Roommate Bonding Time | A Short Story

The short story that started it all … now a full book available on amazon

Intended exclusively for readers 18+

Four straight… ish bros. One couch, a joint, and way too much rope.

If you want more, tell me!

I like it when you beg.

***

Roommate Bonding Time

A Short Story

By Josiah B Vale

Rope’s got this thing about it. It doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t mock you when you fumble a knot. It just sits there, obedient, gripping tight exactly how you want it to. People, though? They’re a whole other beast. Messy, unpredictable, and way too fucking emotional.

Which is why I usually keep the shibari videos to myself, tucked in between the climbing tutorials on my laptop. But tonight, four beers deep on the thrift-store couch, with my three roomie bros scattered in their mismatched thrifted chairs, the topic somehow landed on “weird hobbies,” and Dante, the one I’ve known the longest, leaned forward.

Dante always looks like he just wandered in from a better party. He was six feet of lean muscle and long legs, dancer’s posture that makes him look like he’s about to step into a spotlight, and rich brown skin. His black hair is tied back in a loose man bun, though there’s always one rebellious strand that slips free to brush his cheek like he thought he was Lara Croft. His amber-hazel eyes catch whatever light’s in the room, holding it like he’s hoarding secrets. His fitted black long sleeve tee hugs just enough definition, sleeves rolled to show strong forearms.

He gave me that slow, dangerous grin.

“You’re into rope, right?” he said, like it was nothing.

I told him not to bring up my search history. Sure, the desktop PC in the corner of the living room was technically for all of us, but Dante was a chronic snoop.

“Climbing,” I corrected. “Knots, mostly. Decorative stuff too.”

“Decorative,” Milo repeated, already smirking. “Like… rope sculptures… or?”

Milo crashed into my life as Dante’s stepbrother, the newest roommate in our chaotic setup. He’s average height, got a bit of a softer gut, but damn, those biceps, forearms, and calves are thick, built from lugging around way more than any sane person should. His black hair’s always a mess, hanging over his forehead like he’s too cool for a barber, framing these deep brown eyes that are always glinting with some smartass comment he’s about to drop. Tonight, he’s sprawled out in this oversized Elden Ring tee that’s seen better days and gym shorts that cling just a little too much, with mismatched socks yanked up like he’s daring you to call him out on it. He’s pure swagger, the kinda dude who’ll rip into you with a brutal roast but shove a cold beer in your hand before you can even blink.

And look, I’m not blind, his ass is straight up distracting. It’s thick, round, the kind of curve that’d have me losing my mind if he weren’t a dude. Hell, I’ll admit it, sometimes it still gets me, even if I keep that shit locked down tight. I’m not about to say a word. Milo’s always telling the chicks who flock to him that he’s straight as an arrow, shutting down their flirty vibes with a grin. And even if that backside has me second-guessing myself late at night, I’m not gonna cross that line. He’s cool as hell about Dante being pan, never bats an eye, so I just keep my thoughts to myself and try not to stare too long when he bends over to grab something from the fridge. He soaked up attention like it was oxygen. He liked being looked at, and even if he pretended otherwise, he knew exactly when to lean over just a little too far.

Heat crept up my neck. “Like—” I shrugged. “Some people call it rope art. You know. Shibari.”

Chris leaned forward. “Wait, is that… when you tie a chick upside down with some rope and fuck the living daylights out of her?”

I almost spit my beer, laughing. “Not always exactly like that.”

I fucked up by letting my eyes linger on all six-foot-two of him, sprawled out like he owns the damn place after a shower. Those broad shoulders are practically busting out of his white tank, the fabric so thin and damp it’s molded to every hard plane of his chest, sticking to the curve of his pecs like it’s begging to be peeled off. His dirty blond hair, still wet and drying in messy waves, hangs just low enough to shadow those piercing blue-gray eyes that are fixed on me with this unnerving, quiet intensity, like he’s daring me to say something. His boxers are slung low on his hips, barely holding in the thick, heavy outline of his dick, pressing against the fabric like it’s got a mind of its own. He’s always flopping it around, not giving a single shit who sees, even though he’s made it crystal clear a hundred times that he’s straight as hell. Maybe it’s some power play, some jock bullshit to remind everyone he’s the alpha in the room. That cock shifts with every lazy move he makes, like it’s taunting me, daring me to stare, and fuck, I hate how much it’s getting to me.

“Yo, you good over there?” he drawls, voice low and rough, catching me off guard as he shifts, making that outline even more fucking obvious. “You’re staring pretty hard, man.”

I snap my eyes up, heat crawling up my neck, trying to play it off. “Just zoning out, bro. Long day.”

He smirks, leaning back further, one arm slung behind his head, stretching that tank even tighter across his chest. “Sure, whatever you say. Don’t let me distract you.” His tone’s got this teasing edge, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head, and it’s messing with me more than I’ll ever admit.

