Chapter 20: Prostruction
The blaring alarm was a brutal return to earth. Six AM. Monday. The warm, tangled haze of the weekend—of Ivan, of ropes, of shared orgasms and lazy intimacy—shattered into the cold, hard reality of the digital beep. Trent was already moving, a dark silhouette against the dawn-grey window, all efficient muscle and purpose.
"Out of bed, sleepy head," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep but leaving no room for argument. He kissed Mike’s thigh, the thrill sharp through the fog. "Smoothies in five. Then we move."
The kitchen was a study in disciplined motion. The blender roared, pulverizing kale, frozen pineapple, protein powder, and almond milk into a thick, green concoction. They drank them standing, the sweet, vegetable taste a stark contrast to the remembered flavours of cum and sweat. Then it was the garage to the rough home gym Trent had built there, the rubber mats smelling faintly of effort and disinfectant.
The workout was a full-body conditioning, a reclamation of structure. Trent pushed them both, his own movements fluid and powerful, a counterpoint to Mike’s heavier, more deliberate efforts. Squats, deadlifts, push presses. The burn in Mike’s muscles was a clean, honest pain, scrubbing away the lingering, debauched ache from his well-used hole. There were no lingering touches, no sexual undertones—just the grind of weights and the rhythm of their breathing.
After showers, a light breakfast of scrambled egg whites and avocado on rye toast. They were just finishing when the doorbell chimed.
Shane stood on the porch, a leather-bound folder under his arm, his gaze sharp and appreciative as it swept over them. "Morning, gents. Ready to get dirty?"
"Always," Trent said, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he ushered Shane into the living room. The energy shifted. The domestic calm evaporated, replaced by a new, charged current.
Shane got straight to business, unrolling large sheets of paper onto the coffee table. "Been thinking about this all weekend. Couldn't get it out of my head." His eyes flickered between them, a knowing glint there. "The spaces. And you two."
Trent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his presence dominating the room. "Good. Then let's be clear on the rules before we start. Just to save any confusion or upset." His voice was kind but firm. "Mike and I. We're a unit. We only play together. That's non-negotiable."
Mike felt a surge of warm possessiveness, staying silent, letting Trent establish the boundary.
"This is a relaxed house," Trent continued, his eyes locked on Shane's. "We're not prudes. But the work comes first. Do it well. Do it fast. We can pay. Well." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "And in more ways than one, once I'm home from classes and the day's work is done."
A slow, genuine smile spread across Shane’s face. He didn't look surprised or disappointed. He looked… intrigued. "Sounds perfectly clear to me. And more than fair. I'm happy to agree."
Trent caught Mike's eye and briefly nodded to Shane with a smile and a questioning look. Mike grinned. He quickly knelt in front of Shane and unzipped his pants. "Oh, fuck!" He exclaimed, then chuckled, "Oh, sure!" Beaming, he pushed his jeans to the floor and Mike pulled his short, girthy chode from his briefs and got to work. Even in these few short days, he had managed to improve the stretch of his lips, the evenness of his breathing, the sloppiness of his mouth, as he plugged his throat with Shane's barrel of a dick. "Your Daddy is learning fast, huh?" Shane murmured appreciatively as Mike gobbled his cock. "He's the best. Ever." Trent confirmed, spurring Mike on to faster and sloppier efforts. Trent reached out and started to play with Shane's nipples, through his white vest, making him groan as his eyes rolled back. Mike coughed slightly as Shane released his load, sighing deeply. He clapped Mike on the shoulder and shook Trent's hand. Then he tapped the designs. "So, to business."
The visuals were stunning, far beyond what Mike had imagined. For the basement, Shane had designed a "comfortable but practical sex dungeon." It wasn't a clichéd black-and-red torture chamber; it was a sleek, industrial space with polished concrete floors, exposed brick, and strategically placed anchor points in the ceiling and walls. A custom-built, padded bondage table dominated the centre, with integrated restraints. One wall featured a floor-to-ceiling rack of hooks for floggers, ropes, and other toys, all illuminated by subtle, adjustable LED lighting. The corner was full of adjustable modular sofa units, both soft and easy to clean.
"The master en-suite," Shane said, moving to the next sheet, "The Turkish bath theme we discussed. A large walk-in shower with two heads, one on each side and a marble-tiled bench; a large tub with built in fret-work surround and built in water jets; double sinks in freestanding bowls. Lots of mosaic tile. Intimate. Luxurious."
The final design was for the master bedroom itself. "A men's smoking room. Dark wood paneling, a proper humidor cabinet, deep, leather club chairs. A place to unwind. To talk."
"It's perfect," Mike breathed, looking at Trent, who nodded, his expression one of satisfied approval.
