Chapter 3: Onwards, Ho!
The pharmacy fluorescents hummed, a sterile white noise that made Ben’s skin crawl. He grabbed the douche box quickly, his broad shoulders tensed as if expecting a challenge. In the adjacent aisle, a small plastic stand held leaflets. His eyes scanned over quit-smoking aids and flu shot reminders before landing on one: Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis (PrEP) for reducing the risk of HIV. He glanced around, his heart thumping a stupid rhythm against his ribs. For future reference, he thought, the logic cold and practical in his mind. He pocketed the leaflet, the paper crinkling softly like a secret.
Dinner with his mum and Juan was a quiet affair of baked chicken and small talk. “How was your day, Benny?” his mum asked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Good” he said, clearing his plate of food. “Work was uneventful and I've just been… getting settled here.” Juan nodded, a kind man who mostly stayed out of the way. Ben cleared the table, the clatter of plates loud in the quiet house.
Upstairs, the bedroom felt different. He’d tidied it, clearing up Troy's mess from the morning, making the space as neutral as possible. Then he took the pharmacy bag into the bathroom. The process was clinical, awkward, a little cold. He followed the instructions with a focused precision, a strange detachment settling over him. This was just preparation. Maintenance. Like cleaning the bath before someone else used it.
Later, he rooted through the garage, finding a small, dusty cooler. He wiped it out, lined it with ice packs from the freezer, and slotted six beer bottles inside. Back in their room, he laid out his rolling papers and weed on the desk. His thick fingers, better suited for lifting weights, fumbled at first. But he persisted, his concentration absolute. Five joints, each a little neater than the last, went into a small tin he placed beside the worn armchair.
9:26 PM. The house was silent. He scrolled on his phone, not seeing the screen, every nerve ending tuned to the street outside. When the front door finally clicked open, his body moved on its own accord. He stripped to his grey briefs, folding his jeans and t-shirt neatly on his desk chair. Saves on laundry, he told himself. He knelt on the carpet, the rough fibres prickling his knees, and waited.
The bedroom door swung open. Troy filled the frame, smelling of night air and cheap cologne. His dark eyes swept the room, taking in the tidiness, the cooler of beer, the tin on the armchair, and finally, Ben on his knees. A slow, knowing smile spread under his moustache.
“Look at this,” Troy said, his voice a low rumble. He dropped his backpack and sat on the armchair. “All set up for me.” Ben cracked a beer and handed it to Troy, who took a long swallow, and watched Ben automatically start to remove his shoes. "Good boy," he murmured. After removing the shoes, Ben lit one of the joints, holding the smoke in his lungs as he passed it to Troy before releasing it in a thin stream. Troy took a long hit. “Good roll.”
Ben stayed silent, his head bowed. This was the script now.
Troy sat in the armchair, dominating the space, and held out the joint for Ben to inhale. He did. And again. Then Troy clicked his fingers and pointed at the floor beside the armchair. Ben crawled over. "Open," troy ordered. Ben let his jaw go slack. Troy pushed three fingers into his mouth, right to the back of his throat. Ben knew he wanted to see if he would gag, but he wasn't about to fail. Troy moved his fingers in and out lazily, Ben's mouth becoming flooded with saliva. Troy pointed a foot at the cooler. “Get me another.”
Ben crawled to the cooler, fetched a beer, and brought it to him, opening it. He stayed there, between Troy's legs, eyes fixed on the bulge at his crotch. Troy drank and smoked, the tension coiling tighter with every passing minute, his eyes watching Ben, taking in his neediness and his obedience. "Through my pants," he finally murmured. Ben's mouth fell on his clothed cock, mouthing the thickening softness, exploring it's length and girth as best he could. He wanted to smell it. To taste it. But knew he couldn't ask. After the second joint and third beer, Troy stubbed the roach out and leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting.
“My tongue’s dry,” he announced. “Need to get it wet.”
He stood and grabbed Ben’s shoulder, guiding him towards his own bed. “Kneel up here. Edge of the mattress.” Ben complied, his thick thighs pressing into the firm edge. Troy yanked one of Ben’s pillows onto the floor and knelt behind him. troy lowered the seat of his underwear, tucking them under his ass cheeks. The shift in position was profoundly exposing. Ben felt the cool air on his skin, and then the heat of Troy’s gaze.