I force a laugh, shifting in my seat, trying to ignore the way my pulse is hammering. If he weren’t a dude, I’d be all over that, no question. Shit, sometimes I catch myself anyway, wondering what it’d feel like to test that confidence, to see just how far that dominance goes, but I slam that thought down hard. I’m not about to say a damn thing, not when he’s so casual about it, like he gets off on the attention without even trying. I just grit my teeth and pretend I don’t notice how that heavy outline twitches when he adjusts himself again, right in my fucking line of sight.

“Have you ever actually done it on a person?” Milo asked.

I shook my head.

Chris grinned, that lazy, fearless grin jocks get when they smell a dare. He set his beer down on the coffee table hard enough to slosh. “So practice on me, dude. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Dante laughed, leaning back in his chair like a cat watching the mouse walk straight into the trap. “Yeah, Knot Nerd. Show us your skills.”

Heat rose behind my cheeks, the kind you can feel all the way to your ears. I tried to play it off, but there was no way I was passing up the chance. The ceiling hook had been there since we moved in. A leftover from the last tenant, who either liked hammocks or was a freak. My money was on the latter. I crossed to my room where my stash of rope was coiled, neatly bundled in loops, and quickly returned. Maybe a little too eager.

“Pick a color,” I told Chris.

“Black,” of course.

I unrolled it onto the cleared rug, the hemp sliding through my hands. The rope still tight and a little stiff from not being used much yet. The faint scent of fiber and wax catching in the air. My fingers automatically found their rhythm, smoothing along each length, with every pass my pulse picked up.

Chris stripped off his tank without hesitation, tossing it onto the couch like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The sudden exposure of his chest made the room feel smaller. Thick flushed skin catching the warm apartment light, accented with light brown curls at his chest and trailing down, shoulders relaxed but posture open, like he was posing for some casual sports ad.

I stepped in close, the rope coiled in my grip, and looped the first length around his wrists. My knuckles brushed the edge of his forearm — warm, solid muscle under smooth skin — before I pulled the wraps snug and bound his hands behind his head. I kept my gaze fixed on the cord sliding through my fingers, deliberately not on the flex of his biceps or the faint rise and fall of his chest when he breathed.

The rope stretched in clean lines across his chest, forming a diamond lattice that framed his pecs and abs. Each knot was snug and deliberate, the kind of precision that made my shoulders loosen and my mind narrow to just fiber, tension, symmetry. From there, I let the line trail down his back, cinching it low over his spine, my knuckles grazing the dip at his waist. I looped it around his hips, the tension naturally cupping him tight before I guided the line down and between his ass cheeks.

He sucked in a breath, quick and sharp, and I pretended not to notice.

I tied off the line at the small of his back, the final pull snugging the harness into place. Chris shifted again, probably testing the give, but the movement dragged the crotch line fractionally tighter. I pretended to fuss with a knot, even though it was already perfect.

That’s when Dante stepped in — always silent until he wasn’t. He moved behind Chris with that unhurried, dancer’s stride, the soft creak of the floorboards announcing him only a second before his hand settled low on the rope at Chris’s hip. He tugged once, not hard, but with enough precision to make the tension bite exactly where it mattered.

Chris made a sound — half exhale, half something he probably didn’t want anyone naming — and his cock stiffened. He was undeniably hard, dick twitching beneath his boxers obviously now.

“Oh my god,” Dante said, voice mock-innocent. “You’re actually into this.”

Milo barked a laugh from his chair. “Dude, you’re so gay.”

Dante’s tone turned lecturing, like he was about to deliver a TED Talk on the subject. “Nah. Getting hard in this kind of situation doesn’t make you gay. It just means you’ve got a dick. The ropes tighten in areas that affect blood flow, thats all. Biology, baby.”

I kept my hands busy, adjusting a knot that didn’t need adjusting. “Exactly,” I murmured.

My hands froze mid-knot, heat slamming up my neck so fast it burned. I kept my eyes glued to the rope, pretending to check the tension, but my head was a damn mess. The way that harness framed every inch of him, the way it pulled tight in places I shouldn’t be thinking about—it was fucking with me. If he weren’t a guy, I’d already be too deep into this, imagining how far I could push it, how that tension would feel under my hands in a different context. Shit, I’m already thinking it anyway, and I hate myself for it. I’m straight, I’ve always been straight, but the way his body’s locked up in my knots, the way he twitched with that tug—my pulse is jacked, and my jeans are feeling way too tight for my liking.

Chris rolled his shoulders, maybe to shrug it off, but the motion only made the harness shift over his chest. Dante was still standing close enough behind him to feel the change in his breathing.

Milo leaned forward, grinning like he was watching a live episode of a show he never wanted to end. “This is better than TV.”

The room was warm now in a different way, the air carrying that faint electric charge of people holding back more than they were saying.

I tightened the knot at Chris’s waist. His groan was somewhere between complaint and something else. “Looks pretty secure to me,” the dancer-guy said, still hovering too close, his voice low and smooth like he’s enjoying this way too much. He tugged at another line, casual, but it made the harness shift, pressing into sensitive spots, and the tied-up guy bit down on a grunt. “Damn, you’ve got a knack for this. You sure you’ve never done it before?”

