Chapter 22: Getting On
The morning sun streamed into the kitchen, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Trent moved with a lazy, proprietary grace, his muscles loose and warm. He dumped frozen berries, spinach, and a hefty scoop of vanilla protein powder into the blender. “No class,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Just us today, Daddy.”
Mike watched him from the table, the newspaper untouched before him. His body still hummed with the deep, satisfying ache from the previous night’s ropes and the relentless, slow fucking that had followed. “Just us is good,” he rumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
The blender’s roar filled the silence. After the smoothies, Trent led him through a forty-five minute yoga flow in the living room. It was a different kind of intensity from their usual weightlifting. Trent’s voice was a calm, guiding pressure as he adjusted Mike’s poses, his hands firm on Mike’s hips to deepen a lunge, his fingers splayed across Mike’s lower back in a forward fold. “Breathe into it,” Trent murmured, his chest pressed against Mike’s spine in a downward dog, their bodies a connected line of heat and muscle. It was meditative, intimate, a shared rhythm of breath and stretch that left Mike feeling pliable and centered.
They showered together under the steaming spray, a quiet, washing ritual that was more about the contact than getting clean. Trent soaped Mike’s broad, hairy back with a slow, circular pressure that made Mike groan.
The contractors arrived just as they were dressing. Shane, Danny, and Ben filed in, their work boots tracking in faint dust from outside. “Wiring and plumbing today, gents,” Shane announced, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on Mike’s damp, towel-clad body. “Gonna have to kill the main power for a bit. Should be back on by lunch.”
“No problem,” Mike said, pulling on a fresh t-shirt.
Trent’s phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, and a slow, predatory grin split his features. He turned the screen to Mike. It was a text from an unsaved number. You two need anything from the store? Below the message was a picture of a thick, ruddy cock, hard and curving slightly upwards. It was a solid, working-man’s dick, maybe half the size of Trent’s, but Mike remembered the raw, urgent feel of it in his mouth in the mall bathroom stall. The memory sent a jolt straight to his groin.
“Looks like he’s shopping for something,” Trent mused. He typed a quick reply. You know Spartacus?
The answer came instantly. Yeah.
Meet there. 11am.
He put his phone down. “It’s 10:15. We’ve got time.”
“Spartacus?” Mike asked.
“The gay sauna. You game?”
Mike felt a thrill, part nervousness, part pure anticipation. “You’ve been?”
“No,” Trent said, his expression turning serious for a moment. “Thought about it. A lot. Back when I was trying to figure out what I,” he gestured between them, “even wanted. Before you made it all so beautifully fucking clear.” He stepped closer, kissing Mike, his voice dropping. “It’s a place. Dark rooms, steam, a maze. People go to watch, to be watched, to fuck. No names, no promises. Just skin.”
“Let’s go,” Mike said, the decision feeling inevitable.
The drive was quiet, charged. Spartacus was a nondescript building downtown. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of chlorine, steam, and anonymous sex. A man behind a thick glass window took their money and handed them towels and a small locker key. The changing room was a humid, tiled space where a few older men moved with a slow, practiced familiarity.
They stored their clothes in the narrow lockers. Trent wrapped a white towel around his waist, the fabric straining over the hard curve of his ass. Mike did the same, feeling exposed and intensely aware of every glance that slid over them. They explored the dimly lit labyrinth: a steam room where bodies were vague shapes in the fog, a dark maze with curtained alcoves, and a common area where men sat, towels open, watching.
It didn’t take long. He was leaning against a wall near the jacuzzi, his ginger hair a fiery beacon in the low light. He saw them and nodded towards a private stall with a door. They followed him in.
The room was small, just a vinyl-padded bench and a dim, red bulb. The door clicked shut, muffling the outside world. The man’s eyes, a pale blue, were bright with hunger. “I want to watch,” he said, his voice rough. “I want to see you eat that ass.”
Trent didn’t need to be asked twice. He pushed Mike face-down over the bench, the vinyl cool against his stomach. He yanked Mike’s towel away and spread his cheeks, burying his face between them without a second’s hesitation. The wet, sloppy sounds were obscenely loud in the small room. Trent feasted on him, sucking his hole into a puffy, engorged state, his tongue plunging deep before pulling back to lave at the swollen rim.
The ginger man watched, his hand stroking his own thick cock slowly. “Fuck, that’s a pretty sight,” he grunted. “Now let me have that mouth.”
