Ryan' Betrayal

Chapter 6

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.

It had been fun. A dirty, thrilling secret. But now with James and Peter in the mix, it was fucking getting out of hand. Rugby lads talked. They bragged. It was only a matter of time before a drunken slip, a shared photo, a rumour that reached Jack’s ears. The guilt wasn’t just eating him up; it was chewing through the foundations of everything he had. Jack, who paid the mortgage on this beautiful flat. Jack, who looked at him with unwavering trust. Jack, who had fucked him with a primal ownership last night that made his knees weak just thinking about it.

He loved Jack. Desperately. He loved the security, the love, the life they’d built. But he also… he craved the degradation. The feeling of being just a hole, a set of lips, a thing to be used. Tim gave him that. And he hated himself for how much he loved it. Hated the desperate, hungry cock-whore he became the second Tim crooked a finger.

He looked back towards the bedroom door. Jack was sleeping, peaceful, innocent. His. Ryan’s heart ached. He knew what he had to do. It was the only way. He had to end it with Tim. Clean. Final.

He typed, his thumbs clumsy with nerves.

Ryan (07:15): Tim. We can’t do this anymore. I’m engaged. It’s over. Don’t contact me like that again.

He hit send before he could lose his nerve. The whoosh sound felt like a door slamming. Immediately, three grey dots appeared. Then disappeared. No response. The silence felt heavier than any reply. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach, but beneath it was a fragile sense of relief. He’d done it.

He crept back into the bedroom. Jack hadn’t moved. Ryan stood watching him for a long moment—the lean lines of his body under the sheet, the intelligent curve of his brow, the way his lips were slightly parted. This was his life. This was what mattered. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Jack’s forehead, inhaling the clean scent of him. I choose you, he thought fiercely. I’m choosing you.

He slipped back into bed, molding himself against Jack’s warmth, seeking absolution in the heat of his sleeping body.

Tim's POV

Tim Hawthorne stared at his phone screen, the text burning a hole in his vision. The gym bag at his feet was forgotten. Around him, the Virgin Active in Clapham buzzed with the ealry afternoom crowd—the clank of weights, the thud of treadmill belts, the low thrum of shitty pop music.

Ryan. You little shit.

He’d been furious last night. Fucking livid. Watching Jack, that smug, nerdy cunt, lead Ryan out of the party with that pathetic ‘I’m not feeling well’ act. Tim had seen the look in Jack’s eyes as they left. A direct challenge. A tiny, victorious smirk. And Ryan had just… gone. Left him with a hard-on and a room full of laughing teammates who’d expected a show.

James and Peter had been equally pissed. “He’s got your boy well-trained,” James had sneered, pouring another shot. “Whipped and fucking ringed.” Peter had just grunted, his massive arms crossed, a dark promise in his eyes. They’d all been cheated. The post-game ritual was broken.

And now this. This fucking text.

It’s over.

Like he was some tawdry one-night stand. Like the past year of owning Ryan’s arse, of training his throat, of making him beg and cry and admit what a worthless slut he was, meant fucking nothing. Like Tim hadn’t made him into the perfect, hungry fucktoy he was.

The rage was a cold, clarifying thing. It tightened his chiseled jaw, made his dark eyes narrow to slits. He’d been about to tap out a scathing reply, to remind Ryan exactly who owned the photos, who knew the secrets, who could unravel his precious ‘engagement’ with a single message to clueless Jack.

But he stopped. Ryan would ignore a text. He’d delete it, block the number, hide behind his fiancé. No. This required a face-to-face. A reminder. A reclamation.

He knew Ryan’s routine. After a game like yesterday’s, Ryan would be here. At Virgin Active. Around 2 PM. Working out the stiffness, punishing his body, trying to sweat out the guilt. Tim checked his watch. 1:50 PM. Perfect.

He didn’t bother changing. He was already in his gym shorts and a tight white tank that showed off the powerful lines of his chest and arms. He moved through the free weights area with a predator’s grace, his gaze sweeping the rows of machines, the squat racks, the cable stations.

And there he was.

Ryan was at the far end, near the mirrored wall, doing bent-over rows with a heavy barbell. His back was to the room, his powerful muscles rippling under his sweat-damped tank top. Those rugby shorts hugged the sublime curve of his arse, the fabric straining with every pull. Tim felt his cock thicken instantly, a hard, insistent pressure against his joggers. That’s mine. That view, that body, that tight fucking hole. Mine.