“You better be ready,” Troy said, the words laced with a threat that was both promise and warning.
Ben held his breath. He hoped he’d done it right. He felt the strange, intimate puff of air first as Troy sniffed lightly, then more deeply, taking in the scent of him. The sensation made him flinch, a jolt of electricity shooting up his spine.
Then, contact.
It wasn’t a lick. It was a kiss. Troy’s mouth, all plush, wet heat, covered him completely. His large tongue moved in slow, insistent swirls, massaging the tight ring of muscle, softening it, claiming it. The pressure was unreal, a deep, probing intimacy that bypassed thought and went straight to his core.
“That’s it,” Troy mumbled, his voice vibrating directly into Ben’s flesh. “Good pussy.” The crude word shouldn’t have landed the way it did, a filthy, unlocking thing. Troy’s lips sealed around him again, sucking lightly, pulling the sensitive skin, and Ben’s hands fisted in the bedsheets. “Sloppy pussy all mine.” The vibrations of his speech became part of the sensation, a constant, humming tease.
Ben’s world narrowed to the bed beneath his knees and the devastating work of Troy’s mouth. Time dissolved into a haze of pleasure so intense it felt like a form of punishment. He was melting, his sturdy body turning to liquid, every coherent thought washed away by the slow, rhythmic cadence of Troy’s tongue. A low moan escaped him, unbidden.
“Mmm, pussy boy tastes good,” Troy grunted, and the approval, twisted as it was, sent another wave of heat through Ben.
It went on and on, a relentless, worshipping assault. Ben was just a body, a collection of raw nerves being played by a expert musician. He was panting, sweating, completely lost in the feeling, his mind a blissful, empty static.
Suddenly, the heat was gone. Troy stood up. Ben remained kneeling, bereft and trembling, feeling the cool air hit his wet, sensitized skin.
“You ain’t ready for me yet,” Troy said, his voice rough. He sounded almost impressed.
Before Ben could process the words, strong hands gripped his hips and flipped him over onto his back. His head hung off the side of the bed, the blood rushing to his temples. Troy loomed over him, his heavy cock sliding against Ben’s cheek before pressing against his lips.
“Open,” Troy commanded.
Ben did, and Troy pushed in, filling his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. Ben's throat caught minutely, his eyes watering, but he relaxed his jaw, letting Troy set the pace. He looked up, his vision blurred, at the dominant figure above him.
Troy looked down, marvelling as he fed his length deeper into the willing throat. “Yeah,” he breathed, his hips beginning a slow, relentless rhythm. “You really can take it all, can’t you?”
Troy settled into a steady, deep rhythm, his hips moving with a lazy confidence that spoke of absolute ownership. Ben’s world narrowed to the scent of Troy’s skin, the salt on his flesh, and the relentless, smooth pressure filling his throat. He focused on breathing through his nose, on relaxing his jaw, on being good.
With a soft grunt, Troy pulled out completely, leaving Ben gasping on the bed edge. He retrieved the ashtray and lit one of Ben’s pre-rolled joints, taking a long, appreciative drag. He held the smoke, then exhaled a cloud directly into Ben’s face before guiding himself back between his waiting lips. The rhythm started again, now punctuated by Troy taking slow, deep pulls from the joint.
The cannabis smoke mixed with the musky scent of sex, a hazy cocktail that made Ben’s head spin. He noticed, through watering eyes, Troy’s free hand wander to his own chest. His eyes were closed, head tilted back as he pinched and rolled his own nipple between his fingers, lost in the dual sensations. Ben filed the observation away, a piece of secret knowledge.
Troy’s breathing began to hitch, the pace of his hips becoming less controlled, more urgent. He took one final, sharp drag and stubbed out the joint and pinched hard on both nipples at once. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he drove deep, holding himself there as he pulsed, a heavy, warm release flooding Ben’s mouth. He stayed for a long moment, finally softening before sliding out.