Trent pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. Mike turned over, his own cock aching and hard. Robert moved in front of him, guiding his dick to Mike’s lips. Mike opened his mouth, taking him in. It was familiar, the solid, salty weight of him. Robert fucked his face with steady, deep thrusts, his hips pumping, his balls slapping against Mike’s chin. “Yeah, take it, you hungry fuck,” Robert groaned, his fingers tangling in Mike’s hair. Trent loved watching Mike suck other men's cocks. How good he was at it, how effortless it seemed, yet so precise, so considered, so expert. In just under two weeks.
Then he pulled out, his cock slick with spit. “I want to see him get fucked. Properly.” He looked at Trent. “I want to lay underneath. I want to watch it go in.”
Trent’s eyes flashed with dark amusement. He helped Mike onto his hands and knees on the bench, directly over where Robert now lay on his back, his head positioned perfectly beneath Mike’s ass. The perspective was dizzying. Mike looked down and saw Robert’s upturned face, his eyes wide, fixed on the wet, gaping hole that Trent was now lubing up with a slick, practiced hand.
“Give it to him, big man,” Robert breathed, his voice hushed with awe.
Trent positioned himself and pushed. The head of his massive cock stretched Mike’s entrance, then popped past the ring of muscle, sinking deep. Mike cried out, the sensation amplified by the knowledge that Robert was watching every inch disappear inside him.
Then Trent heard the man start to moan, "Yeah suck it just like that, bitch," and realised Mike had started to suck him again. His good boy. God, he loved that man.
His moaning beneath them continued, a low, desperate sound. Trent set a brutal, punishing rhythm, fucking into Mike with deep, powerful strokes. With every thrust, Mike’s body jolted, and a mix of spit, lube, and pre-cum dripped down onto Robert’s face. Robert didn’t flinch. He opened his mouth, his tongue darting out to catch the drops, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he was baptized in their sex.
Then Mike's groans changed, and he saw the man beneath them sucking on the head of Mike's cock, a look of concentration and defiance in his eyes. Trent realised so much of this must be new to him. Another porn addict getting to play out his fantasies in real life. He could do this forever.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” The man choked out, Mike's mouth locked onto his cock, pistoning his head with purposeful, deft movements. His body seized, and Mike allowed the hot stripes of cum to shoot onto his own face and neck, the man's back arching off the floor as he watched Trent’s dick pistoning in and out of Mike’s used hole. Then Mike began to whine, the man's mouth working his cock head well enough to bring Mike off. He swallowed the load, coughing slightly, but pushing through, clearly wanting to experience this fully.
Trent followed soon after, driving home with a final, guttural shout, pumping his load deep inside Mike. He held there for a long moment, both of them panting, before slowly pulling out. As they recovered they heard a number of low voices outside as people began to shuffle away.
"I guess we had an audience", Trent whispered, laughing. Mike grinned, but the other man looked shocked. "Don't worry, man," Trent reassured him, "they couldn't see. And I was the one making all the noise I reckon". The man looked relieved and smiled.
They disentangled themselves. The man wiped his face with the back of his hand, a dazed, satiated look on his features. “Name’s Robert,” he said, getting to his feet and reaching to shake their hands. “I’ll be in touch.” Mike leant in and kissed him on the lips before he could react. "Thank you, Robert", he said. "You were fantastic." He smiled, blushed and left the stall, leaving them in the sudden quiet.
They showered in the communal stalls, the hot water sluicing away the sweat and spend. The few other men there—mostly older, with paunches and tired eyes—watched them with unabashed hunger, their audience no doubt, their gazes tracing the powerful lines of Trent’s body and the thick, hairy solidity of Mike’s.
“They’re staring,” Mike murmured under the spray.
“Let them,” Trent said, soaping his chest. “They’ve never seen anything like us.” Raising his voice slightly, "And if they want to see more, they can pay," he boomed, laughing.
Back at the house, the power was back on. The sound of drilling and sawing filled the air. Mike, feeling a strange, domestic euphoria, cooked a large lunch—pasta with a rich meat sauce and a crisp salad. He laid it out on the table for the contractors.
Shane, Danny, and Ben washed up and sat down, their appetites evident. "This is the best job, ever," Danny said, beaming. "Too right," Ben chimed in, "wish it would never end to be honest". Mike blushed and smiled at them both. "It's great having you here. You're doing excellent work." Then added in an uncharacteristically blatant tone, "I'm sure we'll need your services again."
“So,” Shane said, twirling pasta onto his fork, “what did you two get up to with the power out?”
Trent took a long drink of water. “Went to Spartacus.”
The three men froze, their forks halfway to their mouths. Danny’s eyes went wide.
“Met up with a chap I sucked off in the mall bathrooms while Trent fucked me,” Mike added, his voice almost casual, but his discomfort at being so flagrant was evident. The three men suddenly looked more hungry, despite the hearty meal in front of them.
