Ryan POV

The following week felt like floating on a cloud of clean, righteous air. Ryan went to work, hit the gym with renewed vigour, and came home each night to Jack, who’d already be starting dinner, the flat filled with the smell of garlic and herbs. They’d eat, cuddle on the sofa, fuck with a tender, reclaiming passion. Ryan felt empowered. He’d stood up to Tim. He’d chosen his life, his man. The guilt was a distant whisper, easily drowned out by Jack’s laughter.

Mid-week, his phone buzzed on his desk. A message from Tim. Ryan’s heart gave a nasty lurch, but he opened it.

Tim: Look, Ry. I’m sorry. I was out of order. I don’t want to lose you as a friend. I’ll back off. Respect your boundaries.

Ryan stared at it, a wave of relief so profound it left him dizzy. Maybe he means it.

Tim: The boys on the team want to throw you and Jack a proper engagement party. After the game this Saturday. My way of making it up to you both.

The relief curdled. A party. A trap. He knew that manipulative cunt. He typed back, fingers flying.

Ryan: That’s really not necessary.

The reply was instant.

Tim: The lads insist. Whole team’s in. Can’t say no to your boys, Ry.

Ryan chewed his lip. He felt strong. He could resist. He could go, be polite, and leave with Jack. He texted back.

Ryan: I’ll have to check with Jack. We might have plans.

He told Jack over dinner. “Tim texted. The team wants to throw us an engagement party after the match on Saturday.”

Jack’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Ryan saw it, the subtle tension in his lean shoulders, the way his sharp features tightened for a split second before smoothing into a neutral mask. A knot of dread formed in Ryan’s own stomach, mirroring the one he saw tighten in Jack’s.

“Oh,” Jack said, his voice carefully light. “That’s… nice of them.”

“We don’t have to go,” Ryan said quickly, reaching for Jack’s hand. “We can say we’ve got plans.”

Jack looked down at their joined hands, his thumb stroking Ryan’s knuckles. Ryan could almost see the calculations whirring behind his intelligent eyes. Finding a reason to say no. But what reason? ‘My boyfriend’s teammate, who’s been fucking him, wants to throw us a party and I’m scared’?

“No,” Jack said finally, a firmness in his tone that surprised Ryan. He looked up, a determined smile on his face. “It’s sweet of them. We should go. Celebrate with your team. It’ll be fun.”

The knot in Ryan’s stomach didn’t loosen. He texted Tim a simple ‘Yes.’

The reply was a single word. Tim: Sweet.

A follow-up came later that night.

Tim: Sorted. Booked the back room at The Two Brewers for a couple hours before it opens to the public. Team’s chipping in. Congrats, mate.

Ryan showed Jack. “Wow. They’ve gone all out.”

Jack’s smile was tight. “Yeah. All out.”

Saturday morning dawned bright. Ryan woke first, the London sun slicing through a gap in the curtains. He rolled over, gazing at Jack’s sleeping face—the dark lashes, the parted lips, the lean lines of his nerdy, beautiful boyfriend. Fiancé. He leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep.

Jack stirred, murmuring into the kiss, and Ryan felt him hardening against his thigh through their boxers. Perfect. Ryan’s hand slid down, cupping Jack’s cock through the soft cotton, feeling it jump and thicken. He slipped under the duvet, taking Jack’s length into his mouth with a hungry, wet suck.

“Fuck, Ry…” Jack gasped, his hands tangling in Ryan’s hair, hips lifting off the mattress.

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Jack POV
The rain fell in relentless, cold sheets, turning the rugby pitch at Clapham Common into a churning brown bog. The match was a brutal, slipping spectacle of mud and grunting effort. Jack stood under a small pop-up canopy, a proud smile fixed on his face, his parents on one side and Ryan’s on the other. They’d all travelled down to celebrate the engagement, a fact that filled Jack with a warm, solid certainty.

The makeshift shelter did little to keep the biting wind and rain at bay, but Jack didn’t care. He was too busy watching Ryan on the field, his eyes glued to his fiancé’s athletic form as he charged through the mud, his muscular legs and firm arse showcased perfectly in his soaked rugby shorts. Jack felt a surge of pride—and a flicker of arousal—as Ryan tackled an opponent with a fierce determination that sent a spray of mud flying through the air.

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Ryan's POV

The first grey light of a London morning filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled duvet. Ryan woke with a start, a familiar, heavy warmth pressed along his back. Jack. Still asleep, his breathing deep and even, one arm thrown possessively over Ryan’s waist. The memory of last night slammed into him with the force of a tackle.

Jesus Christ.

Jack had never fucked him like that. Not in three years. It wasn’t just the rough, urgent taking against the wall—though that had been a fucking revelation—it was the words. The growling dominance. ‘This is my arse. You’re my slut.’ A shiver, equal parts residual arousal and stunned disbelief, ran down Ryan’s spine. He’d come so hard his vision had whited out, screaming Jack’s name into the plaster, his own cum painting the wall as Jack filled him up. It was raw. It was possessive. It was… everything he’d been secretly craving from Tim, but laced with a love so fierce it felt like a brand.

He lay perfectly still, letting the sensation of Jack’s arm anchor him. The guilt, which usually sat like a cold stone in his gut the morning after a secret meet, was different today. It was sharper, more corrosive. Because last night, Jack had given him a glimpse of something. A version of their relationship that wasn’t just comfortable, loving, and safe. It was hungry. And Ryan had fucking devoured it.

