Chapter 8
My brain is always running hot, even when the rest of me is dead on my ass. Even when I’m horizontal on the couch at two in the afternoon listening to the rain, half-asleep, some part of me is still back-processing. Running calculations nobody asked for.
Right now the thing running in it is cock.
And, okay, sure, tucked between those thoughts is a looping playlist of what the fuck and what the hell and what is actually happening to my life right now?
There’s a confusing gray area where I’m trying to figure out if I suddenly like men, or if I’m just completely hooked on the sensation of a throbbing piece of meat stretching my ass.
Hell yeah! A throbbing, hot, hard, juicy meat…
Fuck.
Like I said, right now is cock, sue me. But more specifically, the memory of getting railed by multiple cocks.
Walker’s is thick. Like, stupid thick and covered in thick-ass veins so you feel every single throb scraping your walls when he’s pumping in and out.
Finn’s is the one I know from a specific angle, which is on my knees looking up at it. It’s got a slight curve, and fits down my throat without making me feel on the brink of death.
Miles’ is long. That’s the primary fact of Miles. Long, thin, and curved the other way, which is either pure bliss or total agony when he’s wrecking my guts, depending on how hard he’s hitting it.
Grant’s, which I think about the most, is a fucking baseball bat. I constantly imagine him just grabbing me and ripping my ass open with that fat, delicious monster cock.
This is what my brain does now.
And it doesn’t even stop at the bros anymore.
It’s the TA in my dynamics lecture. The tall barista near campus with the big nose.
And then there’s the Johnny Storm incident from two days ago that I’m still not over.
Finn threw on Fantastic Four, and I was just eating cereal, and this guy shows up on screen in tight-ass pants that shows everything.
My brain just snapped. I spent twenty minutes legitimately wondering if I could take a flaming dick in the ass.
The point is, my brain has been running on dick loop for weeks. The result is me lying on the couch at 2 PM, supposedly napping, nursing a raging hard-on in my sweatpants that I can’t do shit about because the guys are right here.
I still have a shred of dignity.
Barely.
But God, the memory of all of them is—
Okay, I’m not thinking about Walker treating me like a ragdoll in the mornings, just manhandling me into position without saying a word.
Or the way Finn face-fucks me like a human fleshlight while gaming.
Or Grant in the truck, the way his hands left marks that I could still feel three days later.
Definitely not thinking about Miles just last night, so baked he could barely stand, but still grinding deep inside me in that delicious way only he does.
Oh, fuck me. I’m thinking about it.
I’m thinking about it hard.
Another thing that’s hard is my dick, by the way.
This has been the reality for five weeks, two days, and four hours.
Yeah, this is a special kind of torment. Because now I know exactly what I’m missing when nobody’s using me, and my brain will not let me forget it for longer than about forty minutes at a stretch.
The living room is quiet.
Grant’s on the other couch with his phone, reading something, occasionally making a noise like he disagrees with it.
Walker’s on the floor running through his physio stretches shirtless, wearing those tiny, slutty-ass gym shorts.
Finn is next to me, scrolling through social media with the sound low, occasionally exhaling through his nose at something funny.
I’m staring at the ceiling, actively trying to think about literally anything other than getting my guts rearranged by my bros.
It’s not working.
My brain goes: four guys, four cocks you’ve taken—
“Okay,” I mutter out loud, telling my own brain to shut the fuck up.
Finn glances over. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He goes back to scrolling.
I throw an arm over my face to hide the flush and try to actually sleep.
* * *
I’m somewhere between asleep and just daydreaming when I hear Miles stumble down the stairs.
He emerges into the living room looking like something that crawled out of a fucking dumpster, hair completely destroyed, glasses slightly crooked, wearing a hoodie that I’m pretty sure is inside out.
He moves through the room without acknowledging anybody, which is normal Miles, and goes to the kitchen.
I hear the coffee maker. I know he’s just standing in front of it for the entire brew cycle, zoning out.
Then he comes back, mug in both hands, and lowers himself to the floor with the careful movements of a man whose entire body is asking him to reconsider his life choices.
He sits there. Drinks coffee. Stares at the middle distance.
I watch him from under my arm.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
“Dude,” he says.
“Hey.”
He drinks more coffee. Looks at the window. Looks back at me with this expression like he’s been turning something over for a while and has finally arrived at the conclusion.