He walked over, his steps silent on the rubber flooring. He stopped just behind Ryan, close enough that Ryan would feel the heat of him, smell his cologne. Ryan completed a rep, lowering the bar with a controlled grunt. As he straightened, he caught sight of Tim in the mirror.

Ryan froze. The colour drained from his face. His hazel eyes went wide with panic, then flicked around the room, checking for witnesses. They were relatively isolated in this corner.

“Tim,” Ryan breathed, the word barely audible over the gym’s din.

“Ry,” Tim said, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that didn’t match the ice in his eyes. “Got your text.” He took a half-step closer, invading Ryan’s space. He reached out, not touching him, but his hand hovered near the small of Ryan’s back, a phantom claim. “Care to explain?”

Ryan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He set the barbell down carefully on the rack, his movements stiff. “I meant what I said. It’s done.”

“Is it?” Tim murmured. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing Ryan’s ear. Ryan flinched but didn’t pull away. Tim could smell his sweat, the sharp, clean scent of his effort. It was intoxicating. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re still my good little whore. You just need a reminder.”

“Tim, please,” Ryan whispered, a desperate plea. “Not here.”

“Where, then?” Tim’s hand finally landed, a firm, possessive press on the centre of Ryan’s back, right over his spine. He could feel the heat, the fine tremor running through the muscle. “You think you get to quit? You think that ring,” he spat the word, “changes what you are? I’ve had my cock so far down your throat you tasted my piss. I’ve fucked my cum so deep into your arse you walked funny for days. James and Peter have used you like a communal fleshlight. You’re a gangbang slut, Ryan. That’s your category. Not ‘fiancé’.”

Each word was a lash. Ryan’s shoulders hunched. His eyes, reflected in the mirror, were glistening. Shame. Fear. And, fuck him, a spark of that familiar, degrading arousal. Tim saw it. He always saw it.

“Jack… last night…” Ryan stammered.

“Jack what?” Tim cut him off, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “Jack fucked you? Good for him. He’s putting a deposit on a used car. I built the engine. I own the engine.” His fingers dug in, just shy of painful. “You come when I call. You come because I call. That’s your programming. And we’re going to do a system check. Right now.”

Ryan shook his head, a weak, futile motion. “I can’t.”

“The disabled toilet. End of the hall. Now. Or I walk out of here and call Jack. I’ll tell him I’m worried about you. That you’ve been coming on to me, that you’re a cheating, desperate slag who can’t keep his legs closed. I’ll send him the photo from the courtyard. The one where you’re swallowing Peter’s load while James fucks you. How’s that for an engagement gift?”

The threat hung in the air, toxic and real. Ryan’s breath hitched. The fight drained out of him, his posture slumping into one of defeated submission. That was the look Tim craved. The broken acceptance.

Without another word, Tim turned and walked calmly towards the corridor that led to the changing rooms and toilets. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The soft, hurried footsteps behind him were answer enough.

The accessible toilet was a single, locked room. Tim pushed inside, Ryan following like a ghost. The door clicked shut, locking them in a sterile, white-tiled space that smelled of antiseptic and sweat. The moment the lock engaged, Tim’s demeanour shifted. The cold control shattered into raw, hungry dominance.

He grabbed Ryan by the front of his tank top and slammed him back against the door, the impact shuddering through the frame. Ryan gasped, his hands coming up to grip Tim’s wrists.

“You don’t get to say no to me,” Tim growled, his face inches away. “You don’t get to text me. You open your fucking mouth when I tell you to.” He yanked the damp tank top up, exposing Ryan’s heaving chest, the defined abs. His other hand went to the waistband of Ryan’s shorts, popping the elastic, yanking the drawstring. “These come off. Now.”

Ryan, moving on autopilot, pushed his shorts and briefs down his powerful thighs, kicking them off. He stood there, naked from the waist down, his cock already half-hard against his stomach—a traitorous, needy response to the fear and the dominance. Tim’s gaze raked over him, a cruel appreciation in his dark eyes.

“Turn around. Hands on the sink. Look at yourself in the mirror. I want you to watch what you really are.”

Ryan obeyed, his movements robotic. He bent over the porcelain sink, his broad back flexing, his perfect, muscular arse presented in the air. The sight was obscenely beautiful. Tim’s mouth watered. He pulled down his shorts, freeing his aching cock, which sprang out thick and already leaking. He didn’t bother with spit. He didn’t need it. Ryan was always ready for him.