“Nah, just good with knots,” I forced out, trying to laugh, but it sounded choked even to me. I stepped back, wiping my hands on my jeans, but the friction didn’t do shit to calm the heat crawling through me. My eyes flicked up, just for a second, catching the way the rope carved into his frame, accentuating every fucking line, and I had to tear my gaze away before I lost it completely. I’m not like this, I don’t think about shit like this, but the room’s too small, the air’s too thick, and every move he makes is burning into me.

“Bet you could make it even tighter,” came the taunt from Milo, that cocky edge cutting through.

“Fuck off,” I snapped, but there was no bite in it, just desperation to keep my shit together. My hands itched to touch the rope again, to adjust, to test, but I clenched them at my sides. I’m not going there, I can’t, but the thought’s already clawing at me—what if I did? What if I pushed just a little more, saw how far this could go before it broke me? I’m fighting every damn instinct screaming in my head, trying to stay on the right side of this line, but fuck, it’s getting blurry fast.

Milo had been laughing the loudest all night, cracking jokes, egging everyone on during this stupid dare of a game. So, of course, Dante zeroed in on him like a hawk spotting prey.

“Alright, smartass,” Dante said, his smirk sharp as he jerked his chin toward the cleared rug in the middle of the room. “Let’s see how you look all tied up.”

Milo didn’t even hesitate, just rolled his eyes with that over-the-top sigh of his, like he was doing us all a favor. “I’m not a pussy like Chris. I’m getting all the way naked. You gotta know what it’s like to tie up a bare body, right?”

“Right,” I managed, the word sticking in my throat as I swallowed hard. My palms were sweaty against the rope, and I gripped it tighter to keep my hands from shaking. He was pushing it, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for where this was going.

Milo made a show of it, peeling off his tee with a slow, deliberate tug over his head, letting it drop to the floor like he was on stage. His chest was broad, covered in that thick mat of black hair that trailed down his stomach in a dark line. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts, shimmied them down with a little hip shake that got Dante snickering, and kicked them off. The briefs were last, slid down his thick thighs with no hint of shame, revealing everything. He stepped out of them, stark naked now, and flung himself onto the rug with a dramatic flair, sprawling on his side, one hand propped under his head, the other waving lazily in the air.

“Tie me like one of your French girls,” he mocked, batting his eyelashes at me, his voice high and breathy before he burst into a cackle.

The room erupted with laughter, Chris and Dante losing it while I just stood there, heat creeping up my neck. I tried to laugh too, but it came out forced, my eyes stuck on him despite myself.

There he was, casual as if he wasn’t buck ass naked in front of us all, bare on the worn-out rug. Hairiest guy in the room by far—not on his back or shoulders like some guys, but a thick, black, bushy spread across his chest, narrowing as it ran down his stomach, then exploding into an even fuller patch at his groin. It framed him, made him look rugged, raw, like he didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t hard, not yet, but even soft, his cock hung thick and heavy, resting over a pair of full, round balls that looked weighted, grounded against the rug. He didn’t bother covering up, didn’t cross his legs or shield himself. Just stretched out, limbs loose, muscles shifting under his skin as he settled into position. Then he grinned right at me, all teeth and challenge, his dark eyes glinting under the dim string lights.

“Just bros being bros,” he said with a laugh, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like being naked and tied up by your buddy wasn’t a line we were all teetering on. His voice was light, but there was an edge to it, something daring me to react, to say something, to do something.

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, dropping to my knees beside him, the blue rope now clenched in my hands. My heart was thudding hard enough I was sure someone could hear it. I tried to focus on the knots, on the patterns I’d practiced a hundred times with YouTube tutorials, but my eyes kept slipping to the expanse of his bare skin, to the way that dark hair curled over his nipples, to the weight between his legs that I shouldn’t have been noticing. I’d always been straight, always thought I was, anyway. Dated girls, liked girls, never even considered anything else. But kneeling there, so close I could feel the heat rolling off him, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“Yo, you gonna start or just stare all night?” Milo quipped, shifting a little, his thigh flexing as he propped one knee up for a second before letting it flop back down. The movement made everything shift, his cock settling heavier against his thigh, and I snapped my eyes back to the rope, my face burning.

“Shut up,” I grumbled, looping the first coil around his wrists, my fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. It was softer than I expected, the hair there rough against my knuckles, and I felt a weird twist in my gut, something between curiosity and a heat I didn’t know how to deal with. “Just hold still.”

“Bossy,” he shot back, but he complied, holding his wrists out for me, that grin never slipping.

I knelt in with my rope, a blue one now. I forgot to ask him about the color. His bush was…distracting. I looped the first coil around his wrists, feeling the warmth of his skin under my fingers, then bound his ankles the same way. He kept up a running commentary, leaning into the bit.