“Been thinking about that all day,” Troy mumbled, his voice thick and spent. He stumbled to his own bed and collapsed face down, his breathing evening out into sleep within seconds.
Ben lay there, the taste settling on his tongue. He should have felt used, degraded. Instead, a profound sense of purpose warmed him from the inside. He was useful. He was wanted. He knew the logic was broken, but the feeling was undeniably, perfectly right. He finally pushed himself up, cleaned himself at the sink, put on fresh pyjamas, and slid into his own bed, a quiet contentment carrying him into sleep.
A soft weight landing on his face jolted him awake hours later. The digital clock glowed 3:30 AM. “Boy. Dick. Now.” Troy’s voice was a sleep-roughened command from the other side of the room.
Ben scrambled out of bed without a second thought. Troy was laid out naked on his back, sheets kicked off, his semi-hard cock already thickening in the dim light. “Put that clit ‘n pussy up here, boy,” he mumbled, patting the space near his hip.
It took Ben a disoriented second to parse the command. He then climbed onto the bed, lying opposite Troy so that his head was level with Troy’s groin. He leaned in, his mouth finding its familiar purpose, licking and then taking Troy into his mouth. As he worked, he felt Troy’s hand hook into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and yank them down to his knees.
Troy’s fingers, calloused and sure, found the place his mouth had been hours before, rubbing slow, gentle circles that made Ben shudder. Just as Ben took Troy deep into his throat, a new, overwhelming sensation bloomed around his own cock. Warm, wet heat enveloped him. It was Troy’s mouth.
“Mmm, nice little clit on my pussyboy,” Troy murmured around him, the vibrations shooting straight to Ben’s core.
The dual sensations were too much. The skilled, relentless pressure of Troy’s mouth on him, combined with the task of pleasuring Troy, short-circuited his brain. “Oh, god, I’m gonna…” Ben gasped, his hips twitching.
A sharp, stinging slap landed on his balls. The pain was instant and shocking, yanking him back from the edge violently. “No,” Troy stated, the word flat and absolute. But his mouth didn’t stop its work, the contrast between the command and the continued pleasure leaving Ben reeling.
Ben forced his focus back onto the cock in his mouth, redoubling his efforts, losing himself in the rhythm until he felt Troy’s body tense and the familiar, salty release filled his throat once more. “You getting some skills, boy,” Troy murmured, already rolling away and falling back into a deep sleep.
Ben pulled his pyjamas up, his own need a frantic, buzzing ache. Back in his own bed, he knew he wouldn't sleep without relief. His hand drifted to his chest, remembering Troy’s closed eyes, his quiet moans. He tentatively pinched his own nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
A jolt, sharp and electric, shot straight to his cock. He gasped, surprised by the intensity. He did it again, harder, rolling the nub, and his back arched off the mattress. It was a direct line to every nerve ending, a key he never knew he had. He explored the new territory frantically, his hips bucking into his own fist, the combined sensations overwhelming him completely. He came harder than he ever had, biting his lip to stifle the cry.
He lay panting, terrified the sound had woken Troy. But from the other bed, only the steady, untroubled rhythm of snoring answered him.
But from the other bed, only the steady, untroubled rhythm of snoring answered him.
A strange energy buzzed in Ben’s veins when his alarm chirped at 7:30. He swung his legs out of bed, feeling not used or weary, but capable and strangely bright. He moved through the quiet room with a new sense of ownership, straightening the chaos of last night's efforts an efficient precision that surprised him. He cleared the beer bottles and joint butts, folded a discarded shirt, his eyes lingering on the still-sleeping form in the other bed, the sheet tented over Troy’s morning erection, and a flush of possessive pride warmed his chest. He knew better than to touch, though. The rules were clear; he waited for the summons.
The house was a tomb, his mother and Juan long gone for the day. He showered quickly, the water stinging the faint, tender ache between his legs—a pleasant reminder. Dressed and alone in the kitchen, he thoroughly cleaned the kitchen, finishing by wiping down counters and poured his cereal in the profound silence, the only sound the crunching in his own head. The pad of soft souled shoes on linoleum made him turn.
