Ryan's Betrayal

Chapter 1

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…

Next chapter link below…