Chapter 1: Waking Up Owned
The first thing he felt was the ache. A deep, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from the very core of his muscles, a pleasant-sore stiffness that spoke of exertion. Then came the sensory details: the impossibly smooth slide of silk against his bare skin, the heavy weight of an arm thrown across his waist, the warm puff of breath against the back of his neck.
Dunk opened his eyes to the muted gray light of a massive room. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a hazy city skyline, the morning sun struggling through high cloud cover. He was in the center of a vast four-poster bed, the sheets a tangled ruin of charcoal gray silk.
Memory returned in a hot, sickening rush.
Not just the drinks. Not just the laughably expensive weed. It was the way Mick had looked at him over the rim of his glass, those pale green eyes glittering with a challenge Dunk had been too tipsy to properly decode. It was Luke’s quiet, assessing stare, like he was calculating tensile strength. The joking dare that hadn’t sounded like a joke at all. You’re always so fucking tense, Dunk. We could help with that.
He’d laughed it off. Another drink appeared in his hand. The city lights far below had spun gently.
Now, a hand splayed possessively over his stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of his boxers—no, not his boxers. They were someone else’s, a loose pair of black silk. Mick’s. The realization sent a fresh jolt through him.
“Mmm. You’re awake.” The voice was a sleep-rough murmur against his shoulder blade. Mick. His best friend Win’s little brother. The arm around his waist tightened, pulling Dunk back flush against a lean, hard body. He could feel Mick, fully naked, pressed against him.
From his other side, a movement. Luke propped himself up on one elbow, his dark hair messy, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. His free hand came to rest on Dunk’s hip, his thumb stroking over a pronounced, tender ache there. A bruise. Dunk remembered the bite of fingers there, holding him in place.
“Look at him,” Luke said, his voice low. “All those muscles, all that nice-guy bullshit, and here he is.”
Dunk’s throat was desert-dry. “Last night…” he started, but the words crumbled. He remembered the blur, the shocking heat of their mouths on his skin, the dizzying feeling of being outnumbered and overpowered in the most exquisite way. He remembered begging. Please, stop— but arching his back into their hands, his voice breaking on a moan that sounded nothing like refusal.
“Last night you finally shut the fuck up and took what you wanted,” Mick whispered, nipping at his shoulder. “Well. What we wanted. Same difference.”
Luke’s fingers trailed from the bruise on Dunk’s hip, tracing a path down the line of his thigh. “He’s still trying to process it. That’s cute.” His touch was deliberate, claiming. “Remember how you cried when I first pushed into you? Those big, desperate sounds.”
A flush of pure humiliation burned Dunk’s face and chest, but it was entangled with a sharp coil of arousal that pulled tight in his gut. He did remember. The stretch, the burn, the shocking fullness as Luke took him from behind while Mick watched, then urged Dunk’s mouth onto his own cock. The overwhelming cascade of sensation that had torn away every last pretense of control.
“I have to go,” Dunk mumbled, making a weak attempt to sit up. The bodies beside him didn’t yield. They were both taller than him, lean but strong, and they moved with the coordinated ease of predators used to sharing prey.
“You’re not running this time,” Mick said, his grin audible. He shifted, rolling Dunk onto his back with unsettling ease. The silk sheet pooled around Dunk’s waist. The morning light laid bare the evidence on his toned, athletic chest: love bites blooming purple at his collarbones, a red scrape from stubble along his ribs, the faint, sticky trails of dried come.
Luke loomed over his other side, caging him in. “Running would be rude. After you came so hard for us you almost blacked out.” He leaned down, his breath hot on Dunk’s ear. “Say thank you.”
Dunk squeezed his eyes shut. This was a mistake. A colossal, life-altering fuck-up. Rob would murder him. Everyone on campus thought he was the straight-arrow, the reliable one. The nice guy.
But his cock, thick and heavy, was already half-hard against his thigh, stirred by the memory and the overwhelming presence of them.
“Fuck you,” Dunk breathed, without any conviction.
Mick laughed, a bright, delighted sound. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the silk boxers and tugged them down in one smooth motion. Dunk’s cock sprang free, fully erect now, betrayal written in aching flesh.
“See?” Mick said, nodding at it. “He doesn’t want to go. He wants a repeat.” He wrapped his hand around Dunk’s length, his grip firm and knowing, giving a slow, torturous pump. Dunk’s hips jerked involuntarily, a helpless thrust into that friction.
