Chapter 3: The Inquisition
The air in the room hadn’t settled. It was thick with a new, charged understanding, a tangible electricity that crackled every time one of them looked at me. Chad’s hand was still on my hip, his thumb idly stroking the strip of elastic at my waist. Darius had settled on the edge of the bed, his gaze openly traveling over my body like he was memorizing its topography. Kenji leaned against the dresser, a small, supportive smile on his lips.
“So,” Chad said, breaking the quiet. His voice was conversational, but his green eyes were sharp, analytical. “How long?”
“How long what?” I managed, my voice still unsteady.
“All of it. The gay thing. The thong thing. The…” He gestured vaguely at me, at the room. “This.”
I took a breath, the inhale shuddering. The confession had started; there was no sealing it back in the bottle. “I knew I liked guys in, like, eighth grade. The thongs… started about a year ago. Saw one online. Bought it as a joke. Wore it. And it just… wasn’t a joke.”
Darius chuckled, a warm, low sound. “A joke that unlocks your true purpose. I respect it.”
“Where do you even buy them?” Kenji asked, his tone genuinely curious, without a trace of mockery. “I mean, you’re not exactly shopping at the mall.”
“Online, mostly,” I said, feeling a bizarre normalcy descend as I answered their practical questions. “Some specialty stores downtown. You’d be surprised. They make them for… for bodies like mine.”
Chad’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband at my hip, just a fraction, the rough pad of his finger brushing my skin. I shuddered. “And have you? You know. Used this… purpose?”
The question hung there. My face flamed again, but it was a different kind of heat now—mixed with pride. “Yeah. I have.”
“Men?” Darius pressed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“Yeah.”
“And they… like what they see?” Chad’s hand slid around to the small of my back, possessive.
“They haven’t complained,” I mumbled, then looked up, a spark of defiance catching. “They usually come back.”
A collective, appreciative noise rose from them. It wasn’t jealousy. It was the same sound they made when one of us nailed a perfect lift or a crazy shot. Team approval.
“Do you have stuff?” Kenji asked softly. “Like, here?”
The question was a key turning in a lock deep inside me. I glanced at the bed, then at them. Chad read my look and removed his hand, taking a half-step back, giving me space. I knelt, the carpet rough against my knees, and reached under the bed frame. My fingers closed around the familiar, heavy silicone.
I pulled it out and placed it on the comforter.
It was massive, a deep purple, veined and detailed with a frightening anatomical accuracy. It was, without a doubt, the most obscene thing in the room.
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Darius let out a breath that was almost a cough. “Holy. Shit. Blake.” He blinked, then a wide, incredulous grin spread across his face. “You weren’t kidding about being a size queen. That thing is a weapon. You take all of that?”
The directness should have flattened me. Instead, it inflated something in my chest. “Not easily,” I admitted, a shaky laugh escaping me. “But I’m working on it. It’s… part of the training.”
Chad picked it up, hefting its weight. He looked from the dildo to my ass, then back again, his expression one of pure athletic assessment. “Respect. That’s a fucking goal right there. Commitment.”
Kenji simply nodded, as if this final piece completed a puzzle he’d been studying. “It makes sense. The dedication. It’s the same as the gym for you. Just… a different set of muscles.”
The normalcy of it all was the most surreal part. We were discussing my dildo with the same focus we gave to protein shakes and split times.
That’s when the voice boomed, shattering the intimate bubble.
“BLAKE! DINNER!”
My dad’s voice, hearty and booming, traveled up the stairs and under my door. The world crashed back in—the suburban house, the backyard barbecue, the bright, oblivious sunlight.
Panic, cold and immediate, seized me. I snatched the dildo from Chad’s hands and shoved it back under the bed as if it were on fire. I scrambled to my feet, my eyes darting wildly around the room for my sweats. They were in a heap by the door where Darius had tossed them.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hissed, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The empowering exposure of a moment ago transformed into a catastrophic liability. I couldn’t go downstairs like this. I couldn’t face my dad and brother in nothing but a black thong.
Chad watched my frenzy, his expression unreadable. Darius was trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking silently. Kenji moved, picking up my sweats and hoodie.
“Here,” Kenji said, his voice calm.
I reached for them, gratitude flooding me. But Chad’s arm shot out, blocking my path. He looked at Kenji, then back at me.
“Wait,” Chad said.
“Wait? Chad, my dad is—“
“I know. But think.” Chad’s voice was low, commanding. “You just spent an hour telling us—showing us—that you live for this. For the risk. For the chance of being seen. For the objectification. Going downstairs right now, putting all your boring clothes back on, that’s hiding. That’s going back in the closet you just begged us to let you out of.”
His words were a physical barrier. I stared at him, paralyzed.
“He’s got a point,” Darius said, the mischief back in his eyes, sharpened by a new, conspiratorial edge. “This is, like, your first real test. Field conditions. You wanna be a thong-wearing slut in theory, or in practice?”
“It’s my dad,” I whispered, horror and a terrifying, itching thrill warring in my gut.
“So wear the sweats,” Kenji offered, still holding them out, the mediator. “There’s no shame in choosing your moments, Blake.”
Chad took the sweats from Kenji’s hands. He didn’t give them to me. He held them up, looking at the gray fabric. “These are the enemy,” he said, simple and final. “These are what you’re retiring. Right? That was the whole point. You don’t want to wear these anymore. You want to wear those.” He nodded toward the open drawer, a rainbow of silken fabrics.
