway was dim, recessed lighting casting warm pools on the hardwood. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side showed the valley glittering below. I caught up to him near the first guest room door.
He turned, and I didn’t give him time to speak. I pushed him against the wall hard enough to feel the impact but gentle enough not to hurt. My hands found his shoulders, pinned them back. His eyes went wide, lips parting.
Not soft. Not tentative. I drove my mouth against his like I’d been thinking about this for weeks—because I had. My tongue pushed past his lips, tasting the expensive liquor on his breath, the mint underneath. He made a sound, something between a gasp and a groan, and his hands came up to my waist.
I pressed my hips forward. My groin against his. The friction sparked through me, blood rushing south. I could feel him responding. His cock thickened against mine through our pants, his fingers tightening on my hips.
I ground against him. Slow, deliberate rolls of my pelvis, dragging his hardening length against my hip as I licked into his mouth. His head fell back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat. I kissed it, bit lightly at the tendon, felt him shudder.
“Shane—” My name came out ragged.
I pulled back. His hair was mussed where my fingers had tangled in it. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen and wet. A flush crept up his neck, disappearing into his collar.
I winked at him. Straightened my tie. Walked back to the party like I hadn’t just dry-humped a millionaire against his own wall.
The rush hit me halfway across the living room as exhilaration and nerves twisted together. My cock was half-hard in my pants, and I had to angle my body carefully as I grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray.
Chris appeared at my elbow. “What did you do?”
“Staked my claim.” I sipped the champagne. It tasted sweeter than usual.
“Atta boy!” He slapped me on the shoulder.
Gunnar emerged from the hallway five minutes later. His hair was fixed, but his color was still high, and he’d thrown on a sweatshirt to hide the evidence. He caught my eye across the room and held my gaze for three long seconds. Something burned in that look. Need. Want. A question.
I raised my glass to him and turned away.
The party wound down around 2 AM. Bodies trickled out, Uber notifications chiming from phones, an exodus of drunk tech bros and women teetering on heels they’d regret tomorrow. Chris and I helped Gunnar herd the last stragglers toward the door like good guests, the kind who earned their keep.
When the door finally closed behind the last guest, silence settled over the mansion like snowfall.
Gunnar stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets. He looked between us—Chris on his right, me on his left.
“Stay the night.” Not a question.
Chris glanced at me. I gave a small nod.
The windows of his bedroom let in a soft glow of the distant city lights that painted everything in soft gold.
He stood near the edge of the bed, watching us. I could see the shape of him still half-hard in his pants, the memory of our hallway encounter not yet faded.
He stepped towards us. And then again.
He kissed me first. Softer and more chaste than before. Then Chris. And then me again. I found myself getting worked up by the contact as he reached up and held both of our arms.
“I want to watch you two.” His voice was low, controlled. “Together.”
Chris’s breath hitched. My pulse kicked up, hammering against my ribs. I had expected to approach this line with Gunnar. Chris would be part of the equation, but I’d never considered sex with him. This was the line we’d been dancing toward since the bath, and now it was here.
Chris looked at me, and something passed between us—the same calculation from his text, now made flesh. This was happening. We’d both already decided what it was worth.
Chris started undressing. I followed. Shoes first, then jackets, shirts, pants. We’d seen each other naked before in the tub, but this was different.
I took in Chris’s body in the new light of sexual interest. He was lean, defined, a runner’s build with sharp hip bones that cut shadows across his lower stomach. I could imagine kissing him there. His cock hung soft between his thighs, but it twitched as I stepped closer.
We kissed tentatively, and then with more confidence. I found I liked the feel of his stubble grinding against my chin. My hands explored his flank as he wrapped his arms around my neck. My some unspoken signal we made out way to the bed. We fell onto it side by side. The feeling of the mattress shifting as Gunnar climbed on after us reminded me that we were meant to put on a show. I rolled on top of my friend and ground our hardening cocks together for the first time.
I pulled away when I felt a hard pressure against my arm. I looked up and saw Gunnar sitting close by. He hadn’t undressed like us, but his hand had drifted to his own crotch, palm pressing against the bulge there.
He was offering me a bottle. Premium shit, of course—thick glass bottle, minimalist label. I realized slowly that it was lube. I took it and looked down at Chris below me. His eyes had gone wide but he nodded. Gunnar had chosen our roles tonight, whether we liked it or not.