Carefully, he extricated himself, slipping out from under Jack’s arm. Jack murmured in his sleep, his brow furrowing, then settled. Ryan padded naked to the en-suite, closing the door softly before flicking on the light. He avoided his own reflection at first, going straight to the toilet. As he pissed, his eyes drifted down his own body. The faint, purpling marks on his hips from Jack’s gripping fingers. A thrill, hot and immediate, shot through him. He marked me. He fucking claimed me.

He finished and finally looked in the mirror. His hazel eyes were wide, a little haunted. He looked… well-fucked. Truly. Not just the hollowed-out, used feeling Tim left him with, but a deep, muscular satisfaction. His arse clenched instinctively, remembering the brutal, perfect stretch. Jack. His fiancé.

Fiancé.

The word echoed, and with it came the cold splash of reality. He had a phone full of messages from last night he’d ignored. With a sinking feeling, he retrieved his mobile from the charger on the bedside table, glancing at Jack’s peaceful face before retreating to the living room.

The screen lit up. Notifications from the team group chat, a few memes. And then, Tim.

Tim (00:47): Where’d you disappear to, Ry? Party’s just getting good.

Tim (01:12): Jack feeling better? Bring him back. We’ve got a bottle with your name on it.

Tim (01:45): You’re really going to leave me hanging like this? After that little show you put on at dinner? My balls are fucking blue.

Tim (02:18): Don’t make me come find you, you cock-teasing slut.

Ryan’s throat tightened. The tone shifted from playful to possessive to threatening in the space of a few hours. He could picture Tim’s handsome face, the dark eyes growing colder with each unanswered text. He could feel the phantom grip in his hair, the taste of Tim’s cock on the back of his tongue. A traitorous pulse of heat flickered in his groin. No. He squeezed his eyes shut.

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His thumb hovered over the trackpad. He hit play.

The grainy, shaky footage filled the screen. Ryan, on his knees between Tim and James. The sounds were the worst part—the wet, slapping noises, the guttural groans, the filthy, laughing taunts. Jack’s cock, traitorous and thick, strained against the fly of his jeans. His hand trembled as he reached for the drawer beside his desk, where he’d stashed Ryan’s crusty briefs from the anniversary dinner.

He pulled them out, the stale scent of dried cum and sweat hitting him like a punch to the gut. The crotch was stiff, coated with Tim’s dried seed mingling with Ryan’s musky scent. Jack held them to his face, inhaling deeply, the mixture of betrayal and arousal coiling in his stomach. He gagged, bile rising in his throat, but his cock twitched violently, as if mocking him.

He unzipped his jeans slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen, and wrapped his hand around his hard length. As he worked himself, he pressed the briefs to his face again, licking the crusted fabric, the bitterness of Tim’s cum mixing with Ryan’s familiar taste. A low groan escaped his lips, torn between disgust and insatiable desire.

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A smile touched Ryan’s lips, then froze. Next to Jack’s pillow was a small, black gift box, tied with a slender silver ribbon.

What’s that?

His heart did a slow, sickening roll in his chest. He sat up, the duvet pooling around his waist. He reached for the box, his fingers clumsy. He lifted the lid. Nestled in crisp white tissue paper was a wallet. Sleek, black leather, the iconic interlocking G’s gleaming subtly in the morning light. Gucci. The one he’d pointed out in the window of Selfridges months ago, sighing about how beautiful it was but how he’d never spend that on himself.

Beneath it was a card. He opened it with trembling hands.

Happy Anniversary, my love. Three amazing years with you. Here’s to a million more. All my love, Jack. x

The words blurred. Holy fuck. The date. September 24th. Their anniversary. He’d been so wrapped up in the seedy, thrilling chaos of Tim and James and Peter, in the gnawing hunger and the subsequent guilt, he’d completely fucking forgotten.

The shame hit him like a physical blow to the gut. It was a cold, dense flood, washing away the last remnants of his morning hardness, leaving him hollow and nauseous. He was the shittiest boyfriend in the history of boyfriends. Jack, thoughtful, loving, generous Jack, had remembered. Had bought him an obscenely expensive gift. And Ryan? Ryan had spent the last year getting his holes wrecked by his teammate and anyone else Tim invited to the party.

The shower cut off. Ryan quickly swiped at his eyes, but the tears were already welling, hot and unstoppable. They weren’t tears of happiness, they were tears of pure, undiluted fucking shame. The bathroom door opened, steam billowing out, and Jack emerged, a towel slung low around his hips, his lean body glistening, his dark hair damp.

“Morning, babe,” Jack said, his face lighting up when he saw Ryan holding the box. “Oh, you found it! Do you like it?” He crossed the room, his expression so open, so full of hopeful affection it was like a knife twisting in Ryan’s heart.

Ryan looked up at him, the tears spilling over. “Jack… I…”

Jack’s smile softened. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand coming up to cup Ryan’s cheek. “Aw, babe. I’m glad you like it. Don’t cry.”

He thinks I’m happy. The lie was so profound it choked him. Ryan surged forward, wrapping his arms around Jack’s damp torso, burying his face in his neck. The clean, citrus smell of Jack’s shower gel was a brutal contrast to the remembered stench of sweat, spit, and cum from the courtyard. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into Jack’s skin, his voice thick.

Jack pulled back, confused. “Sorry? For what?”

“I forgot,” Ryan blurted, the words tearing out of him. “I totally fucking forgot it was our anniversary. I didn’t get you anything. I feel like such shit. The worst. I’m so sorry, Jack.”