"Get it done," Trent said, standing up. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder. He walked to Mike, cupped the back of his neck, and pulled him into a deep, claiming kiss. "See you tonight, Daddy. Hold the fort." With a final, loaded glance at Shane, he was out the door.
The house felt different once he was gone. Larger, somehow. Mike focused on his tablet, diving into the logistics of the Trike Media launch. Setting up the accounts, drafting the bio, planning the content calendar. They had two weeks. Two weeks to have a small catalogue of edited films ready to go. The potential was a live wire under his skin.
The noise started late morning. The rumble of a diesel engine, the slam of doors. Shane’s helpers had arrived.
Mike went to the front door. Two men were hauling tools and equipment from a beat-up white van. They were clearly related—cousins, Shane had said. Ben and Danny. Shane brought them in to meet Mike, who was dressed in his new house uniform - short shorts that showed his jock straps and an open sided muscle tee.
Ben, on the left, stood with a quiet smile. His arms were thick with muscle, straining against the stained white tank top that clung to his broad chest. Dark hair peeked out from the neckline, hinting at the fur that covered his body. His face was rugged, with a strong jawline and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners. His shorts were low on his hips, revealing the powerful thighs and a hint of the bulge beneath. Work boots completed the picture, adding to his grounded, masculine appeal.
Danny, to his right, had a more rugged physique. His chest was broad and covered in a thick mat of hair that led down to his stomach. His arms were equally muscular, and his shoulders were broad. His face was framed by a dark beard, and his eyes held a playful glint. The waistband of his shorts strained against the swell of his cock and balls. He radiated a raw, untamed energy, a man who wasn't afraid to embrace his primal desires.
Mike’s gaze tracked the powerful flex of Ben’s shoulders as he hefted a stack of plywood, and then dropped to Danny’s thick thighs straining against his work shorts. A sudden, unbidden image flashed in his mind: Trent pinning him down on the new bondage table while Ben’s heavy cock stuffed his mouth and Danny’s rough hands spread his ass cheeks wide. He blinked, shaken by the graphic, immediate hunger. Where the fuck did that come from? His gay switch wasn't just on; it was cranked to a screaming, desperate high, humming with a voltage he never knew he possessed.
They got to work. The house became a symphony of purposeful noise—the rip of tape, the rustle of heavy-duty plastic sheeting, the thud of boxes being filled and stacked. Shane supervised the operation with an easy authority, his earlier favour-calling evident in the professional speed of his cousins. Mike helped, his own solid frame useful for moving heavier furniture, the air thickening with the promise of plaster dust.
By lunchtime, the main renovation spaces were shrouded in white plastic, a ghostly cocoon awaiting its transformation. "I'll cook," Mike offered, wiping a smear of dust from his forearm. "I have to eat anyway. Trent's got me on a strict regime."
In the kitchen, he pulled out the ingredients Trent had precisely laid out: several thick-cut boneless pork chops, a bag of sweet potatoes, and a bundle of asparagus. "High-protein, complex carbs," Trent had explained, tracing a finger down Mike's sternum. "Fuel for those mommy-milkers you're growing for me." Mike seasoned the chops heavily, the familiar ritual calming his strangely buzzing nerves.
The rich smell of searing meat filled the air. He served up the plates—a generous chop, a mound of mashed sweet potato, and a heap of green asparagus—and brought them to the table where the three men waited. "Cheers, Mike," Shane said, digging in. Ben and Danny murmured their thanks, their appreciation genuine.
They ate with the focused hunger of men who’d done a morning's hard labor. "This is proper fuel," Danny said around a mouthful of pork. "You train hard, then?"
"Every day," Mike said, feeling a surge of pride. "Trent programs it. Nutrition, too."
Ben nodded, his eyes appraising Mike's shoulders. "It shows. You're looking fucking pumped, mate. Solid."
The compliment, direct and from another rugged man, went straight to Mike's head—and elsewhere. He felt a flush of heat. "Yeah, well," he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. "Goal is big mommy-milker pecs and a proper fat dump truck of an ass." He held their gazes, no hint of a joke. "For me. But mostly for Trent. He's gonna love having plenty to grab onto."
A slow smile spread across Shane's face. Danny let out a low whistle. "Fuckin' dedication," Ben said, shaking his head in clear admiration. "Respect."
The afternoon passed in a blur of carrying and construction noise. Once the initial heavy lifting was done, Mike retreated upstairs to the Trent's bedroom, one of the few sanctuaries left untouched. The silence was a relief. He stripped, his skin tingling with a layer of fine dust.