“Did I fuck you last night?”
The room does not immediately react because it takes a second for the words to land. I watch them land on Grant first. Then Walker, mid-stretch, goes still. Then Finn’s phone keeps playing but he’s not looking at it.
“I mean,” Miles says into the silence, “did I use the doll?”
I put my arm back over my face. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I thought so. It felt real, but I wasn’t sure if I dreamed it.”
Another silence.
“Wait,” Walker says, sitting up straight. “I wasn’t the only one getting in that ass?” He looks at me, sounding genuinely pissed.
“I mean—” I start.
“Hold on,” Finn says. He puts his phone face down on his thigh and looks around the room like he just found out his girl is cheating. “I thought I was the only one using the doll.”
“What?” Grant sits up, fully off his phone. “How many times are we talking here?”
Silence.
“A lot,” I say, from under my arm.
“Define ‘a lot.’”
“Like—” I do the math. My brain, helpfully, has the full index available. I make the conscious choice to not drop the exact numbers. “A lot. Bro, it’s a regular thing.”
“Regular thing?”
“Walker uses it almost every morning,” I say.
Every head snaps to Walker.
Walker, to his credit, doesn’t look even slightly embarrassed.
“I like draining my balls in the morning,” he says, like it’s the most normal shit in the world. “He’s warm and tight when he’s asleep. It’s a good way to start the day before I hit the gym.”
Oh, yeah. That.
Walker can sound like a total dick saying it, but one of my favorite things right now is waking up to that fat piece of meat already buried inside me.
“You’ve been using the doll almost every morning,” Grant says slowly, looking ready to swing, “and you didn’t think to mention that to the rest of the house?”
“Nobody asked.”
Miles stares at Walker with an expression of deep personal betrayal.
“You’ve been using the doll and you left me out?” He looks at me. “You’ve been letting them use you and you left me out?”
“Bro, you’re always busy,” I say. It is true.
“I’m not that busy!”
“You literally didn’t come home for four days last week.”
“I was on a deadline. That doesn’t—”
“Dude.” Grant’s voice cuts him off. “I need everybody to shut the fuck up and explain this to me. Because I’ve used the doll twice. Two times. And apparently Walker’s been over here—”
“Almost every morning,” Finn supplies helpfully.
“—almost every morning,” Grant repeats, glaring at Walker. “Every morning.”
“Not every morning,” Walker says. “Sometimes Kit’s already awake.”
“Oh, my bad, totally different then,” Finn says, spitting sarcasm.
Walker throws a pillow at him.
“Okay, but—” Finn catches it, still going. “I want to be clear that I also didn’t know this was a community project. I thought the doll was, like, available, but I didn’t know there was a whole schedule.”
“There’s no fucking schedule, dude,” I snap, glaring at him.
“Bro, there’s basically a schedule.”
“It’s not a schedule, it’s just—” I try to find the word. “It just happened.”
“It just happened?” Grant repeats. “Walker just happens to be fucking you every morning—”
“Can you not say ‘fucking’?” I ask, shifting my glare to him. “Say ‘using the doll’. It’s less weird. More of a… no-homo thing.”
Grant opens his mouth, then closes it. “Fine. Walker just happens to be using the doll every morning before gym. Finn just happens to be using the doll regularly too. I just happen to have used the doll in my truck in a Kroger parking lot—”
“Wait,” Finn says.
“—and Miles just happens to have used the doll last night while fried out of his mind—”
“Also wait,” says Walker.
“—and nobody said shit to anybody else about any of this?”
Quiet.
“The Kroger parking lot?” Walker says.
“Is that really the detail you’re focusing on right now?” Grant snaps.
“We were just getting groceries,” I explain, ignoring Grant.
“That makes it worse, bro,” Walker says.
“Okay so,” Finn leans forward. “Can we back up to the actual—what is this? What are we all doing? Because I’ve been treating it like a whole thing, and I guess I didn’t know it was a whole thing with everybody else too.”
They all look at me.
“Okay.” I sit up. “So. It’s a kink.”
“No shit,” Grant says, rolling his eyes.
“Dude, let me finish. It’s a kink where I—” I think about how to say it.
My brain offers seventeen options, but they’re all either too clinical or too freaky.
“I like being used. Like a doll, or whatever. When I go offline, I’m just—” I make a gesture that doesn’t fully capture it.