I coated my fingers and turned to Chris. He’d climbed out from under me, positioning himself on hands and knees, beside Gunnar. I knelt behind him, one hand on his hip.
“Slowly,” Gunnar said. “I want to see everything.”
I pressed one finger to Chris’s hole. He tensed, then forced himself to relax. I worked the digit inside the tight channel. A second finger joined the first, stretching him open. Chris dropped his head between his shoulders, breath coming faster.
“More,” Gunnar instructed. “Open him up properly.”
I added a third finger. Chris groaned, pushing back against my hand. His cock was fully hard now, hanging heavy between his legs. I fucked him with my fingers, slow and deliberate, watching his hole stretch and flutter around my knuckles. It was a heady sight. I found myself glad that I was doing this for the first time with someone I understood, someone with the same motivations as me. We were on the same page and that helped.
“Now,” Gunnar said, a little shaky. “Put it in.”
I slicked my cock. I was hard as steel, aching for this whether I’d admitted it or not. I lined up with Chris’s entrance and pushed forward.
The head breached him quickly. Chris hissed through his teeth, fingers clenching in the sheets. I paused, letting him adjust, feeling his body fight and then yield around me.
“Deeper,” Gunnar commanded. “All the way.”
I fed my cock into him inch by inch. The heat was overwhelming, the tightness unlike anything I’d felt before. Chris’s back arched, a moan tearing from his throat as I bottomed out, my hips flush against his ass.
“Hold there,” Gunnar said. He’d unzipped his pants now, his cock in his fist. It was almost comical how much of his length stuck out between his fingers. He stroked himself slowly, eyes locked on where my body joined Chris’s. “Now fuck him. Slow.”
I pulled back until just the head remained inside, then sank forward again. Chris whimpered. I set a rhythm of long, deep strokes that dragged against every nerve ending. Each thrust pushed a sound from Chris’s lips, each withdrawal left him gasping.
“That’s it.” Gunnar’s voice had gone rough. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
I didn’t stop. I fucked Chris with deliberate, measured thrusts, my hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Now that I was doing it, I don’t think I could have walked away even if I wanted to. It was intoxicating. The sensations alone were insane but watching his ring cling to my shaft as it pulled out and thrust back in time, drove me wild. Chris’s arms gave out. He collapsed onto his elbows, face pressed into the sheets, ass still high in the air. I followed him down, covering his body with mine, driving into him from a new angle that made him sob.
“I’m close,” I gritted out.
Gunnar kneeled up in the bed. “Inside,” he swallowed. “Finish inside him.”
I slammed home one final time and let go. My orgasm crashed through me, pumping my release into Chris’s ass in thick spurts. I ground against him, riding the waves until I was spent, shaking, draped over his back.
We stayed like that for a moment. Then Gunnar’s hand was on my shoulder, pulling me back.
Chris and I were already level with his crotch from where he knelt on the bed. His cock jutted up from his open pants, flushed dark with arousal. I couldn’t catch Chris’ eye from this angle but we leaned in together.
I took the head first, swirling my tongue around the crown, tasting the salt of his precome. Chris mouthed at the shaft, lips dragging along the length, tongue tracing the vein underneath. Gunnar’s hands found our heads, fingers tangling in our hair.
Chris and I worked in tandem—licking up opposite sides of his cock, meeting at the tip to share a messy kiss before diving back down. I took him deeper, relaxing my throat until my nose pressed against his pelvis. Chris sucked at his balls, one then the other, while I bobbed on his shaft.
“Fuck—” Gunnar’s hips jerked up, fucking my mouth. “Don’t stop, don't—”
His cock pulsed on my tongue. Hot cum flooded my mouth, thick and bitter. I swallowed what I could, but some escaped, dripping down my chin. Chris pulled off his balls and caught the next spurt across his cheek, mouth open, tongue out.
Gunnar groaned like a man unspooling. His fingers tightened in our hair, then released. He sagged back against the headboard, chest heaving, cock softening against his thigh.
Chris and I stayed where our bodies were still tangled. Our faces painted with the man’s come, our breath ragged, the taste of Gunnar lingering on our tongues. Chris looked at me, and I didn’t have the energy to interpret the complicated emotions I saw projected there.
Gunnar reached down and cupped my face, thumb smearing through the mess on my chin. His eyes were soft, satisfied, and still hungry.
“Good boys,” he murmured.
I leaned into his touch, and I didn’t let myself think about what that meant.
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