His pulse was quick under my touch, or maybe that was just my own hammering in my ears. I tightened the knot, tested it with a tug, and tried to ignore the way my stomach flipped when he let out a soft huff, like the pressure of the rope surprised him.

Dante crouched nearby, watching with that smug look of his, arms crossed. “Damn, I think you’re hard Evan. You sure you ain’t into this a little too much?” he teased, aiming it at me, and I felt my jaw clench.

“Fuck off,” I said under my breath, moving to Milo’s ankles next, keeping my eyes on the rope and nowhere else. But even as I worked the loops, binding his legs together for now, I couldn’t shake the awareness of him—naked, vulnerable, but still so cocky, still pushing every button I didn’t know I had. And the worst part? Part of me didn’t want to stop. Part of me wanted to keep going, to see how far this could unravel before I figured out what the hell was happening to me.

I’d always figured I was straight—never questioned it, never had a reason to. Girls were hot. I’d dated a few, messed around plenty. Easy. Simple. But now, with Milo sprawled out on the rug in front of me, tied up in my knots, I couldn’t ignore the way my pulse was hammering in my throat. His skin was warm under my fingers, the coarse brush of his chest hair ticking against my knuckles as I tightened the blue cords around his wrists. I kept telling myself this was just a game, just bros screwing around at a party, but the air felt heavier with every loop I made.

I pulled the lines together above him, tying his wrists and ankles together so his ass bent open. The position framed him perfectly, and I kept my gaze on the rope, not the way the shift made him look even more exposed. His cheeks spreading toward Dante who seemed unafraid to look right at the hole that lied beneath…

When I worked the decorative wraps under his thighs and around his hips, the central line had to pass between his legs. My knuckles brushed against him — warm, soft, and bushy with that thick dark hair — and I kept moving, feeding the rope through like it was no different than any other tie. But by the second pass, he’d thickened, the skin flushed. A slick bead of pre-cum rolled down over my knuckle before I could pull away.

Dante laughed from above us. “See! You called Chris gay for getting hard, and now you’re leaking on Evan’s fingers.” He spread his hands like he was delivering a lecture. “Just biology, baby.”

Milo groaned, tossing his head back, half laughing and half mortified. “Shut the fuck up.”

I just focused on the knot — pretending I hadn’t felt that twitch against my palm — even though my face felt hot enough to light the room without the string lights.

“This is not sexual…just hot,” Milo announced to no one in particular.

“Sure,” Dante murmured, sliding in to “test” the thigh knots. His fingers pressed just enough to make the crotch rope shift, and Milo’s grin faltered for half a second.

“You’re blushing,” Dante observed.

“Yeah homo!” Chris shouted from behind them. The four men all laughed dangerously.

“Shut up. I bet Evan is enjoying this more than I am.” Milo remarked.

“…Kinda,” I admitted, tightening the central knot under his neck so it lifted his chin just slightly. “I’m enjoying finally getting to practice shibari, I mean.”

Milo tilted his head at me. “You’re not gay either though, right?”

I didn’t look up. “…Right.”

From where I was sitting, I could feel the heat rolling off him. Part body warmth, part the fact that he was pretending not to care how vulnerable the position really was. The more I worked, the quieter the room got, until it was just the slide of rope, the creak of floorboards when Dante shifted, and Milo’s breathing.

I was technically finished, but my hands kept moving, toying with a few decorative ties I knew would pull subtly at his groin. Each adjustment made more slick pre-cum bead up and trail over the curve of his stomach, pooling faintly in the shallow dip of his bellybutton. I kept pretending not to notice, but even I couldn’t fool myself that I wasn’t enjoying the scene. I tightened a pair of knots around Milo’s thighs and, for a moment, let my gaze wander lower — to his hole, framed perfectly between two plump, smooth cheeks. Warm brown, surrounded by a neat halo of dark hair. It twitched once, like it was reacting to being on display. One wrong move and my finger could “accidentally” brush across it. A part of me wondered if he’d like it.

The sharp flick of a lighter broke my focus. Dante was leaning back in one of the mismatched chairs, sparking up a joint he must’ve rolled while I was lost in the work.

“Fuck, man, why would you light that when I can’t grab it and smoke it?” Milo whined, twisting his head toward the sound.

“Yeah, that’s not fair. I want a hit,” Chris said, pulling at his bonds against the ceiling hook.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Dante rose with lazy confidence and walked to where Milo’s head rested on the rug. “Ever heard of shotgunning?”

Milo narrowed his eyes. “Is that really the only way?” he said, turning his head slightly — but his cock twitched, betraying him.

“It’s the best way to do it,” Dante said, lips curving into that dangerous half-smile. He took a deep inhale from the joint, then bent down and pressed his mouth to Milo’s, exhaling the smoke slow and deliberate.

Milo inhaled, eyes flickering half-shut, then blew the smoke back out with a satisfied grin. “Fuck yeah, it works.”

“Okay, don’t leave me out,” Chris called from above, straining slightly in his ties.