For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in Jack’s eyes. Something dark and knowing. But it was gone so fast Ryan was sure he’d imagined it, replaced by pure, soothing warmth. Jack leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of lips. “Ryan, stop. I don’t need anything. I have you. That’s all I need. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

Each word was a nail in Ryan’s coffin of guilt. He kissed Jack back desperately, trying to pour every ounce of his love, his regret, into it. I love you, I love you, I’m so fucked up, but I love you.

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The smell of Jack’s shampoo was the first thing that registered. Clean, citrusy, familiar. It filled Ryan’s nose as he lay perfectly still in the soft Sunday morning light, one arm draped over his boyfriend’s lean, sleeping form. Jack’s back was warm against his chest, his breathing deep and even. A perfect, peaceful moment.

Ryan’s cock, trapped between his own stomach and Jack's back, was already a thick, throbbing rod of iron.

The memories didn’t flood back—they detonated. Not as a coherent narrative, but as a series of brutal, exquisite sensory flashes that made his whole body clench.

The cold, rough brick scraping his cheek. The hot, animalistic grunt from Peter as he bottomed out. The overwhelming, stretching fullness of two cocks—no, three, James’s in his throat—violating him at once. The slap of sweaty flesh against his arse. The taste of pre-cum and spit. The degrading words, hissed in his ear like a prayer: cheating slut, worthless hole, dumb slag.*

A violent shiver, pure electric pleasure, ran from the base of his skull all the way down his spine and pooled in his groin. He had to bite his own lip to stop a groan. He was painfully, gloriously hard. The guilt was there, a dull, familiar ache in his gut, but it was drowned out, obliterated, by the sheer, raw fucking heat of the memory. He’d been used. Like a piece of meat. A convenience. A set of warm, tight holes for their pleasure. And he’d loved every fucking second of it.

He carefully extricated himself from the bed, his aching muscles protesting. Every twinge in his shoulders, every sore spot on his hips and arse, was a filthy trophy. He padded naked to the ensuite, closing the door softly before flicking on the light. He avoided his own eyes in the mirror for a moment, instead looking at his body. The evidence was faint but there if you knew where to look. A faint red mark on his hip from where Peter had gripped him. A slight tenderness near his tailbone.

He finally met his own hazel-eyed gaze. What the fuck is wrong with you? The question was old, tired. He had no answer. Only need.

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Jack sat at the small table, his hands wrapped around a cold mug of tea. His head throbbed with a hangover that was more emotional than physical. The images from the garage played on a relentless, filthy loop behind his eyes. Tim’s cock. James’s grin. Ryan’s face, painted white. And his own hand, moving in the dark.

His eyes were fixed on Ryan’s back. Ryan stood by the kettle, wearing nothing but a pair of tight, white cotton briefs. The fabric clung to the perfect, muscular swell of his arse like a second skin, each cheek defined, the cleft shadowed and tempting. He hummed softly, waiting for the boil. The same way he did every Sunday.

For a whole fucking year, Jack thought, the words a silent scream in his skull. A year of this. A year of him coming home to me, smelling of their sweat, Tim's cum. A year of kissing me with that mouth.

Ryan’s ability to compartmentalise was nothing short of astonishing. There was no guilt in the line of his shoulders, no remorse in the casual way he scratched his stomach. He was just Ryan. His Ryan. The man who kissed him goodbye, who cuddled him during bad telly, who said ‘I love you’ with a conviction that had never once felt like a lie until last night.

Jack didn’t recognise the creature he’d seen on its knees, begging for cock, screaming that he was a cheating slut. That was some other Ryan. A Ryan that existed in the dark, fueled by beer and betrayal and a need so deep it terrified Jack. But which one was real? The loving boyfriend by the kettle, or the desperate whore in the garage?

He knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that he didn’t want to break up. The thought of losing Ryan, of this flat being empty, of coming home to silence… it was a deeper void than the betrayal. He loved him. A stupid, clueless, lovesick idiot’s love. And Ryan loved him. He’d said it, even with Tim’s cock in his mouth. ‘I still love him.’ That had to mean something, didn’t it?

Ryan turned, two mugs in his hands. He smiled, a warm, easy smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes. “You look rough, babe. That tequila really did a number on you last night.” He set a fresh mug down in front of Jack, then leaned in and kissed him, deep and passionate. His tongue swept into Jack’s mouth, claiming it.

Jack’s body reacted on instinct, a surge of warmth and want that warred violently with the memory of that same tongue licking Tim’s shaft clean. He kissed back, his hands coming up to grip Ryan’s biceps, feeling the solid, familiar muscle. It was a perfect kiss. A loving kiss. It tasted of toothpaste and tea and a lie so profound Jack felt dizzy.

“Love you,” Ryan murmured against his lips, pulling back and ruffling Jack’s hair.

“Love you too,” Jack heard himself say, the words automatic. He decided, right then, to take it day by day. To live in the lie, because the truth was a monster he couldn’t face.

*

The next after-party was at James’s place, a shared house in Brixton with a decent-sized courtyard out back. The energy was the same—loud, boozy, aggressively masculine. But Jack’s internal world was a fortress of cold, unassuming observation.

He accepted the first beer from Tim with a nod. “Cheers, mate.”

“No worries, Jack. Go easy, yeah?” Tim said, his dark eyes glinting with a secret amusement.

Jack took a sip, letting the bitter fizz hit his tongue. He waited for his moment. When Tim was pulled into a debate about a referee’s call, Jack casually turned, pretending to examine a poster on the wall, and poured three-quarters of the bottle into a large, thirsty-looking fern in a pot by the door.