Troy stood behind him, smelling of shower gel and cologne. Before Ben could speak, Troy’s hand was on his shoulder, turning him, and his mouth was on Ben’s. The kiss was deep and unhurried, a possessive, coffee-less claim that left Ben’s head spinning. "You keep it up, pussyboy, and we're gonna get on real well," Troy murmured against his lips, then pulled away to pour coffee into his travel mug. The grin that split Ben’s face felt like it would break his jaw, lasting long after the front door slammed shut.
At the gym, the confidence clung to him like a second skin. He re-racked weights with a crisp clang, his advice to members coming easier, his smiles feeling less forced. The world seemed sharper, the colors brighter. During his own bench press session, a familiar guy from the previous day approached, his own arms thick and corded with muscle. "Mind if I work out next to you?" he asked, his voice friendly. "Sure, of course," Ben said, genuinely happy for the company.
They fell into an easy rhythm, spotting each other, their conversation a light, effortless exchange about reps and protein. The guy—Leo, he said his name was—followed him into the locker room afterwards, their easy banter continuing as they stripped down. Leo was built like a climber, lean and tightly wound, with a dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down a flat stomach to a thick, uncut cock that rested heavily against his balls. They grabbed towels and walked toward the shower room.
Steam clouded the air, the sound of water echoing off the tiles. Leo walked into a stall to the left and, without a glance back, left the door wide open. Ben took the stall opposite, following Leo's lead and leaving his own stall open, the hot water sluicing over his shoulders. His eyes, almost of their own accord, kept drifting through the steam. He watched the water run in rivulets over Leo’s shoulders, down the groove of his spine, over the tight curves of his ass. Then he saw it: a slow, thickening change in Leo’s posture, the soft weight between his legs beginning to swell and rise.
Ben’s breath hitched. Leo made no move to touch himself, just stood under the spray, his own eyes now locked on Ben’s through the mist. The intensity in that gaze was a familiar pull, an unspoken command that bypassed all hesitation. Ben’s feet were moving before his mind could form a single thought. He stepped out of his stall, water dripping from his body, and crossed the few feet to Leo’s open door.
He didn't speak. He simply dropped to his knees on the wet tile, his hands finding Leo’s hips, and took the hard, leaking length into his mouth. He used everything Troy had forced him to learn—the rhythm, the pressure, the perfect, swallowing depth. Leo gasped, his hands slapping against the tiled wall for support. "Oh, fuck... Christ," he choked out, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.
A series of ragged groans echoed in the stall, and then Leo was pulsing down Ben’s throat, his whole body shuddering with the force of it. He slumped against the wall, panting. "God, sorry," he breathed, a dazed, embarrassed laugh in his voice. "I... I wasn't expecting that. You're... damn. If we did that more often, I’d definitely last longer."
Ben looked up, water from the shower still cascading over his face. "I look forward to it," he said, his voice calm and sure. He rose and walked back to his own shower stall, leaving Leo leaning weakly against the wall. Under the hot spray, he slowly soaped his body, the warm, satisfied glow radiating from his core. The aftertaste was just a fact, a testament to his newfound proficiency. When he returned to his locker, towelling his short hair, Leo was already gone, leaving no trace but the memory of his stunned surrender.
The echo of the shower stall seemed to follow him home, a phantom warmth clinging to his skin. He let himself into the silent house, the buzz from the gym and what followed still humming under his surface. He dropped his bag by the door and pulled out his phone. Two new messages glowed on the screen.
The first was from Troy. "Got a girl tonight. Be good PB." Ben stared at the letters. PB. It only took a second for the meaning to land: Pussyboy. A sharp, unexpected twist of disappointment lodged in his gut. He was so thrilled with this new life, this electric current running through his days, that the idea of Troy being somewhere else, focusing on someone else, felt like a power cut. But he shoved the feeling down. He wanted Troy to be happy. He typed back, "Have fun!"
The second text was from Vince. "Was it worth the effort cleaning out?" A slow smile spread across Ben's face. He thought of Troy's tongue almost worshipping his hole.
"Absolutely was," he replied.
Vince’s response was immediate. "What time do you start again tonight, then?"
"Not tonight. He's busy," Ben texted back.
"Come over. Tell me about it. You don't have to suck it."