He stepped forward, the head of his cock nudging against Ryan’s tight hole. Ryan tensed, a low whine escaping him.

“Relax,” Tim commanded, his voice thick with lust. “You know you want this. You’ve been craving it since you left me last night. Admit it.”

“I…” Ryan choked, his eyes meeting Tim’s in the mirror. They were wide, terrified, and utterly turned on.

“Say it. ‘I’m a slut who needs your cock, Tim.’”

Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m a slut,” he whispered, the words torn from him. “I need your cock.”

“Louder.”

“I’M A SLUT WHO NEEDS YOUR COCK!” Ryan shouted, the sound echoing off the tiles, mingling with the distant thump of gym music.

“Good boy,” Tim purred. And he shoved forward.

It was a brutal, unforgiving entry. Ryan cried out, a sharp, pained sound that morphed into a deep, guttural groan as Tim sheathed himself to the hilt in one savage thrust. The tight, clenching heat was absolute perfection. Tim let out a ragged breath of pure conquest. Mine. Always mine.

He didn’t wait for Ryan to adjust. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, his hips slamming against Ryan’s arse with a loud, rhythmic smack that filled the small room. Each drive was a punishment, a reaffirmation of ownership. He gripped Ryan’s hips hard, his fingers biting into the flesh, sure to leave dark bruises.

“Look in the mirror!” Tim snarled, fucking into him with relentless force. “Look at your face! Look at what a fucking whore you are!”

Ryan’s eyes flew open, forced to meet his own reflection. His face was a mask of agonised pleasure—mouth slack, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. He watched, mesmerised and horrified, as Tim’s powerful body pistoned into him from behind.

“This is your place,” Tim grunted, his own pleasure coiling tight. “Bent over. Taking cock. My cock. You belong to me. That ring on your finger is a fucking joke. This,” he punctuated with a particularly deep thrust that made Ryan scream, “this is your real commitment. To being my fuckhole.”

He leaned over Ryan’s back, his warm breath fanning Ryan’s neck. “You think Jack can fuck you like this? You think his little prick can reach what I’m reaching right now? I’m in your guts, you slut. I’m owning you.” He fucked him harder, faster, the sink rattling with the force. “You’re gonna come. You’re gonna come like the desperate bitch you are, and then you’re gonna swallow every drop of what I give you. And you’re gonna text me tomorrow. You’re gonna beg for it again. Aren’t you?”

Ryan was beyond words. He was babbling, a stream of “yes” and “please” and “Tim, fuck, yes!” His own cock was rock hard, slapping against the cool porcelain of the sink basin with every thrust. The humiliation, the public danger, the raw, degrading power of it was short-circuiting his brain, burning away the guilt, the resolution, everything but the need to come.

“Answer me!” Tim roared, pulling almost all the way out before ramming back in with enough force to lift Ryan’s toes off the floor.

“YES! I’LL BEG! I’M YOURS, I’M YOUR SLUT, PLEASE, TIM, LET ME COME!” Ryan screamed, the confession shattering him.

“Come then,” Tim ordered, his own control snapping. “Come for me, you fucking whore.”

It was all the permission Ryan needed. His body bowed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as his cock erupted, jet after jet of white cum splattering against the white sink and mirror, painting his reflection. The violent clenching of his arse around Tim’s invading cock was the final trigger. With a guttural shout, Tim buried himself as deep as he could and pulsed, flooding Ryan’s channel with hot, claiming seed, filling him up, marking him from the inside.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged pants and the drip of tap. Tim stayed buried, softening inside the incredible heat, his hands still possessively on Ryan’s hips. He watched in the cum-spattered mirror as Ryan’s head hung, his body trembling violently with aftershocks, utterly broken and used.

Slowly, Tim pulled out. A wet, obscene sound. He tucked his spent cock back into his shorts. Ryan slumped against the sink, barely holding himself up.

Tim leaned close again, his lips brushing Ryan’s sweat-damp ear. His voice was calm, cold, final. “You don’t end this. I do. I’ll text you the time and place. You’ll be there. And you’ll bring that engagement ring. I want to see it on your finger while you suck my dick. Now clean yourself up. You’ve got sweat to work off.”

To be continued…

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