He repeated the ritual with a vodka mixer someone handed him, and then with a shot of something amber that James pushed into his hand. “Get this down you, Burrows! Hair of the dog!”

By the third ‘drink’, his system was mostly clean, but he began his performance. He let his words slur, just a little. He wobbled on his feet, grabbing the back of a chair for support. He let his eyes go slightly unfocused.

He saw the exact moment James noticed. The blonde man’s gaze cut across the crowded room, found Tim, and a slow, shared smirk passed between them. A smirk of conspiracy. Of ownership.

James weaved through the bodies, his expression one of exaggerated concern. “Aww, mate. You’re looking proper fucked. C’mon, let’s get you horizontal.” He slung an arm around Jack’s shoulders. The touch was repulsive.

Jack leaned into it, letting his body go heavy. “M’fine… jus’ need… air…”

“You need a bed, is what you need,” James said loudly. He glanced over at Ryan, who was watching, his smile faltering. “Ry! Your boy’s about to kiss the floor!”

Ryan was at his side in seconds, his face a mask of genuine-looking worry. “Jack? Shit, babe.” He looked up at Tim, who had joined them. How many drinks did you give him?

Tim shrugged, all innocence. “Just what he was drinking. He’s a lightweight, you know that.”

“He’s never collapsed like this before,” Ryan hissed, his voice low but sharp with an anger that surprised Jack. Was it real? Or part of the act?

Together, Ryan and Tim hauled Jack up, each taking a shoulder. Jack let his head loll, his feet dragging as they half-carried, half-walked him through a hallway and into a small, messy bedroom. They dumped him unceremoniously onto a single bed that smelled of stale laundry and cheap aftershave.

Jack kept his breathing deep and even, his eyes shut to slits. Ryan’s hand was on his forehead. “Jack? Can you hear me?”

He didn’t respond.

He heard Ryan step away, his voice a furious whisper. “For fuck’s sake, Tim. How much did you give him? This is getting out of hand. We could really be doing damage. I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

“He’ll be fine,” Tim’s voice was a low, dismissive rumble. “Trust me. He’ll sleep it off.”

“Trust you?” Ryan’s laugh was brittle. “This is mental.”

There was a shift in the air. Jack risked opening his eye a fraction. He saw Tim move into Ryan’s space, crowding him against the wall. Ryan put a hand on Tim’s chest to push him away, but the push was weak. Tim captured his wrist, then leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was a hungry, possessive, silencing kiss. Ryan’s protest melted into a muffled groan, his free hand coming up to clutch at Tim’s shirt.

The door opened. James stood there, leaning against the frame, one hand idly rubbing the prominent bulge in his jeans. “Everything alright in here? How’s the patient?”

Ryan broke the kiss, breathing heavily. He looked from Tim to James, his expression torn. “He’s out. Tim’s given him too much.”

“He’s fine,” Tim repeated, his thumb stroking Ryan’s lower lip. “C’mon. Let’s go back to the party. James can check on him every hour.”

James nodded, his eyes locked on Ryan’s flushed face. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll keep an eye on him.” He paused, his grin turning wicked. “I want in again, though. Like last week.”

Tim shot him a warning look. “Last week was a one-off.”

“Nah, mate,” James said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge. “I think it’s permanent. If you want my silence.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “Fuck, Tim. This is getting too risky.”

“What choice do we have?” Tim muttered, his gaze locked on James in a silent battle of wills. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll grab you when we’re ready. But not now. Too many people. Wait ‘til it dies down.”

They filed out, leaving Jack alone in the dim room. He lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs, for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of the party gradually faded from a roar to a murmur, then to near-silence. The odd burst of laughter, the low hum of a final conversation.

He moved. Silent as a ghost, he slipped out of the bedroom and down the hall. The main living area was empty, just a few stragglers dozing on sofas. He saw a door leading to the courtyard and ducked outside into the cool night air.

At first, he saw nothing. Then, movement. In the far, dark corner of the paved yard, near a stack of empty beer crates. Two figures.

He ducked back inside, his mind racing. He needed a better angle. Unseen. He crept through the silent house, out the front door, and around the side, moving through a narrow alley choked with bins. He found a gap in a fence, a shadowy vantage point that looked directly into the courtyard corner.

The scene was both a repeat and an escalation.

Ryan was on his knees, his jeans and briefs pooled around his ankles. His perfect, round arse was bare and lifted, the cheeks clenched tight. He was bent forward, his head bobbing in Tim’s lap. Tim stood over him, one hand tangled in Ryan’s short brown hair, guiding his mouth onto his thick, hard cock. Tim’s head was thrown back, his jaw tight with pleasure.

“That’s it, you fucking whore,” Tim groaned, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night. “Suck it like you mean it. Get it nice and wet for your other hole.”

Ryan moaned around the cock in his mouth, the sound desperate, hungry. He was lost in it. Jack could see the frantic working of his jaw, the way his throat convulsed as he took Tim deep.

Then Tim pulled him off by the hair, a string of saliva snapping. “Stand up. Turn around.”

Ryan obeyed, stumbling to his feet, his cock jutting out, hard and leaking. Tim spun him, pushed him against the rough brick wall, and yanked his jeans down further. He spat into his hand, slicked his cock, and without any further preparation, drove into Ryan’s arse in one brutal, deep stroke.

Ryan cried out, a sharp, pained sound that quickly morphed into a long, shuddering moan. “Fuck! Yes!”

Tim fucked him standing, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against Ryan’s arse with a wet, rhythmic smack. He was pounding him, using him, and Ryan was pushing back, meeting every thrust, his hands splayed against the brick for support.