He took his time. He took a quick shower, then lay back on the bed, fingers probing gently to apply the soothing ointment to his still-tender hole, the cool gel a stark contrast to the heat of his thoughts. As he touched himself, he felt the call to play, to fantasize about the men downstairs, to find something to fill him. But he found he could resist it. He knew what he wanted and it would be available in a few short hours. He smoothed a clay face mask over his skin, the tightening sensation a bizarre counterpoint to the memory of being stretched wide. Finally, he worked a rich sandalwood body oil into his shoulders, chest, and thighs, making his skin gleam under the afternoon light, preparing himself.
The front door clicked open at exactly four. Mike heard Trent's deep voice rumble through the disrupted halls, followed by Shane's lighter tones. Their footsteps moved upstairs, and soon Mike could hear the murmur of four male voices in the bedroom across the hall—Trent, Shane, Ben, and Danny. The low, indistinct conversation felt charged, significant.
He didn't move from the bed, just listened, his oiled skin prickling with anticipation. The voices descended the stairs, but Trent appeared in the doorway, alone, his backpack dropped by his feet, his eyes dark and intent.
"Hey," Mike said, his voice barely a whisper. Trent went straight to him, enveloping him in a kiss. Mike grasped at Trent, his body responding in a basic, instinctual way. They pulled back and smiled, reunited.
Trent leaned against the bedframe, crossing his powerful arms over Mike's chest as he pulled him into a loose embrace. "Shane showed me the progress. Looks good." He paused, his gaze sweeping down Mike's oiled body. "Then I had a little chat with the cousins. Wanted to know if they were into anything. After Shane, I had a feeling there might be something there."
Mike's heart hammered against his ribs. "And?"
A slow, predatory smile touched Trent's lips. "Ben's really into the idea of piss. In someone's mouth. In someone's pussy. His girlfriend has zero interest and it almost broke them up." He let that hang in the dust-moted air for a beat. "And Danny... Danny's curious about fisting. Same as Ben, no kink in the Mrs. Says he wants to feel someone's insides. Really open them up. They both clearly watched a LOT of porn," he chuckled.
Mike’s breath hitched. The images from the morning, the raw, filthy possibilities, crashed over him without a shred of hesitation. He sat up, the oil making his muscles catch the light. "Yeah?" he said, his voice rough with immediate, eager want.
A dark, possessive heat flared in Trent’s eyes at Mike’s raw, unhesitating hunger. "Fuck, that got you going, didn't it?" he growled, pulling Mike closer to smell the sandalwood oil on his skin. "But we do this our way. Our rules."
"Always," Mike breathed, his heart pounding against Trent’s chest.
"Good. So listen," Trent said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rumble. "Your pussy, my rules. Any man who wants to use it gets it wet first. Properly wet. Danny wants to fist you? He eats you open first. That’s non-negotiable."
"Okay," Mike agreed instantly, his cock twitching against his thigh.
"And the piss," Trent continued, his hand sliding down to squeeze Mike’s ass. "You want to ease into it, not get a firehose. So we’ll use a bucket. He pisses into that and you can dip into the stream if, and only if, you want to. Shane and I will watch. You good with that?"
A shiver of pure anticipation wracked Mike’s frame. "Fuck yes."
Trent’s grin was sharp. "Then get your sexy house uniform on. The jock, the short shorts, the muscle shirt. I’ll go down and fill the guys in. Give us five, then come down."
Mike moved quickly, the familiar ritual of dressing for Trent sending another jolt of arousal through him. The tight jockstrap cupped his ass, the short shorts hugging his thighs, the muscle shirt leaving his oiled arms and sides bare. He took a steadying breath, then headed for the basement stairs.
The basement was a cavern of potential, shrouded in plastic sheeting that rustled in the damp air. In a cleared space in the centre, a thick gym mat was laid out on the concrete floor. Trent and Shane stood to one side, their eyes already glittering with anticipation. Ben and Danny stood waiting, shirts off now, their thick, work-hardened bodies gleaming with a faint sweat in the low light.
"Right on time," Trent said, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
Mike’s gaze met theirs, a flicker of nervous excitement quickly smothered by a surge of want. He walked to the mat without a word, dropping smoothly to his hands and knees. He arched his back deeply, pushing his ass out, presenting himself. The position made the short shorts strain over his cheeks.
Danny stepped forward, his rough hands settling on Mike’s hips. "Let's see what all the fuss is about," he murmured, his voice thick. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the shorts and slowly peeled them down.
A sharp, stunned inhale cut the silence.
"Fuck me," Danny breathed, his eyes wide. He just stared, his gaze raking over the exposed curves. The jockstrap framed Mike’s ass perfectly, the fabric digging into the fleshy globes. "It's… fuck. It’s perfect. So round. So full." He sounded genuinely awestruck. "Better than any pussy I’ve ever seen. I mean it."