Dante straightened from Milo with a lazy roll of his shoulders, the joint still smoldering between his fingers. “Alright, big guy,” he said, turning toward Chris. “Your turn.”

Chris smirked like he was above all this, but the way he shifted in his bonds made the rope creak overhead. Dante stepped close, close enough that the heat of him must’ve cut through the air, and took a long pull from the joint. Then he tipped his head up, closing the space until his mouth met Chris’s.

It was quick — a firm seal of lips, smoke spilling from one into the other — but Chris still flinched like he hadn’t expected to actually go through with it. He exhaled slow, but halfway through, Dante’s hands slid up and pinched his nipples in a playful twist.

The sound Chris made was low guttural, and absolutely not planned: a moan breaking loose as the last of the smoke left his lungs. His hips jerked involuntarily, and his cock betrayed him, twitching hard enough to leave a dark, wet circle of pre cum spreading at the front of his boxer briefs.

“Fuck, I could play like this all night,” Dante said, laughing under his breath.

I tried to keep my focus on the neat loops of rope against Milo’s thighs, but my pulse had gone tight and fast...straight to my cock. They couldn’t see it but my briefs were soaked. Between the smoke, the heat, and the sight of both of them caught up in it, my cock felt thick enough to split a mountain.

Dante didn’t go back to his chair. He stayed in the space between them, holding the joint loosely at his side, eyes moving from Chris’s flushed chest to Milo’s spread thighs like he was deciding where to start his next game.

He crouched beside Milo first, brushing his fingers down the inside of a thigh just close enough to make him uncontrollably whimper. Milo sucked in a breath through his teeth but kept grinning, trying to play it cool.

Then Dante rose and crossed to Chris, running one hand down the diamond harness until his palm rested flat over Chris’s abs. “You’re holding up alright?”

Chris gave him a look that was half glare, half challenge. “Yeah.”

“Mm.” Dante’s fingers trailed lower, to the rope cupping Chris’s crotch, and tapped it twice like he was checking tension. The move made Chris’s hips push forward a fraction before he caught himself.

Dante was moving like a conductor, coaxing little reactions out of both without ever committing to more than a touch here, a brush there.

The three of them were so wrapped up in it that for a second I forgot I was supposed to be the one in control. My hands itched to join in — not just with the rope, but with the game Dante was playing. The smell of hemp and smoke hung in the air, the ropes creaked faintly with every shift, and I realized no one was laughing now. The banter had bled into something quieter, heavier, with all three of them watching each other as much as I did.

Dante took a slow drag from the joint, holding the smoke in his cheeks before letting it curl lazily from his mouth. His gaze slid right past Chris and Milo, landing on me.

“You know,” he said, “you’ve been running around in shorts and a t-shirt all night, working harder than any of us. You’ve gotta be overheating.”

“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice came out tighter than I meant.

“Nah.” He shook his head, stepping in close enough that I could smell the weed on his breath.

“We’ve got two guys already tied up, half-naked and sweating, and you’re still fully dressed? Doesn’t seem fair. You should strip down. Even the playing field.”

My pulse was already ticking fast. “I’m not the one tied up.”

“All the more reason,” Dante said, lips curling. “You’re working. You deserve to be comfortable.” He crouched beside me, eyes flicking to my waistband. “Unless you’re shy?”

I rolled my eyes, but my hands were already tugging my shirt over my head. The room felt instantly hotter, and not just because of the string lights and smoke. Kicking off my shorts, I hesitated over my briefs — because there was no hiding it now. I was hard. And not just hard — flushed, heavy, and already slick at the tip.

When I pushed the briefs down, my cock curved out into the open, the bead of pre-cum catching in the warm light. Dante’s eyes widened, then that slow, dangerous grin spread across his face.

“Damn,” he said, openly looking. “I’m glad you’re finally showing off. You must be a grower, not a shower.”

Heat burned under my skin, a flush that went deeper than embarrassment. I forced my hands to drop to my sides instead of covering myself, even though Chris and Milo’s eyes were on me now too.

“There we go,” Dante said, and without missing a beat, peeled his own shirt over his head and toed off his jeans. He stripped to nothing with the same ease he did everything else, stretching his long frame before dropping back into a lazy stance.

Chris cleared his throat. “Uh, not that I’m complaining, but if we’re doing ‘even playing field,’ I can’t exactly take these off myself.” He shifted his hips, the wet patch at the front of his boxers leaving no question what he meant.

Dante’s grin sharpened. “That’s a fair point.” He glanced at me. “Evan, why don’t you help him out first? Give him a hit while you’re at it. You ever shotgun before?”

“Once or twice,” I said, my mouth dry.

He handed me the joint, nodding toward Chris. “Go on. Give him the full experience.”

I stepped up, took a deep drag, and closed the space until my lips sealed over his. His mouth opened under mine, taking in the smoke, his chest straining against the harness as he exhaled slow through his nose.