“You love this, don’t you, Ry?” Tim grunted, his voice ragged. “Love being my secret little fuck-toy. Love cheating on your pathetic boyfriend.”

“I love it!” Ryan screamed, the confession ripped from him. “Fuck, I love your cock!”

Then, a new voice. Loud, angry, from across the courtyard. “You fucking cunt!”

James strode into the dim light, and he wasn’t alone. Another man followed him—tall, broad-shouldered, with a fresh fade and jet-black hair that gleamed even in the low light. Peter. Another Badgers player, his presence as commanding as his thick Essex accent.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, mate,” Peter drawled, his voice carrying that unmistakable lilt.

James smirked, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as he stepped closer to the scene. Peter lingered a few paces behind, his gaze sweeping over Ryan’s bare arse and Tim’s thrusting hips. His mouth curled into a sly grin.

“Caught ‘em red-handed, Pete,” James said, jerking his chin toward the pair.

Tim froze, his cock still buried deep in Ryan’s arse. “What the fuck, James? This is supposed to be a secret!”

“Oh, come off it, mate,” James laughed, walking closer. “He’s my best fucking friend. You think I wasn’t gonna tell him about tapping this perfect arse?” He gestured dismissively at Ryan. “And thanks for not telling me you already started, you dumb cunt.”

He didn’t even acknowledge Ryan as a person. He stepped right up to him, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled his head back. He already had his cock out, hard and angry-looking. He shoved the fat, purple head against Ryan’s lips. “Open up, slut.”

Ryan, dazed and used, opened his mouth obediently. James fed his cock in, not gently, fucking his face from the start. “Damn,” James sighed, his eyes rolling back. “His throat’s as good as his fucking arse.”

Peter was already undoing his jeans, his eyes wide with lust. “Fuck me. I’ve wanted a piece of that since the first scrum.”

Tim, after a moment’s hesitation, just shrugged and resumed fucking Ryan’s arse, establishing a rough, competing rhythm with James’s face-fucking. “Fine. Fuck it. Just us four. No one else. Promise.”

Peter and James both nodded, their agreement given around grunts of pleasure. “Promise.” “Just us.”

Peter moved behind Tim, waiting his turn. It became a brutal, rotating fuck. Tim would pull out, his cock glistening and slick, and Peter would immediately shove his own thick cock into Ryan’s stretched, wet hole. Ryan was a ragdoll between them, his body used and passed around. James kept his mouth occupied, fucking his throat with short, brutal jabs, pulling out to let him gasp before shoving back in.

“Take it, you cheating slag!” Peter growled, his hands digging into Ryan’s hips.

“Suck my fucking dick, you whore!” James snarled, slapping his cock against Ryan’s spit-slicked cheek.

Ryan was incoherent, lost in a sea of sensation. His body rocked violently between Peter’s thrusts and James’s ruthless face-fucking, his voice a broken chorus of gagging, moaning, and screaming. “More! Fuck! Don’t stop! Use me!”

Peter laughed, his deep Essex accent dripping with disdain and arousal as he gripped Ryan’s hips tighter, slamming into him with brutal precision. “Fuck me, he’s just begging for it! What a hungry little slag. Can’t get enough of this cock, can you?” He paused for a moment, his hands sliding up to grope Ryan’s perfect, round arse, squeezing the firm flesh hard. “Christ, look at this arse. It’s fucking unreal, mate. Like it was carved by Greek gods. No wonder you’re such a cheating slut—how could anyone resist this?”

Ryan’s response was a desperate, keening wail, his body trembling as Peter resumed his relentless pounding. “Yes! God, yes! Use me!”

Peter grinned, his cock buried deep, and leaned forward to whisper hotly into Ryan’s ear, “That’s right, you dirty whore. Take it all. You’re nothing but a fucking hole for us now.”

Hidden in the shadows, Jack was trembling. The betrayal was a physical ache. But the heat in his groin was an inferno. His cock was a rigid, throbbing line of need trapped in his jeans. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. He opened the camera, switched to video, and hit record. The red dot glowed in the darkness.

He pointed it through the gap in the fence, zooming in. He captured it all. The obscene stretch of Ryan’s hole around Peter’s cock. The way James’s balls tightened as he face-fucked him. The look of utter, degenerate ecstasy on Ryan’s face, streaked with dirt and spit.

As he watched through the screen, his other hand unzipped his jeans. He freed his aching cock, already slick at the tip. He began to stroke, his grip tight, his pace frantic. He hated himself. He hated the moan that escaped his own lips. He hated the way his eyes devoured the scene on the tiny screen.

He was a cuckold. A voyeur. Recording his boyfriend’s gangbang. And he was about to come.

Jack’s hand moved faster, his cock slick with precum as he stared through the screen of his phone. The scene unfolding before him was both a nightmare and a fantasy, a twisted blend of pain and pleasure that he couldn’t escape. Ryan’s moans echoed in his ears, the sound of his boyfriend’s ecstasy mingling with the crude taunts of the men using him. His Ryan. The man he loved, the man who kissed him goodnight, who whispered sweet nothings into his ear—now reduced to a trembling, begging whore in the grip of three men who couldn’t care less about him.

Through the screen, Jack watched as James pulled his cock from Ryan’s mouth, leaving him gasping for air. “Open wide, slut,” James growled, and Ryan obeyed without hesitation, his tongue lolling out like a desperate animal. James slapped his cock against Ryan’s face, leaving a trail of spit and precum across his cheek. “You’re nothing but a hole, aren’t you? Ryan nodded frantically, his hazel eyes glazed with lust. “Yes! I’m your hole! Use me!”