Trent picked up the story, his tone a low, conversational rumble. “He wanted a show. Watched me eat Mike’s ass out until it was dripping. Then he fed Mike his dick while I got ready.” He described the private stall, Robert lying underneath, his face getting spattered as Trent fucked into Mike. He didn’t embellish; the raw facts were graphic enough.
As he spoke, Shane, Danny, and Ben listened, utterly still. Their work shirts were stretched tight over their chests, and beneath the table, the subtle, tell-tale shifting of their legs and the gradual thickening in their work shorts was impossible to miss. They were hard, all of them, barely concealing the rubbing of their cocks through the thick fabric as they ate their lunch and absorbed every filthy, explicit detail.
The air in the kitchen grew thick, charged with the unsaid. Fork scraped against plate, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Danny shifted his weight, the rough fabric of his work shorts whispering a secret friction against the wood of his chair. Ben’s knuckles were white where he gripped his fork, his breath a little too shallow. Shane just watched them, his gaze a heavy, knowing weight.
They finished their food, the conversation stumbling into safer territory. They talked about the wiring, the surprising ease of the new plumbing runs, the game on TV last night. Laughter came, tentative at first, then easier, a release of the building pressure. It was a genuine sound, a glimpse of the easy companionship that was weaving itself between the five of them.
After twenty minutes, Trent leaned back, a slow, predatory stretch. “Time for dessert,” he announced, his voice a low thrum. He pulled a neatly rolled joint from a tin on the counter. “Decent sativa. Won’t make us too lazy to work.” He lit it, took a deep pull, and passed it to Shane. The sweet, skunky smoke began to curl through the kitchen, layering over the scent of garlic and tomato.
As the joint made its round, Trent grabbed a thick floor cushion and slid it under the table. He nodded at Mike. A silent, understood command. Mike didn’t hesitate. He scrambled down from his chair and onto the pillow, disappearing beneath the wooden plane. The world narrowed to the forest of denim-clad and naked legs, the musky heat of four hard-working men.
His hands went to Shane’s belt first, fumbling with the heavy buckle. The button of his fly popped open. Mike peeled back the rough fabric and the softer cotton beneath, uncovering Shane’s thick, sturdy cock. It was already half-hard, slick at the tip with a bead of clear pre-cum. The scent was pure, potent man. Mike leaned forward and licked the drop away, a slow, flat stroke that made Shane’s thigh jump.
He moved to Danny next, then Ben, unveiling them both. Their cocks, each with their own character, were in a similar state of eager anticipation. The air under the table was a humid mix of sweat, weed, and the sharp, salty tang of precum. Mike took Trent into his mouth first, sucking the immense, familiar weight onto his tongue while his hands found the others. He jerked Danny’s cock with a firm, steady rhythm, his other hand cupping Ben’s balls, massaging them gently.
“Fuck, Mike,” Danny breathed, his head thumping back against his chair.
Then Mike shifted, backing up on his knees. He guided Shane’s girth to his entrance, which was still loose and pliant from the morning’s activities. He sank back onto it with a low, guttural moan, the stretch a perfect, filling pressure. At the same time, he took Trent back into his mouth, his lips stretching around the girth. The dual penetration was overwhelming, the perfect symmetry of being filled and filling his own mouth.
He established a rhythm, a filthy, synchronized dance. He rose and fell on Shane’s cock, his own pleasure a deep, internal throbbing. As he sank down, he deep-throated Trent, feeling the head nudge the back of his throat. On the upstroke, he pulled off Trent with a wet pop to focus on jerking Danny and Ben in turn, his fist slick with their combined pre-cum. The sounds were obscene: wet sucks, ragged breaths, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of chairs.
“Gonna cum,” Ben grunted, his body tensing.
Mike turned his head, taking the hot, salty pulses onto his tongue and cheek without breaking his rhythm on Shane. Danny followed almost immediately, his release streaking across Mike’s shoulder and chest. The sounds of Mike, covered in their spend, fucking himself on one cock and sucking another, was too much for Shane. He drove up into Mike, his own orgasm a harsh, guttural shout as he emptied himself deep inside.
Trent was last. He fisted his own cock, his eyes locked on the wrecked, used mess of Mike’s face. “Swallow it, Daddy. Take every fucking drop.” He came in thick, violent spurts that Mike eagerly gulped down, some of it dripping down his chin to mix with the rest.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy panting under the table. Then Mike set about cleaning them, his tongue lapping up the mess from his own skin, from their softening cocks, with a happy, devoted diligence. He swallowed the last of it with a contented sigh.
The men tucked themselves away, their movements slow, sated. They filed back to work without a word, a new, profound understanding settling among them. Trent pulled Mike from under the table and led him to the shower. The hot water washed away the physical evidence, but the feeling of ownership and belonging remained.