And then Dante moved — one quick step forward, one sharp tug — and the fabric tore in his hands. Chris’s boxers hit the floor in strips, his cock springing free, flushed and slick at the tip.

“Better,” Dante said, tossing the ruined waistband aside like it was nothing.

Chris groaned, somewhere between relief and embarrassment, and I just stood there, the joint burning between my fingers, very aware that all three of them had now seen exactly what kind of state I was in.

Dante spoke with a grin lazy but sharp. “Alright,” he said, “Evan, you’ve given Chris the treatment. Now it’s Milo’s turn.”

Milo snorted. “Yeah, sure, let’s get this over with.”

“Not quite yet.” Dante stepped behind him, put a hand on the rope binding his wrists and ankles together, and with a gentle push tipped him sideways. Milo landed on the rug with a grunt, now on his hip in a loose curl, his tied limbs pulled forward just enough to keep him open.

Dante kept one hand at the junction of those ropes, holding him in place like a piece of sculpture. “There. That’s a better angle,” he said, looking right at me.

Milo shifted instinctively, arching toward me where I stood over him. My gaze swept down without meaning to — the curve of his back, the spread of his thighs, the way the harness framed him.

“Go on, Evan,” Dante said, voice low but full of push. “Get down there with him. Make it comfortable.”

My pulse was hammering when I lowered myself onto the rug. Dante gestured, and I stretched out along Milo’s back, my chest to his spine. Being taller, my hips settled lower, my cock brushing against the crease of his ass before I even thought about it.

Being taller, my hips settled lower, my cock brushing the crease of his ass before I could stop it. The contact was electric, a jolt straight to my core, and I froze, fighting the urge to grind forward, to press harder, to take what was right there. I wanted to grip his hips, pull him back onto me, make him feel every inch—but I clenched my jaw, holding myself still by a thread.

I took the joint, drew in a slow lungful, the smoke heavy in my chest, then leaned forward. He turned his head back toward me, closing the last inches so our lips met. Smoke filled the space between us, warm and thick, and my control slipped another notch.

His hips shifted back—not much, just enough that my slick tip pressed into the barest give of his tight hole. Not even an inch, barely a touch, but it fucking wrecked me. We both played it off, pretending it wasn’t happening, but my mind was roaring with how much I wanted to push deeper, to hear him moan for real, to dominate every reaction out of him.

As I exhaled into him, his mouth opened wider. His tongue slid against mine, a slow, teasing flick, and mine answered before I could think, a wet brush that lingered too fucking long before we both pulled back, heads tilting away like nothing had happened.

He let the smoke drift out on a casual sigh. “Yep. Works fine.”

Dante’s smile turned wicked, eyes glinting. “Perfect. Now, we’re getting somewhere.” And I knew, deep down, that I was fucked—caught between what I’d always thought I was and this raw, hungry need to control, to push, to break every limit I’d set for myself. I didn’t know if I could stop, didn’t know if I wanted to.

Dante moved away from us just far enough to pace, slow and deliberate, the joint hanging between two fingers. He looked each of us over like a craftsman checking his work — Chris stretched tall under the ceiling hook, Milo in my arms, me still pressed along the curve of Milo’s back with my cock throbbing against him.

He took a lazy drag, exhaled toward the ceiling. “You know what I like?” he said finally. “That no one here’s said stop. Not once. And yet… none of you have asked for more either.”

Dante stepped toward Chris first, trailing a fingertip down the ropes framing his pecs, just close enough to a nipple to make Chris tense without touching anything that would push him over the edge. Then he was gone again, crossing back to us.

Milo’s breath hitched when Dante crouched, his hand ghosting along the rope at his thigh, adjusting the tension so it pulled just a little more snug around his hips. The subtle shift made my tip nudge into his hole again, slick and aching, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep still.

“You feel that, Evan?” Dante asked without looking at me.

I swallowed. “Yeah.”

He stood up tall, grinned, flicked ash into an empty mug, and said, “We’ll just keep playing like this… until one of you begs for more.”

The room was quiet except for breathing, the faint creak of rope, and the soft burn of the joint — we all knew we were already close.

To my surprise, it didn’t take long. It was Milo who cracked first.

He shifted in my grip, the ropes groaning as he pressed his body back into mine, every inch of him grinding against me with intent. His head turned, brown eyes locking with mine over his shoulder, burning with need. “Please, Evan,” he rasped, voice low but unyielding. “I’ve always wanted to be tied up like this… and now I know how good it feels.” His gaze darkened, dropping for a split second before snapping back up. “There’s one more thing I’ve craved, and I need it now. I want you buried inside me.”

The words slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. My body felt like it was melting under the heat of his plea. He rolled his hips back, slow and deliberate, until the tip of my cock pressed against his hole, this time no mistaking the intent, the raw heat between us blinding.

“Fuck it,” he hissed, a smirk curling his lips. “Let’s see if these ropes can hold up to a real pounding.”