He dropped to his knees behind Mike, his face inches from the offered flesh. "God, the smell," he groaned, nuzzling against the cleft. "That oil… and you. Just pure, clean man." His tongue darted out, a broad, wet stripe along the seam of Mike’s ass. "Tastes even better."
As Danny’s mouth began to work in earnest, lapping and sucking at Mike’s hole, Ben moved in front. He placed a clean, white plastic bucket directly under Mike’s head. "Easy now," Ben said softly, unbuttoning his flies. "Just relax for me."
The first sound was a sharp, powerful stream hitting the empty bottom of the bucket. The scent that rose was mild, slightly musky, but not the acrid ammonia Mike had feared. The liquid was pale, almost clear. Trent watched, his hand stroking his own growing bulge through his jeans. "Taste it, Daddy," he commanded, his voice low.
Mike leaned forward, his tongue tentatively flicking out to catch a few drops from the surface. It was warm, salty, with a faint, earthy bitterness. He did it again, then again, each taste less hesitant than the last. Then he brought his mouth directly under the gentle stream, swallowing in earnest gulps.
"That's it," Ben grunted, his hand moving to his now half-hard cock. "Good boy. Such a good, thirsty boy." He guided the tip to Mike’s lips. "Open up. Get the last drops."
Mike took Ben’s cock into his mouth, sucking gently, swallowing the final pulses of piss directly from the source. The taste was more concentrated here, the warmth of Ben’s flesh a stark contrast to the cooling liquid in the bucket.
Behind him, Danny was making progress. Trent handed him a large bottle of thick, clear fisting lube. Danny poured a generous amount over his fingers and onto Mike’s hole, which was already slick and loose from his diligent tongue work. He pressed one thick, lubed finger inside, then another, working them in slowly, scissoring them open.
"Fuck, he’s so hot inside," Danny groaned, his eyes glued to where his fingers were disappearing into Mike’s body. "So soft and tight."
Trent and Shane had their cocks out now, stroking themselves in a slow, mirrored rhythm as they watched the tableau. The air was thick with the sounds of wet sucking, low groans, and the slick squelch of Danny’s fingers pushing deeper.
"Fuck, Trent," Shane breathed, his eyes fixed on Trent’s massive, veiny girth. "Can I… can I just try? I just want to know what it feels like to even try and get my mouth around something like that."
Trent’s gaze snapped to Mike, a question in his eyes. Mike, his mouth still full of Ben’s cock, his ass being just beginning to stretch around Danny’s fist, managed a quick, eager nod.
Shane knelt in front of Trent, his hands trembling slightly as he took the heavy weight in them. He opened his mouth wide, straining to fit the broad, plum-shaped head past his lips. He could barely manage the tip, his lips stretched taut around the immense circumference. A strangled gagging sound escaped him. "Fuck… it’s… impossible," he choked out, pulling off, saliva webbing his chin.
Trent was intently watching Danny's movements. His full fist had begun to piston in and out of Mike with slow, sensual squelches. The deep, resonant schlok-schlok of his lube coated hand making everyone in the room tense with arousal. Mike's deep groans were testament enough to the pleasure it was bringing him, making Trent's face fierce with sexual desire.
The noises, the overwhelming sensations—Ben’s cock in his mouth, Danny’s knuckles now brushing deep inside him, the visual of Shane trying to take Trent—it was too much. Mike’s body seized, a raw, guttural cry muffled by Ben’s flesh as his own cock erupted, untouched, splashing his cum onto the mat beneath him.
The movements stilled. Ben gently pulled his softening cock from Mike’s lips. Danny carefully, slowly, withdrew his slick hand.
Trent looked down at Shane, then at the other two men, his expression satisfied but controlled. "That's enough for a first taste," he declared, his voice firm but not unkind. "You keep doing good work. You show up. You follow our rules. There will be more."
Ben and Danny nodded, their expressions a mixture of awe and gratitude. "We'll clean this up," Ben said, his voice grateful.
"Good." Trent pulled Mike to his feet, his arm a solid support around his trembling waist. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get you cleaned up."
Upstairs in the steam of the Jack and Jill bathroom shower, Mike leaned against the tiled wall as Trent washed the sweat, spit, and lube from his skin. "The sexual health mail order tests arrived today," Mike said, his voice raspy. "They're on the dresser."
"Perfect," Trent said, rinsing soap from Mike's broad back. "We'll do them after this. I'll send them out tomorrow before class. And we've got Dr. S tomorrow so we can get you on PrEP too." He turned Mike around, kissing him deeply, possessively. "You were incredible tonight. My perfect, filthy Daddy."
Mike melted into the kiss, the warm water cascading over them, washing away the evidence of the night but sealing the new, raw territory they had claimed together.