Behind him, Peter’s thrusts grew harder, his cock slamming into Ryan’s arse with a force that made Jack wince. “Take it, you dumb slag!” Peter snarled, his hands digging into Ryan’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Ryan screamed, his body convulsing as he was filled, his arse clenching around Peter’s thick cock. “Fuck! Yes! Don’t stop!”

Jack’s own cock throbbed in his hand, his grip tightening as his strokes grew faster. He hated himself for what he was doing, for the way he couldn’t look away, for the way his body betrayed him with every second of this sickening display. He hated Ryan. He hated Tim. He hated James and Peter. But most of all, he hated himself for how much he wanted this, how his cock ached for release as he watched his boyfriend being used like a worthless slut.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his free hand clutching the fence for support as he felt the pressure building in his groin. He was close—so close. His eyes stayed locked on the screen, on the image of Ryan’s perfect arse bouncing under Peter’s thrusts, on Tim’s cock slapping against Ryan’s lips as he waited his turn. Ryan’s moans grew louder, more desperate, as he begged for more. “Please! Fuck me harder! I need it!”

Jack’s climax hit him hard, his cock pulsing in his hand as he came with a silent scream. His cum spilled onto the ground, a shameful release that left him trembling with both disgust and relief. He watched through blurry eyes as Ryan finally broke, his body shuddering as he came untouched, his cock spurting its load against the brick wall. The men around him laughed, mocking him, spitting on him, but Ryan didn’t care. He was lost in the pleasure, in the ecstasy of being used for nothing more than a set of holes.

Jack lowered his phone, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He hated himself. Hated Ryan. Hated everything about this. But as he zipped his jeans and wiped his hand on them, he knew one thing for certain—he would be back. He would watch again. He was a cuckold, and this was his shame.

To be continued…

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The roar of the crowd was nothing compared to the roar in Jack’s own head. He watched from the sidelines, a plastic cup of warm lager forgotten in his hand, as the Clapham Cobras mauled the Brixton Badgers in the mud. His eyes, as always, were glued to one player. Ryan. His Ryan. Number 21. A fucking force of nature.

Every time Ryan took the ball, Jack’s breath hitched. The powerful drive of his thighs, the way his shoulders bunched and flexed as he fended off a tackle, the sheer, brutal maleness of him. But it was the aftermath of a scrum that truly undid Jack. Ryan would rise, mud-splattered and panting, those tight, black rugby shorts plastered to his body, and the fabric would be swallowed by the curve of his arse. It was a fat, firm, perfect arse. A god-given arse. The kind of arse that filled a man’s hands and haunted his dreams. Jack could see the clear outline of Ryan’s arse and cock, the heavy weight of his balls, the thick line of his cock resting against his thigh. He shifted on the bench, his own trousers feeling suddenly tight.

Fuck, he’s beautiful, Jack thought, a familiar, possessive warmth spreading through his chest, tinged with that other, sharper feeling. The jealousy. He saw the way other men watched Ryan. Opponents, teammates, random blokes in the crowd. Their eyes followed that arse with a hunger that made Jack’s jaw clench. Ryan was his. They were monogamous. Loving. Ryan told him he loved him every day, kissed him goodbye, cuddled him on the couch. Their sex life was good—great, even. Jack fucked him three times a week, made love to him, worshipped that incredible body. Ryan always came, always held him after, always whispered “I love you, Jack.”

So why did he feel this knot in his stomach every time Tim Hawthorne clapped Ryan on the shoulder a little too long? Tim, the team’s flanker. Handsome. Tall. A chiseled jaw and dark, knowing eyes that always seemed to find Ryan. He called him ‘Ry’. Jack hated it.

The final whistle blew. Cobras won. The team erupted, a mud-caked pile of celebrating masculinity. Jack saw Tim grab Ryan, lifting him off his feet in a hug that looked… excessive. Ryan was laughing, his head thrown back. Jack finished his lager in one gulp.

The after-party at Tim’s Victorian terrace in Balham was in full, raucous swing. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and testosterone. Ryan, showered and changed into jeans and a tight grey t-shirt that showed off every muscle, was holding court, reliving the winning try. Jack lingered by the kitchen island, feeling like a spare part. He worked in IT. He was lean, a sci-fi nerd. These men were giants, their laughter too loud, their stories too physical.

And there was Tim’s hand again. On the small of Ryan’s back as he leaned in to hear a joke. Squeezing Ryan’s shoulder. A possessive, casual touch that made Jack’s skin prickle. It’s nothing, he told himself. Rugby lad gays. They’re all like this. He grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured a shot. Then another. The burn helped. A third. The sharp edges of the room began to soften.

He was a lightweight. Ryan always teased him about it. “You’re a cheap date, Burrows.” Usually, at these parties, Jack would fade, and Ryan—beautiful, responsible Ryan—would find him, half-asleep on a couch, and shepherd him home. “C’mon, you. Let’s get you to bed.” Jack always felt a pang of guilt, and a deeper surge of love for his patient boyfriend.

The room was starting to spin. Tim materialised beside him, a concerned look on his handsome face. “Alright, Jack? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“M’fine,” Jack slurred, trying to stand straight.

“Course you are. Look, why don’t you kip in the spare room? Top of the stairs. No one will mind. I’ll get Ry to check on you in a bit.” Tim’s voice was smooth, reasonable.

Jack’s eyes found Ryan across the room. He was laughing, his hazel eyes crinkling, completely at home in this world of men. He wouldn’t notice Jack was gone for ages. The nausea rose suddenly, a hot tide. “Yeah. Cheers, Tim.”