Luke’s mouth was on his then, swallowing his gasp. The kiss was deep and invasive, all tongue and teeth. Luke tasted like mint and something darker, corrupt. He pulled back, his eyes locked on Dunk’s. “You liked being used. Admit it. You liked being our little toy for the night.”
Dunk shook his head, but the motion was weak. Mick’s hand was moving faster, his thumb smearing pre-come over the head of Dunk’s cock in slick, maddening circles.
“Tell him,” Mick urged, his own arousal pressing against Dunk’s hip. “Or I stop.”
Panic and desire warred. The need for release, the shameful, addictive need to please them, won. “I liked it,” Dunk whispered, the words scraping his throat raw.
“Louder.”
“I liked it!” The shout was torn from him, echoing faintly in the vast room.
“Good boy,” Luke purred. He moved down the bed, his shoulders pushing Dunk’s thighs apart. Dunk knew what was coming, remembered the blistering, shocking heat of Luke’s mouth on him last night. But Luke just blew a cool stream of air over his leaking cock, watching it twitch. He didn’t touch.
Mick released him, shifting instead to kneel over Dunk’s chest. The head of Mick’s cock, flushed and wet, hovered just inches from Dunk’s lips. “You know what to do. And no teeth, or Luke fucks you raw again. No lube this time.”
The threat was a cold thrill in Dunk’s belly. He opened his mouth, and Mick pushed in, not waiting, fucking into the wet heat with shallow, controlled thrusts. Dunk gagged, tears springing to his eyes as he struggled to accommodate the length. The salt-bitter taste filled his senses.
Below, Luke finally took him into his mouth, a deep, vacuum-tight swallow that made Dunk scream around Mick’s cock. The dual sensations were too much, a feedback loop of overwhelming degradation and pleasure. He was pinned, owned, servicing one while being serviced by the other.
Mick fucked his mouth with increasing urgency, his fingers tangling in Dunk’s short hair, holding him still. “That’s it. Take it. You’re so much prettier when you’re not talking.”
Luke was a demon, his tongue working relentlessly, his hollowed cheeks creating a suction that pulled Dunk toward the edge with terrifying speed. Dunk’s body was a bowstring, pulled taut, every muscle trembling.
Mick came first, with a sharp cry, pumping hot and bitter down Dunk’s throat. Dunk had no choice but to swallow, the act a final, profound surrender.
As Mick pulled out, gasping, Luke released Dunk’s cock with a wet pop. He moved up Dunk’s body in a swift, fluid motion. His eyes were wild, hungry. He spat into his own hand, slicking himself, and without ceremony, notched his cock against Dunk’s used, still-tender entrance.
“Look at me,” Luke commanded, and Dunk, dazed and compliant, obeyed.
Luke pushed in. The burn was immediate, sharper than last night, the friction almost painful without preparation. Dunk cried out, his back arching.
“You’re ours now,” Luke grunted, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. “You think this is a one-time thing? You think we’re done with you?” Each word was punctuated by a deep, claiming thrust. “We own this. We own you when we want.”
The pain began to blur, transforming into a white-hot, mind-erasing pleasure. Dunk clutched at the silk sheets, his knuckles white. He was coming apart, his orgasm ripped from him with violent, helpless intensity as Luke hammered into him. He came in stripes across his own stomach, his vision whiting out, a broken, sobbing noise the only sound he could make.
Luke followed soon after, his rhythm faltering, a low groan escaping him as he emptied himself deep inside Dunk, his body shuddering.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths. Luke collapsed beside him, sticky and spent. Mick stretched out like a cat, trailing a lazy finger through the mess on Dunk’s abdomen.
Dunk lay between them, utterly ruined, the physical evidence of their claim seeping from his body. The soreness was bone-deep now, a permanent tattoo of the night. The city outside the windows went about its morning, oblivious.
Mick rolled onto his side, his grin back in place, sharp and victorious. He traced the bite mark on Dunk’s shoulder. “Practice is at four, right? You should probably get cleaned up.” He said it like it was a minor detail, like they hadn’t just rewritten every rule of Dunk’s life.
The casual words were the most terrifying part. This wasn’t over. It was just the first move. And as Dunk stared at the ceiling, the taste of them still in his mouth, the feel of them still splitting him open, he knew with a cold, certain dread that he had no idea how to make it stop. Or if, somewhere in the wreckage of himself, he even wanted to.