Ben laughed, a short, genuine sound in the quiet house. "Heading right over." He grabbed his bag, then paused, his hand hovering over the contents. On impulse, he unzipped the smaller front pocket and slipped the douche inside. Be prepared, he thought, the justification vague but persistent. Especially after the gym showers.
The evening air was cool on his face as he cycled through the quiet streets. His legs pumped steadily, the familiar burn a grounding counterpoint to the whirl in his head. He replayed Troy’s text. ‘PB’. It was a claim, even in his absence. The thought should have chafed, but it only deepened the strange sense of belonging. He pedaled harder, the wind whipping past his ears, pushing the complicated feelings away until all that was left was the simple anticipation of telling the story.
Vince’s house smelled of stale coffee and vinyl records. He let Ben in, his eyes already alight with curiosity. "Well? Don't leave out the good bits." He collapsed onto his worn sofa and lit a joint, the tip flaring orange. He offered it to Ben. After a slight hesitation, Ben took it. Troy had introduced him to this, and he found he liked the way it softened the world's edges. "Well, he really has been turned," Vince chuckled companionably. He took a cautious hit, holding the smoke in his lungs before passing it back.
He started talking, the words coming easier with the weed unspooling his nerves. He told Vince everything, from the pre-rolled joints and the cooler of beer to the devastating, worshipful attention of Troy’s mouth. He described the sharp slap that held him back, the way his own body had become an instrument played by a expert musician. Vince listened, rapt, his head lolling against the couch cushions.
"Fuck, man," Vince breathed, his voice thick with smoke and awe. "That sounds... fucking amazing. I should try that."
The words were out of Ben’s mouth before he could reconsider their weight. "I could do it to you."
Vince snorted, a dismissive, jerky sound. "Yeah, right." He took another long drag. But then his eyes, glazed and thoughtful, met Ben’s. The dismissal faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine uncertainty. He held the smoke. Ben could see the idea turning over in his head, the curiosity battling with a lifetime of casual boundaries. The uncertainty slowly melted into a raw, stoned interest. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Ben said, his own pulse kicking up a notch.
Vince shrugged, a attempt at nonchalance that didn't reach his eyes. "I don't have one of those... you know. The douches we talked about."
Wordlessly, Ben leaned over, unzipped his bag, and pulled out the douche. Vince’s eyebrows shot up. "Well, shit. Okay then." Ben explained the process quickly, clinically, the way he’d learned it himself. Vince listened, then nodded and disappeared into the bathroom.
Soon after, Vince was bent over the back of the couch, his jeans and boxers pooled around his knees. Ben sat on the coffee table facing him, the room hazy and soft-focused. He leaned in, the lessons from the night before guiding him. He started not with his tongue, but with his lips, placing a soft, closed-mouth kiss on the small of Vince’s back, just above the cleft. Vince flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible jump of muscle.
Ben pulled Vince's firm cheeks apart, the hairy clefts giving away to a smooth, tight pink pucker. It wink nervously, still glistening slightly with clean water.
Ben replicated the slow, deliberate worship he’d received the night before, as best he could remember. He used the flat of his tongue first, a broad, wet stroke that made Vince gasp. He took his time, exploring the terrain without urgency, making the skin slick and sensitive. He remembered the sensation of Troy’s mouth sealing over him, the suction that had pulled a moan from his own throat. He mimicked it now, his lips forming a seal, sucking gently on the tight ring of muscle.
Vince let out a shaky breath. "Whoa." The sound was less surprise now and more dawning revelation.
Ben dove back in, his focus absolute. He used the very tip of his tongue to press and circle, a relentless, gentle pressure. He licked and sucked, his world narrowing to the taste of clean skin and the sounds Vince was making—soft, punched-out groans that grew deeper, more ragged. Vince’s hands, which had been gripping the couch cushions, went slack. His whole body seemed to melt, sinking into the furniture as a long, low moan vibrated through him. "Holy shit, Ben," he slurred, his voice a wrecked thing. "Don't... don't stop. Jesus." His hips pushed back, a feeble, involuntary thrust, his earlier casualness completely obliterated by the groaning pleasure wracking his frame.