His bound thighs flexed under my hands, muscles straining as he pushed himself tighter against me, his hole teasing the head of my cock. The slickness made the ache in my gut sharpen into a desperate, urgent need.

Above us, Dante’s laugh rolled out, low and dark, a predator satisfied with his prey. He didn’t intervene, just watched, he was in control.

He tilted his head, eyes darting between Milo and me, a smirk playing on his lips like he’d just orchestrated the perfect trap. “Well now,” he purred, voice slow and dangerous, “we ain’t got lube to make this easy… so you’d better prep him good, Evan. I won’t have you breaking our new toy.” His smile turned sharp as a knife.

Something snapped in me then, the last thread of control I’d been gripping all night severed under Dante’s command. I leaned in, hands clamping down on Milo’s bound thighs with punishing force, instinct taking over. My world narrowed to him: every twitch of muscle, every small sound pulling me deeper.

I dropped my head low, pushing between those thick, firm cheeks, and dragged my tongue over Milo’s hole, slow and deliberate. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest, like he’d been holding it in for years. I pushed deeper, tongue slipping in and out, circling like I was devouring something forbidden.

“Oh… fuck… I’ve never—” His voice broke, splintering into a deep, shuddering laugh of pure relief. “Goddamn, I’ve been waiting for this my whole fucking life.”

Across the room, Chris let out a low whistle, his tone half-amused, half-strained. “This is… gay as fuck,” he muttered, then smirked. “But hot, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m feeling kinda neglected over here.” Pre-cum dripped from his throbbing cock, pooling on the floor in slow, steady drops.

Dante turned his predator’s gaze to Chris, sauntering over with a deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving his face. He reached up, tracing a slow, taunting circle over the ropes crisscrossing Chris’s chest, then leaned in, his mouth grazing one pec, lips clamping around a nipple just long enough to wrench a deep, helpless groan from Chris’s throat.

Dante pulled back, his expression pure, wicked mischief. “So… you want me to play with you somewhere else, huh?” His tone was a mocking dare.

Chris’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer, his resolve crumbling under Dante’s weight.

“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” Dante said softly, voice laced with threat, his hand drifting lower, brushing just at the edge where the ropes framed Chris’s straining cock. “You’ll beg, or you’ll get nothing.”

Dante lingered close, the air between them crackling with dominance, his fingertips lazily tracing the rope harness like he was toying with his prey. “See, Milo’s got no shame—asked for exactly what he wanted,” Dante said, throwing a glance over his shoulder at us. “Evan’s already losing it. But you…” His eyes snapped back to Chris, piercing. “You’re still fighting me. But you don’t get a fucking thing until you grovel for it.”

Chris’s shoulders strained against the ties, muscles bulging. “I don’t beg,” he growled, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

“Wrong,” Dante hissed, stepping closer, his hand settling on the knot just above Chris’s cock, pressing the ropes tighter into his skin. “You do. That’s my rule. And everyone here plays by my rules.”

Chris swallowed hard, eyes darting to Milo—flushed, bound, pressed against my face—then to me, then back to Dante. The ropes creaked as his hips shifted, his need obvious.

“Not gonna say it,” Chris muttered, but the fight was nearly gone from his tone.

Dante’s smile was victorious, a king claiming his due. He leaned in, voice dropping to a lethal purr. “I can see how fucking desperate you are. Say the words, or I’ll leave you hanging there, aching, leaking.”

Chris’s jaw locked, breath heaving. The silence stretched like a taut wire. Then— “…Please.” It was barely audible, forced out under his breath.

Dante tilted his head, feigning confusion, his dominance suffocating. “Please what, boy?”

Chris exhaled, sharp and frustrated, eyes slamming shut for a second before meeting Dante’s gaze with reluctant surrender. “Please… suck me off.”

The grin on Dante’s face was pure, ruthless triumph. The last barrier had shattered. Whatever came next, there was no pretending this was anything but his game, his control, his absolute power over us all.

Dante didn’t move immediately, letting the silence choke the room after Chris’s surrender, savoring the weight of his capitulation.

Then, with a slow, venomous smile, he purred, “Good boy. Knew you’d break for me.”

His gaze flicked to me, then down to Milo, as spread beneath my palms, bound and panting.

“Evan,” he barked, voice a hard command that left no room for hesitation, “he begged like a proper slut. Now give him exactly what he’s whining for. Don’t make me step in.”

I shifted on instinct, lining myself up, the ropes in my hands feeling like extensions of my will. My grip on the cords at Milo’s hips turned brutal, yanking him back as I slid inside, inch by agonizing inch.

His moan was filthy, broken, his body yielding to my hold with a trust that clawed at my chest. The ropes creaked under the strain, and his head fell back against my shoulder, voice cracking on a ragged, “God, yes…”

I felt every tremble, every tug against the knots, the room shrinking until it was just the heat of his body and the relentless rhythm I drove into him. Milo wasn’t playing anymore; the sarcasm and games were gone, burned down to something primal. His sounds were raw: half-moan, half-desperate laugh, the kind you make when you’ve buried a need so long it hurts to let it out.