Later, at the computer, Trent scrolled through the encrypted messages. “Offers are coming in for the second video,” he said. “We’re giving out six copies. Two-month exclusivity, no public showings, no screen caps.” He named a figure. It was a staggering amount. “That’s a quarter of what this whole renovation is costing.”
Mike stared at the screen, amazed. A real, profitable business was growing from this raw desire. “We should get the guys to turn the garage into a proper gym next,” he said, the idea forming as he spoke. “A real one. For us.”
Trent looked at him, his expression softening into something profound. “As if I couldn’t love you any more,” he said, the words simple and devastatingly true.
A couple of hours later, with the sounds of drilling still echoing from the new studio, Mike brought up the solo videos again. “You up for it this afternoon? I’ve been researching camera work.”
They set up in Trent’s room. Two static cameras on tripods and a handheld for Mike. Trent talked him through angles, focus, and the art of the close-up. “I want you in that black lace thong,” Trent commanded. “The real slutty one.”
Mike was eager to comply. The delicate lace was a stark contrast against his hairy, muscular thighs and the solid bulge it constrained. For an hour, Trent performed, slowly working his massive cock, his eyes smouldering directly into the lens. But Mike knew, with every fibre of his being, that gaze was meant for him alone.
While Mike cooked a large shepherd’s pie for everyone—the workmen were staying late to finish the framing—Trent reviewed the footage. “It’s easily the best yet,” he called out to the kitchen. “The lighting, the angles… it’s all you, Mike.” He uploaded the file to their secure server.
They all ate together at the big table, the five of them. The silence was easy this time, comfortable. Someone put on some music, a low bluesy rhythm that filled the spaces between the clatter of cutlery.
The last of the shepherd’s pie was scraped from plates, the rich gravy and meat a comforting weight in their bellies. The bluesy guitar wove through the kitchen, a lazy counterpoint to the day’s raw energy. Danny leaned back, patting his stomach with a contented sigh. “That was fucking fantastic, Mike. Seriously.”
“Better than any site canteen,” Ben agreed, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfied groan. They helped clear the table, their movements easy and synchronized. A short while later, they gathered their tools. “Right, we’re off,” Danny said, pulling on his jacket. He clapped Mike on the shoulder, his grip firm and lingering. “See you tomorrow.” Ben gave a nod, his eyes warm, and followed him out into the evening.
Shane stayed, leaning against the counter as the back door clicked shut. “They’re good lads,” he said, watching them go. He turned his attention to the renovation. “The dungeon will be complete by Friday. It’s a simpler job in many ways, less particular than the main household spaces.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The large shower space is waterproofed and tiling starts tomorrow. Soundproofing is done. Floors and walls are prepped for surfaces, fixtures and fittings. Your master bedroom and ensuite should be done by the end of next week.”
He paused, a genuine melancholy softening his usual pragmatic tone. “But they will all be sad to go. We all will, to be honest.”
Mike glanced at Trent, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The idea felt right, inevitable. “Then don’t,” Mike said, his voice steady. “Not completely. Once the work is done, why don't the three of you come over once a week. For food. And fun. Thursdays would be good.” Mike was a scheduling master. He let the implication hang in the air, rich and promising. “It’s nice having you here.”
A slow smile spread across Shane’s face. “A Thursday ‘poker night’?” he ventured, the glint in his eye suggesting he knew exactly what cards would be on the table.
“Or ‘poke-him night’,” Trent added from the sofa, not looking up from his phone.
They all laughed, a deep, shared sound that sealed the agreement. Shane was visibly delighted. “I know Danny and Ben will be. Count us in.” He pushed off the counter. “Right. I’ll leave you to it. See you in the morning.” The front door closed behind him, leaving the house in a sudden, profound quiet.
Trent stared at his phone, his body perfectly still. The blue light of the screen illuminated the sharp planes of his face. “Holy shit,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
“What is it?” Mike asked, moving to stand behind him.
Trent turned the screen. It was a stream of messages from his encrypted channel, a waterfall of notifications and numbers. “The video. Our video. It’s totally blown up.” He scrolled, his finger moving rapidly. “Already my highest grossing. By a mile. The offers… fuck.”
Mike looked at the figures, his mind struggling to process the sums. It was more money than he’d made in a month at his office job. “How?”
Trent dropped the phone on the cushion and stood up, facing Mike. He cupped Mike’s jaw, his thumb stroking the coarse hair of his beard. His eyes were dark, intense, filled with a terrifying and beautiful certainty. “It’s us, Mike,” he said, his voice low and raw. “We’re the magic ingredient.”