“BLAKE! MEAT’S ALMOST READY! GET THE BOYS AND COME ON DOWN!” Another shout, followed by the distant slam of the screen door.
The sound was a bucket of ice water. My bravado evaporated, leaving a cold, naked dread. “I can’t,” I breathed, the words barely audible. I looked from Chad’s unyielding face to my discarded clothes in his hands. “He’ll see me. He’ll know. He’ll… he’ll think I’m some disgusting freak trying to… to come onto him or something.”
The terror was specific and sour in my mouth. This wasn’t about abstract exposure anymore. This was my father, the man who taught me to throw a spiral, whose laugh shook the whole house.
Darius tilted his head, a sly, knowing glint in his eye. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
The question hung in the air, so absurd it stole my breath. I just stared at him.
“Think about it,” Darius continued, his voice a playful, insidious slide. “We know what you are now, Blake. We know you’re a slut. A total whore.” He said it without malice, as a simple, established fact. “A guy-crazy, dick-hungry whore. You’ve basically said it yourself. You want every man to look at you and know exactly what you’re for. So be honest with yourself, for once.”
He took a step closer. “A whore like you? You’re so lustful, so guy-crazy, you wouldn’t even have the willpower to turn down your own father if he made a move. You know it’s true. You’d let any man fuck you. Any. Man.”
His words weren’t a question. They were a verdict, delivered with a mischievous smile that made the truth of them carve into me like a blade.
The realization didn’t dawn—it detonated.
It flooded me, a wave of such profound, gutting humiliation that my legs nearly buckled. He was right. In the secret, shameful core of me, where my most honest fantasies lived, the taboo held no power. Only opportunity. The image formed unbidden: my dad’s rough hands, so different from Chad’s, on my hips. My older brother’s smirk shifting from teasing to desire.
It was the most perverted truth I had ever confronted.
A broken sob ripped from my throat. I covered my face with my hands, hot tears seeping between my fingers. “Oh, god,” I choked out, the words mangled by crying. “Oh my god.”
“Hey,” Kenji said, his voice cutting through my panic, firm yet gentle. He moved Chad aside and put his hands on my trembling shoulders. “Blake. Look at me.”
I couldn’t.
He gently pried my hands from my face. His dark eyes were pools of unwavering calm. “Your dad loves you. More than anything. You hear me? Nothing you are, nothing you do, is ever going to change that.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down into my beard. “He won’t… he can’t love this.”
“Why not?” Kenji asked, his thumbs stroking my collarbones. “This is you. This is who you worked so hard to become. You’re sexy. You’re sexual. You’re proud of your body and what you want. He deserves to know that. He deserves to see his son, totally confident, owning exactly who he is. He should be proud of you for having the guts to be this much of a slut.”
His reframing was a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea. It twisted the humiliation into something resembling honor. My crying slowed to hitched breaths, the chaos inside me settling into a single, terrifying directive.
They were right. All of them.
If I covered up now, I was admitting the truth was something to hide. If I went down there dressed like a normal person, I was lying to my father, and more importantly, I was closing a door forever. He would never know. And if he didn’t know, truly know what kind of available, hungry pervert lived under his roof, then he would never, ever even think about fucking me.
The logic was insane. It was also inescapable.
Chad watched the realization solidify on my face. He dropped my sweats and hoodie back onto the floor, then nudged them with his foot toward the corner, a final dismissal. “So?” he said.
I looked at my three best friends. Their expressions were a spectrum—Chad’s challenging dominance, Darius’s amused complicity, Kenji’s nurturing encouragement. A hot surge of resentment flashed through me. They were bulldozing me, cornering me with my own confession, taking the choice and shoving it down my throat.
The resentment dissolved as quickly as it came, replaced by a dizzying, grateful relief. They were doing it for me. Because I was too scared to do it myself. They were making my deepest, most shameful desire a mandatory fact.
My emotional state was a car crash of contradictions—humiliation fueling a perverse pride, terror sparking a low, persistent horniness that hummed beneath the panic. I was offended and profoundly grateful, exposed and yet, for the first time, completely seen.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, smearing the tears. I took a deep, ragged breath that expanded my bare, hairy chest. I looked at the closed bedroom door, knowing the staircase, the living room, the back door, the sunny yard full of people lay beyond it.
“Okay,” I whispered.
The word was barely air, but it changed everything.
“Okay,” I said again, stronger.
I didn’t move toward my clothes. I stood my ground in the center of the room, in nothing but the black thong that defined me. I ran my own hands over my body, a final check, a personal confirmation. The muscle was solid under my touch. The hair was coarse. The strap of the thong was a familiar, welcome pressure between my ass cheeks, which I knew were full and rounded and on blatant display.
I was doing this.
I turned from them and walked to the door. My hand hovered over the knob. The wood felt solid, real. This was the threshold. On this side, the secret was safe, contained, a fantasy. On the other side, it would become my life.
I glanced back at them over my shoulder. Chad gave me a single, firm nod. Darius winked. Kenji offered a small, reassuring smile.
I turned the knob. The door opened with a soft click. The hum of the house, the distant murmur of voices from the backyard, rushed in to meet me. I stepped out onto the landing, the cool air of the hallway raising goosebumps on my skin.
I didn’t close the door behind me. Let them watch. The first step down the staircase creaked under my weight.