“Available. And I like it when you guys use me when I’m like that.
It feels good. Being used while I’m out feels good.
I’m not—it’s not like I’m gay or anything, it’s just this specific—”
“Scenario,” Walker offers.
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says, like this is perfectly coherent, which I appreciate.
I also appreciate that they don’t ask why I like it.
I don’t have an answer for that anyway.
“And the ‘going offline’ part,” Finn says, looking at me with actual curiosity. “You just switch off?”
“Yeah.”
“And you can do it whenever?”
“Well, yeah.”
Finn looks around at the room. Then he looks at me. “I’m horny as fuck right now. Like, super horny. Could you—”
“Dude!” Walker yells.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Grant asks.
“I’m just asking—”
“We’re in the middle of a serious conversation—”
“I know, but he just said he can do it whenever.”
I grab my junk through my sweatpants. All of them stare. I’m so hard it’s practically bursting through the fabric.
“I would also like to go offline,” I say, rubbing the heavy length of it. “I’d really like that right now, actually.”
Finn looks at Grant, totally vindicated.
Grant looks at the ceiling.
I lie back down on the couch, arms at my sides, legs together. I breathe out slowly, and let everything behind my eyes go quiet. It takes about eight seconds.
I’m gone.
* * *
What I know, in doll mode, is sensation without narrative. There’s no story with any kind of context. What exists, it’s what’s happening to my body, incoming signals without an interpreter.
So it’s: hands. Multiple, immediately, and they’re not coordinating with each other.
Loud. They’re arguing.
“I go first, I’ve gone the least.”
“Bro, you went in the truck!”
“That’s still less than Walker who’s been going every morning.”
“Yeah, Grant and I have equal claim here since—”
“You went at a party, that doesn’t—”
“How is that relevant to the order of—”
Hands on my ankles. Someone pulls my legs apart, and then someone else adjusts them wider. My sweatpants go. Then my boxers. Someone’s mouth lands on my throat, and someone else immediately says “I had that spot”, and there’s a brief physical negotiation that I’m not part of.
Grant’s voice: Alright, here’s the play. Miles and I are going first on the grounds that Walker and Finn have had significantly more access.”
Walker: “That’s not how fairness works, bro.”
“It’s exactly how fairness works. Miles, you want the mouth or—”
“Mouth.”
“Great. I’ve got the ass. Walker, Finn, you’ve got everything in the middle. Do whatever you want.”
“Bro, there is nothing in the middle,” Finn complains.
“Get creative.”
My shirt goes. My nipples: two mouths, immediately.
I don’t know whose, and can’t track them.
Someone slaps the inside of my thigh, and then a hand wraps around my dick, strokes once and stops.
Someone spits on me. I feel it land warm, and feel a palm spread it around my skin.
I can’t tell who or why, and it doesn’t matter.
Miles tilts my head back.
I didn’t need to pay attention to their talk earlier to know it’s Miles because he’s always gentle about it. He arranges me the way he wants me, and I let him, fully limp. Then his cock fills my mouth.
Grant’s hands on my hips. They’re massive, and they grip hard, and they leave marks—they always leave marks.
Someone’s got both hands on my chest. Both nipples, pinching and rolling hard. I feel the pain everywhere—it connects down to where Grant is about to split me open, and up to where Miles is fucking my throat.
There’s a mouth on my ribs. Then lower. It bites the inside of my thigh, sharp and sudden, and my leg tries to buck. I don’t let it.
I stop cataloging. There’s too much to catalog. Every nerve in my body is occupied. Everything is being used. Nothing left over.
My brain, which runs all the time, goes quiet to anything else other than this. And I just feel.
The hands, and the mouths, and the heat, and the fullness.
Someone laughs about something I can’t hear. Grant says something filthy that makes my cock throb. Miles adjusts the angle of my head slightly with two fingers under my jaw, fucking into my throat with lazy thrusts.
I’m pinned from all sides.
This is the thing I wasn’t able to explain earlier. This feeling of being completely, entirely, in every possible way, occupied. Claimed on every surface. Being a thing that is being thoroughly used.
My brain has a word for this.
The word is: doll.
I’ve never felt this good in my life.
That’s just the fact of it. That’s the honest bottom line. I’ve never, in twenty two years of existing in this body, felt this good.
I store this feeling in my brain.
And then I stop thinking entirely.