He stumbled away from the noise, making a detour to the downstairs loo. He barely made it to the toilet before he was violently, painfully sick. He retched until his stomach was empty, the acidic taste of tequila and betrayal in his throat. Betrayal? Where did that come from? He splashed water on his face. Just drunk. Paranoid.

He found the spare room, a small, neat space. He lay on the single bed, intending to rest his eyes for just thirty minutes. The world dissolved into a tequila-soaked black.

A dry mouth and a pounding headache dragged him back. He fumbled for his phone. 2:07 AM. The house was quieter now, the bass-heavy music replaced by the low murmur of drunk conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. He sat up slowly, the room lurching. He needed water. He needed Ryan.

He crept downstairs. The main living room was dotted with couples. Some were just talking, others were entangled, making out with a desperate, end-of-night intensity. He recognised a few faces from the Badgers. He didn’t see Ryan. Or Tim.

A spike of anxiety, cold and sobering, shot through him. He checked the kitchen, the garden. Nothing. Then he heard it. A low, rhythmic sound. Not music. A creak. And a muffled groan. It was coming from behind a door next to the utility room. The door to the garage.

Heart hammering against his ribs, Jack pushed the door open a crack. The garage was dim, lit by a single hanging bulb. The smell hit him first: engine oil, dust, and the unmistakable, musky scent of sex. He slipped inside, hiding behind a tall metal shelving unit stacked with boxes.

What he saw stole the air from his lungs.

Ryan was on his hands and knees in the middle of the concrete floor, naked from the waist down, his underwear hung in tatters, ripped open and clinging to his hips like a crude jockstrap. The fabric was shredded, barely covering the swell of his arse, exposing the taut cheeks that had been driving men wild all night. The sight was both obscene and mesmerizing, his jeans around his ankles. His arse was in the air, glistening with sweat and something else. Tim Hawthorne, also with his trousers open, was kneeling behind him, his hands gripping Ryan’s hips so hard. Tim’s cock—thick, veined, and brutally hard—was buried to the base in Ryan’s arse.

“Fuck, Ry, take it,” Tim grunted, pulling back and slamming forward. The sound was wet, meaty. Ryan’s whole body jolted with the impact. “Your fucking arse is made for this, you know that? Made to get fucked by a proper cock.”

Ryan’s face was a mask of drunk, desperate pleasure. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth open in a silent ‘O’. He was pushing back against Tim, meeting every thrust. “Harder, Tim… fucking… use it…” he moaned, the words slurred.

Jack felt his legs go weak. He clutched the shelving unit. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be his Ryan. His loving, loyal boyfriend.

Just then, the side door to the garage banged open. James, the blonde, cheeky flanker from the Brixton Badgers, stumbled in from the shadows. “Oi, anyone know where the—oh, shit.”

He froze, taking in the scene. A wide, predatory grin spread across his face.

Tim didn’t stop fucking. “Fuck off, James. Piss off.”

James laughed, not moving. “Hell no. I’ve wanted a go on that since the first time I saw it in those tight little shorts. That’s a legendary arse. You’re not hogging it.”

“I said fuck off!” Tim snarled, his pace increasing, making Ryan cry out.

James’s grin turned nasty. He stepped closer. “Yeah? Or what? You want me to go wake up Jack? See what he has to say about his boyfriend getting his arse reamed in a garage?”

The effect was instant. Ryan’s eyes flew open in terror. He looked over his shoulder at Tim, pleading. Tim, after a vicious, final thrust, stilled. He looked from Ryan to James, his expression adding up the consequences. “Fine. But be quick. And you don’t get his mouth. That’s mine.” With a final, deep grind into Ryan’s hole, Tim pulled his slick, hard cock out with a pop.

James was already undoing his jeans. “Quick? Mate, I’m gonna enjoy this.”

Ryan was crying now, soft, shameful tears cutting through the dirt on his cheeks. But he didn’t protest. He stayed on his hands and knees.

Tim moved to the front. He grabbed Ryan’s hair again, forcing his head up. Ryan’s lips were swollen, his chin slick with saliva. Tim slapped his cock against Ryan’s cheek. “Clean it. Lick my fucking shaft clean of your arse-juice, you whore.”

Ryan opened his mouth obediently, his tongue licking up the mixture of pre-cum and his own juices from Tim’s shaft. Jack watched, sickened and mesmerised, as his boyfriend serviced another man’s cock.

James positioned himself behind Ryan. He spat into his hand, slicked his own cock—paler than Tim’s but just as thick—and without any further ceremony, pressed the fat head against Ryan’s stretched, used hole. He pushed. Ryan groaned around Tim’s cock, the sound muffled.

“Fuuuuck,” James exhaled as he sank in, inch by brutal inch. “Oh my god. It’s… it’s even better than I fucking imagined. So fucking tight. Hot.”

Tim was fucking Ryan’s face now, holding his head still and pumping his hips. “Suck it, you slut. Get it nice and wet for me.”

“How long’s this been going on?” James asked conversationally, as if they were having a pint. His balls slapping hard against Ryan’s arse, a steady, wet smack that filled the garage.

Tim thrust deeper into Ryan’s throat, forcing a wet gag from him. “About a year,” Tim growled, his tone dripping with arrogance. “Every after-party. Sometimes in the changeroom after a match—if we’re the last ones left and it’s empty. Can’t risk anyone walking in on us, can we?”

A year. The words were a physical blow to Jack’s gut. A year of lies. A year of “I love you”s whispered in his ear while Ryan’s arse was still sore from another man.