Milo’s body pulled against the ropes, I watched it dig into his soft curves as I pounded into him, back arching into me with a small, pathetic whimper, like he couldn’t contain it any longer. The connection between us was a live wire—every thrust, every breath in sync until we were both past the point of no return. I stared down, watching his ass ripple with every hard slap of skin, my balls heavy, smacking against his taint with each punishing drive.

Chris’s voice fractured from behind me, as Dante now worked him over. Both of Chris’s balls were in Dante’s mouth, tongue rolling over them in slow, teasing circles. “Tell me what you want next, boy,” Dante growled into his skin, the vibration pulling a shudder from Chris.

“I want your lips around my shaft, sir,” Chris gasped, the title slipping out like a reflex. I barely registered it, too consumed with fucking Milo, but damn, things had shifted fast.

The room split into two brutal rhythms—mine with Milo, Dante’s with Chris—each feeding off the other, a feedback loop of raw dominance and submission. Milo moved with me now, every tug of the ropes answered by the thrust of hips, his body tight but utterly surrendered. His breaths were jagged, head tilted back against my shoulder, every moan and grunt shuddering through me. The creak of the ropes was a constant reminder of the control I wielded—here in this moment, as his slick warm skin sent shockwaves through every nerve ending in my cock, his hole was mine.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum any second, Milo,” I growled into his ear, voice rough with strain. “Want me to pull out?”

“No,” he breathed, a flash of relief hitting me. “Don’t care if you dump your load in my ass, just fucking bury it deep.” He shot me a wicked wink.

Fuck, this guy was gonna ruin me.

Across the room, Chris’s head was thrown back, Dante fully in command, hands locked on Chris’s hips, dictating every shiver, every quake. Chris’s knuckles were pale, gripping the rope overhead, jaw slack, all resistance stripped bare. The sound he made was deep, shocked, like he hadn’t expected to be this close under Dante’s merciless attention.

Milo’s hole clamped down around my cock, driving me into a frenzy. I gripped the ropes with bruising force and pounded harder, relentless. His bound hands strained, body hitting that edge where holding back wasn’t an option. I was right there with him, heat coiling tight, my control incinerating.

Chris broke with a ragged gasp, his entire frame locking under Dante’s grip. Milo shattered a split second later, a guttural cry of release tearing from him. The wave dragged me under with him, nothing left to do but hold on and let it rip through me.

The room throbbed with the sound of three men climaxing in a brutal crescendo. Chris unleashed into Dante’s throat, the wet chokes and gulps echoing as Dante took it all, Chris’s low, animalistic snarl cutting through the haze. Milo spilled onto the floor, untouched, just from the relentless depth of my thrusts, over and over. I gripped his hip ropes like a lifeline, his clenching hole ripping me apart as I drove deeper—past a second, impossibly tight ring—pumping a thick, endless load into him, buried as deep as he’d begged for.

The air hung heavy now, saturated with smoke, sweat, and the raw aftermath that coated my skin. Milo sagged in the ropes, tension drained into a fucked-out haze, looking like he could pass out right there on the rug. Chris dangled in the harness, shoulders slumped, head bowed, breathing slow and heavy under Dante’s shadow.

Dante had already retreated to the corner, sprawled cross-legged against the wall, cool as ever, rolling papers and weed from a tin with methodical fingers. He didn’t spare me a glance, didn’t speak, just worked the blunt like this was routine, like he hadn’t just broken us all under his heel.

I untied Milo first. My fingers worked the knots at his wrists, loosening them loop by loop, the hemp still warm from his skin. Heat poured off him, a quiet fire. As the ropes fell away, his scent hit me—salt, skin, faint soap, and the earthy bite of sweat. I told myself I wasn’t lingering.

The coils slipped free from his ankles, red marks etched into his skin like badges. I dragged my thumb over one, pressing just hard enough to feel the heat, before forcing myself to move on.

Chris was next. I stood under the ceiling hook, reaching up to untie the lead from his wrists, ropes sliding down his chest in slow, deliberate loops. Each pass exposed more of his skin, letting it breathe after the ordeal. His scent was different—clean, like open air and warm cloth, undercut by the sharp tang of sweat that made me want to stay close. My fingers grazed his shoulders as I undid the final knot, feeling the weight of his arms, heavy and spent from Dante’s game.

They both slumped back, rubbing at their wrists, silent in that surrendered way that follows total submission.

I gathered the ropes into my lap, the lingering warmth and musk clinging to them, and stacked them aside with care.

Dante finished the blunt, rolling it tight between his palms, sealing it with a slow swipe of his tongue. He looked up at us, expression unreadable, like he hadn’t just orchestrated every broken boundary in the room.

“Good night’s work, broskies,”  he said, voice lazy but edged with authority. “Now, who’s desperate for a hit?”

—THE END—

This short story inspired a full series of… that I edited and polished into a book! Purchase the full definitive edition of the story today.