James picking up his pace. “Fuck me. A year? He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Fuck. And Jack? Clueless?”

Tim paused, his cock still buried deep in Ryan’s throat, and smirked down at James. “Clueless? Nah, mate. Not exactly. See, Jack’s got this little problem—he gets sleepy. Always thinks it’s the booze, bless him.” He chuckled darkly, his hand tightening in Ryan’s hair as he forced his cock deeper, making Ryan gag and splutter. “But it’s not the booze. It’s me. I slip him a little something at parties—just enough to knock him out cold. Leaves Ry here free to be my slutty little fuck toy.”

James threw his head back and laughed. “Fuck, Tim. That’s cold. Drugging his boyfriend just to keep him out of the way while you wreck him?”

Tim laughed, rough and arrogant, as he shoved his cock back into Ryan’s mouth. “Don’t act like you’re above it, mate. You’re balls-deep in his boyfriend right now, and you’re not exactly complaining, are you?”

“Yeah, fair play,” James gasped, driving into Ryan harder. “Just think… poor Jack. Drugged out upstairs in his little bed. And we’re down here, using his slutty boyfriend like a fucking fleshlight. How sad and pathetic is that?”

They were both laughing now, a cruel, shared sound. Tim pulled his cock from Ryan’s mouth, a string of saliva and pre-cum connecting them. He leaned down and spat directly onto Ryan’s face. The glob landed on his cheekbone and slid down. Ryan flinched but didn’t wipe it away.

“He loves it, don’t you, Ry?” Tim sneered, slapping Ryan’s cheek lightly with his cock. “He loves being my dirty little slut. Loves knowing he’s a cheating whore while his stupid boyfriend loves him too much to suspect a thing.”

“Talk,” Tim demanded, while James was hammering into Ryan’s prostate with unerring accuracy. Ryan’s body was convulsing, his own cock hard and leaking onto the concrete. “Tell us what a worthless slut you are. Tell us about pathetic Jack.”

Ryan shook his head, a weak sob escaping him, he looked up. “Tim… you know I hate that… I still love him…”

“You love this more,” Tim hissed, grabbing Ryan’s hair again. “Now fucking say it. Or I’ll stop, and James will stop, and we’ll leave you here, empty and aching.

The threat worked. Ryan’s resistance crumbled. His voice, broken and thick with tears and arousal, spilled out. “Jack… Jack deserves better than me. He’s… he’s so good. And I’m… I’m just a cheating slut. A fucking hole for proper men to use. He’s clueless… he’s stupid… because he loves me too much to see what I really am.”

“Louder!” James roared, pounding him mercilessly.

“I’M A CHEATING SLUT!” Ryan screamed, the words echoing in the garage. “AND JACK’S A CLUELESS, LOVESICK IDIOT!”

The verbal degradation was the final trigger. As the two men joined in, calling Ryan every filthy name imaginable, mocking Jack’s intelligence, his manhood, his love, something broke and twisted inside Jack himself. Hot tears streamed down his face, silent sobs shaking his shoulders. The betrayal was a white-hot knife in his heart.

But beneath the agony, a different heat was unravelleling, low and insistent. He looked down. His own cock was straining against his jeans, a thick, painful outline. He was rock hard. Seeing Ryan like this—debased, used, reveling in it—hearing his own name dragged through the mud… it was the most horrifying, most arousing thing he had ever witnessed.

His hand, moving of its own volition, unbuttoned his jeans. He slipped his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around his own aching erection. He was leaking pre-cum, slick and hot. He began to stroke, his eyes glued to the scene. To Tim’s cock slapping Ryan’s face. To James’s powerful arse driving into Ryan’s. To the utter ruin of his boyfriend’s beautiful, treacherous face.

He matched his strokes to their rhythm, his breath coming in short, silent gasps. He was a voyeur. A cuckold. The realisation should have shamed him, but it only fuelled the fire in his groin. This was his secret now. His own dark, disgusting pleasure.

The men were reaching their peak. Tim’s grunts became frantic. “Gonna paint that pretty face, Ry! Gonna mark you as mine!” James was chanting, “Fuck fuck fuck that perfect arse!”

With a final, simultaneous roar, they came. Tim pulled his cock from Ryan’s mouth and shot thick, white ropes across his face, his closed eyelids, his lips. James, buried deep, shuddered and emptied himself into Ryan’s arse, his hips jerking spastically.

Ryan collapsed onto his forearms, his body trembling, his own release splattering the floor beneath him, untouched. He was a mess of sweat, spit, semen, and tears.

Jack, with a choked, silent gasp, came into his own hand, his orgasm a violent, shameful wave that left him dizzy and weak. He quickly tucked himself away, wiped his hand on his jeans. He had to get out. Now.

He turned, silent as a ghost, and crept back to the spare room. He lay down on the bed, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. The pieces clicked together. The vomiting. He’d purged the drink—and the drugs—before they could fully take hold. That’s why he’d woken up. That’s why he’d seen it all.

He heard the garage door open, low voices, footsteps going to the bathroom. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, his mind screaming with betrayal, arousal, and a terrifying new understanding of himself.

The bedroom door opened. A shaft of light fell across him. He could smell them—sweat, sex, Ryan’s cologne now polluted with the musk of other men.

“Out cold,” Tim muttered, his voice close.

A hand brushed Jack’s forehead. Ryan’s hand. It felt filthy. “My poor Jack,” Ryan whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming and sucking cock. “Let’s get you home.”

To be continued…

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